Blood For Magic

It was a night unlike any other—a tempest of fury, a symphony of destruction. The heavens wept torrents of rain, an unrelenting deluge that sought to drown the very earth itself. Thunder roared across the sky, splitting the heavens with incandescent fury, casting eerie flashes of light upon the land below. And in those fleeting moments of illumination, horror was unveiled—a battlefield steeped in blood, littered with the remains of the fallen.

Amidst the chaos, a lone figure lay sprawled upon the sodden ground, broken and beaten, his body half-buried in the mud. A strangled breath escaped his lips, raw and ragged. Pain, so profound it nearly swallowed him whole, coursed through his ruined body as he struggled to rise. His fingers clawed at the damp soil, but his strength failed him.

Then, a grim realization struck him, more terrifying than the agony of his wounds. He could not feel his right arm. Nor his left. A cold dread seized him as he tried to move his legs. Nothing. His limbs were gone—torn from him with merciless precision. A silent scream lodged itself in his throat as the shock of it overtook him. The world around him was a blur, his vision clouded by blood. He forced open his left eye, the only one that remained, and through its blurred sight, he beheld a nightmare beyond comprehension.

Crimson rivers ran through the landscape, pooling into grotesque lakes of blood. The bodies of his comrades—once proud warriors, elite mages of the empire—lay in twisted ruin. Their flesh had been sundered, their limbs scattered like discarded dolls. The once-green earth was now painted in red, a grotesque canvas of death and suffering. He shuddered. It was not war that had wrought this devastation, not the clash of armies or the wrath of an invading force.

No, this massacre had been carried out by a single entity. A monster that moved like a shadow, striking with the fury of a god unchained. He had not seen its face—none of them had. It had descended upon them like a phantom, leaving only ruin in its wake.

The man swallowed, his throat dry despite the rain. "The Commander... he will stop it," he whispered to himself, clinging desperately to hope. "He will... he must."

His commander, the Black Seat of the Seven Thrones, was among the empire's greatest mages—a force to be reckoned with. If anyone could defeat such a monstrosity, it was him. The thought alone steadied his trembling soul, offered a fleeting glimmer of solace.

But as the silence stretched, as the corpses remained still in their eternal slumber, doubt began to creep in. What if the Commander had already returned? What if he had fought... and lost?

A cruel laugh shattered the air.

It was a sound that did not belong to this world, a chilling melody of malice that echoed through the storm-ridden night. The fallen man's breath hitched. It was close—too close. He forced himself to turn, his remaining eye searching the darkness.

Lightning slashed across the sky, revealing a silhouette—a towering figure standing in the heart of the devastation.

Even in the fleeting light, its presence was suffocating. The air grew thick, as though the world itself recoiled from its existence. The figure stood amidst a vast crater, a testament to the destruction it had wrought. And in its monstrous grip, held aloft like a lifeless doll, was a man draped in black.

The fallen warrior's blood ran cold.

It was him. The Black Seat. Their last hope.

But his body hung limp, his head lolled to the side, his once-formidable presence reduced to nothing more than a broken shell. The storm howled, but it could not drown the sickening sound of bones snapping as the creature tightened its grip.

"Hihihi... You amuse me, human," the entity murmured, its voice a guttural whisper laced with wicked delight. Then its tone darkened, brimming with lethal intent. "But you should not have touched my horns."

A dreadful *crack* rang through the air as the Commander's neck snapped like brittle glass.

The fallen warrior's breath hitched. His mind refused to accept the sight before him. The most powerful mage of their order... gone, slain with ease. If he was dead, what hope was left? The realization sent a new wave of terror crashing down upon him. His fate had been sealed. There was no escape, no salvation. The monster would find him next. It would finish what it started.

But even in the depths of despair, a spark of resolve flickered within him. He could not let this atrocity go unreported. The empire had to know. The other Thrones had to be warned. Summoning the last remnants of his strength, he bit down hard on the hidden compartment within his jaw, shattering a small capsule. A runic scroll materialized before him, falling into the mud.

With trembling effort, he gripped it between his teeth, channeling what little mana remained into its ancient glyphs. The scroll shimmered, absorbing his memories—his pain, his terror, the truth of what had transpired. He willed it to reach the others, to sound the alarm before it was too late.

A cold shiver ran down his spine.

The air had shifted. Something loomed behind him. Dread curled around his throat like a vice, his body frozen in sheer terror. He did not need to turn. He knew what it was. He could feel its gaze upon him, a gaze that stripped him bare, that mocked his feeble attempt at defiance.

A blinding flash of lightning split the sky, and in that brief instant, he saw it. The face of the nightmare.

A wicked smile stretched across its darkened visage, jagged teeth glinting in the light. Amusement danced in its eyes—eyes that burned with an abyssal hunger.

Then came the strike.

A single, effortless motion. A blur of movement. And his world shattered.

The warrior's skull caved beneath the force, his thoughts scattering like the wind. Darkness consumed him, his final moment spent in silent horror.

The monstrous entity crouched beside his corpse, its sharp fingers plucking the bloodstained scroll from the dirt. It regarded the artifact with mild curiosity before a slow, insidious grin spread across its lips. It understood its purpose. A warning. A cry for salvation.

With deliberate cruelty, it poured its own twisted memories into the scroll, tainting the message, warping the truth. Then, with a flick of its wrist, it sent the artifact hurtling through the storm, back toward the empire.

The runes flickered one last time before vanishing into the night, carrying a single, haunting sentence.

*They are coming...*