Blood Of the Forsaken

The forest air was thick with silence, a stillness that clung to Kael's skin like a second layer. The path behind him had long disappeared, swallowed by the dark tangle of trees and the fog that now coiled around his legs like living mist.

"Don't stop," whispered Riven, his voice barely audible as he crouched beside Kael, his twin daggers drawn and gleaming in the faint red glow overhead. "We're close. I can feel it."

Kael nodded, gripping the hilt of his sword tighter. The blade was still coated in dried blood from the last ambush—Forsaken patrols that seemed increasingly organized, as if they knew someone was coming.

As they pushed deeper into the grove, a low hum filled the air—an unnatural vibration that set Kael's teeth on edge.

Suddenly, Riven froze.

"There," he said, pointing to a clearing just ahead.

The trees opened into a wide basin, and in the center stood a monolithic stone—black, weathered, and carved with symbols Kael didn't recognize. Around it, crimson candles floated in midair, flickering without any wind.

A ritual site. And they were not alone.

Kael ducked behind a moss-covered boulder as shadows began to slither from the edge of the clearing. Figures in tattered robes moved with eerie grace, their faces covered in bone-white masks shaped like snarling beasts. The cult.

One of them stepped forward, lifting his arms. His voice cut through the silence like a dagger:

"Blood calls to blood. Let the Forsaken rise anew beneath the crimson moon!"

Kael's breath caught. The moon above had turned red, full and low in the sky—too red, too perfect. Riven leaned in close.

"We have to stop the summoning."

Before Kael could answer, the ground trembled. The monolith cracked down the middle, light seeping from within. The cultists chanted louder, faster.

"From the depths of ruin and fire, awaken—Harathos, Bringer of the End!"

Kael's heart pounded. Harathos—the name was familiar. One of the original Forsaken Lords, sealed away centuries ago during the Cleansing War. If he returned now…

Riven didn't wait. With a sudden cry, he leapt from cover and hurled his dagger. It struck one of the cultists in the throat. Chaos erupted.

Kael surged forward, his sword flashing as he engaged another robed figure. Their movements were unnatural—jerky, like puppets pulled by invisible strings. His blade met flesh, and black blood sprayed the air.

One of the cultists lunged at him with a curved blade, catching Kael's side. Pain flared, but he didn't falter. He parried, pivoted, and drove his sword through the cultist's chest.

Meanwhile, Riven was a blur of movement, cutting down enemies with deadly precision.

But it wasn't enough.

The monolith exploded in a blinding burst of red light. The shockwave threw Kael and Riven backward.

From the heart of the stone, a figure emerged—tall, armored in obsidian plates, eyes glowing like twin furnaces.

Harathos had awakened.

A silence fell over the battlefield. Even the cultists knelt, trembling.

Harathos looked around, his voice rumbling like thunder:

"Who dares disturb my slumber?"

Kael tried to rise, but his legs wouldn't respond. The air felt too heavy, pressing down with invisible force.

Harathos's gaze landed on him.

"You…" the ancient being said. "You carry the blood of Arkael. The traitor."

Kael's heart stopped.

Riven's eyes widened. "What did he just say…?"

Kael struggled to his feet. "I don't know who Arkael is. But if you're what stands between me and saving this world…"

He raised his sword, the blade shaking in his grasp.

"Then I'll cut you down myself."

Harathos laughed—a deep, chilling sound that echoed through the clearing.

"So be it, descendant of the Forsaken."

As he raised his black blade, the crimson moon shone brighter than ever, bathing the grove in bloodlight. The battle for the soul of the world had begun.