The Sons of Gods

It was clear to Sorin that this had once been a populated and powerful city. He tried to recall the history and geography lessons Magnus had taught him, wondering if any detail from the past might match this forsaken place. Perhaps it would give him some insight into what he might find inside. With luck, the necromancer would be among the ruins.

“Best not waste time. The city might collapse even further at the rate I’m moving,” Sorin muttered to himself.

He walked toward a gap in the wall and began to climb over the collapsed stones where the wall had been destroyed. He was careful not to cut himself on the jagged edges. Several stones tumbled down the pile as he scaled, the loud clatter breaking the eerie silence. Sorin winced at the sound. It was then he realized just how quiet the city was. Even the wind had stopped as he reached the walls, leaving an unnerving stillness that chilled him more than the fen’s constant gusts.

Sorin pulled himself up over the broken section of the wall and stood on the crumbling ledge, peering down into the abandoned city. What remained of the houses stretched out before him—skeletal, hollow, their roofs sagging under the weight of rot and time. The wooden beams, once sturdy and proud, had warped and twisted, many snapping under the strain, leaving jagged shards pointing skyward like the ribs of long-dead beasts.

The stone walls of the homes fared little better—cracked and weathered, with chunks missing where the swamp had reclaimed them. Moss and thick, creeping vines had woven through the cracks, splitting stone and wood alike, their tendrils curling around broken doorways and shattered windows. Some houses leaned precariously, as though a single gust of wind might send them toppling into the streets below.

Through the gaping holes in roofs and walls, Sorin glimpsed the interiors—rooms filled with the remnants of a forgotten life. Tables lay upturned, their legs splintered, while rusted pots and broken chairs were scattered across moldy floors. In some places, faint, mildewed tapestries still clung to the walls, their patterns faded beneath layers of grime and decay. The air inside the city felt thick and stagnant, the stench of damp rot seeping from every corner.

Here and there, parts of the houses had collapsed entirely, leaving piles of rubble in the streets, with shattered tiles and beams half-submerged in the murky, brackish water that had flooded parts of the city. It was a graveyard of structures, long abandoned, yet still clinging to the final remnants of what they had once been. The city felt as though it had been frozen in its last moments of ruin, waiting for someone—anyone—to witness its fall.

As Sorin steadied himself atop the crumbling wall, his gaze swept past the decaying houses, and he wondered how he hadn’t noticed it before. Rising out of the thick fog, at the very heart of the forsaken city, stood a massive tower—a structure that had once been magnificent, but now radiated an undeniable sense of dread. The tower soared above the rest of the ruins, its silhouette looming against the gray sky like a pillar pointing toward some unseen doom. It had the unmistakable shape of an old lighthouse, but it was clear that whatever purpose it once served had long since been twisted into something far darker. Its once-proud stone walls were blackened and cracked, with strange, glowing runes carved deep into the masonry, pulsing faintly in the gloom like the heartbeat of some ancient, malevolent entity.

At its peak, where once a beacon of light might have shone to guide travelers, there was now only darkness—a swirling, unnatural void, radiating a cold, eerie energy. The top of the tower flared into jagged, irregular battlements, resembling the broken crown of a dead king. The lantern room had been transformed into something far more sinister: its shattered glass replaced by twisted iron bars, within which flickered a faint greenish light, as if some unholy fire burned within. Around the rim, chains hung from rusted hooks, some still swaying in the breeze, as if waiting for the next victim to be bound there.

The tower’s surface was marred by creeping, black tendrils of rot, stretching from its base to its summit. Their origins were unclear, but they were unmistakably unnatural. Strange, twisted figures were etched into the stone at various points—humanoid shapes writhing in agony, their faces contorted in endless torment. As Sorin’s eyes traced the height of the tower, he noticed dark, jagged holes where windows had been sealed or shattered, and in those empty spaces, the faintest movements could be seen—shadowy forms flitting in and out of view. Sorin couldn’t tell if it was his imagination or if something truly lurked within the darkness.

The base of the tower, partially hidden in the mist, was surrounded by heaps of rubble and decayed earth. The ground seemed to warp and twist near the foundation, as if the tower’s very presence was corrupting the land around it. Pools of stagnant water, black as pitch, collected in uneven craters, their surfaces rippling as if disturbed by unseen forces below. Sorin felt a chill. Those pools of water seemed unnervingly similar to the ones that had shown him such horrific scenes of his death.

But what struck Sorin most was the oppressive, suffocating aura that surrounded the tower. It was as though the structure itself was alive, breathing with the dark magic of the necromancer who had claimed it. From its peak, the faintest echo of a bell tolled—slow and mournful, as if heralding the death of anyone who dared approach. The sound reverberated through the fog, sending a chill down Sorin’s spine. It was a place of death, a monument to the necromancer’s twisted power, standing like a grim sentinel over the city.

Sorin hated to admit it, but that tower had to be where Wuthum the Necromancer resided. There could be no other explanation for its dark grandeur and palpable power. Sorin knew he would have to approach the place, to see if he could negotiate with the man that Magnus had claimed had gone insane. He sighed, resigning himself to his fate.

Sorin began to descend from the wall with his destination in mind. He entered the city and carefully picked his way through the devastation—a ruin brought about by both the ravages of battle and the relentless passage of time, both of which the city had lost. What remained most intact, thankfully, were the cobblestone roads. Sorin followed the largest street, which led deeper into the heart of the city. As he walked, he noticed the stone houses grew larger and more ornate. It seemed the wealthier residences lay deeper within.

The eerie silence of the decayed city, combined with its oppressive atmosphere, weighed heavily on Sorin. The buildings seemed to close in on him, their hollow windows like eyes, watching his every move. The streets were littered with rubble, cracked stones submerged in murky water that sloshed with each step. The fog clung thick to the ground, and the air was damp, carrying with it the heavy stench of rot and mildew. Every now and then, a faint, ghostly whisper drifted through the air, though no one was there to speak it.

Sorin turned a corner and stepped into a wide, open square. There, at its heart, loomed a church. Unlike the other crumbling structures, this church remained impressive, towering over the square with a dark, foreboding majesty. Its spires stretched high into the sky, though they were twisted and blackened, as if scorched by some unholy fire. The massive stone walls, once pristine and white, were now stained with the marks of desecration—dark, jagged symbols carved deep into the stone, oozing with something that resembled dried blood.

The grand entrance, flanked by imposing columns, had been defiled. The great wooden doors, bound with iron, hung open, one door ripped off its hinges and lying broken in the mud. Above the doorway, where a holy symbol might have once rested, there was now only a dark, charred void, as if it had been violently torn away. Scattered around the base of the church were shattered statues of saints, their faces smashed beyond recognition, their arms outstretched as if in eternal agony.

The square surrounding the church had been utterly abandoned, but the sense of defilement lingered in the air. The cobblestones were cracked and overgrown with twisted, blackened vines that slithered up the church’s foundation like tendrils of a dark parasite. The altar, visible through the broken doors, was overturned, its once-sacred relics shattered and cast aside. Strange, rust-colored stains marred the stone floor leading inside, as if something—or someone—had been dragged toward the entrance.

From within the church, faint, guttural whispers echoed, barely audible but unmistakable, as though the very walls murmured with the voices of the dead. The stained glass windows, miraculously intact but horribly altered, displayed grotesque images—twisted parodies of holy scenes, with skeletal figures and tortured souls writhing in torment instead of beautiful scenes they may have represented in the past. The flickering light from the dying day cast warped shadows across the square, making it seem as though the figures in the windows were shifting and moving, writhing within their frames.

Above it all, the bell tower stood ominously still, its great bell gone, stolen to be used within the tower of the necromancer. The church, once a place of reverence, now exuded a palpable sense of malevolence, as though it had become the epicenter of all the darkness that had consumed the city.

Sorin glanced about. He hadn’t noticed any movement on the way here, just the eerie noises. Perhaps investigating the church might be wise before continuing toward the tower. Maybe he could find clues about what had happened here before confronting his eventual target. Sorin crept up the stairs and past the broken doors, stepping inside. He glanced around, taking in the church’s interior.

The heavy, oppressive air of the city seemed to thicken inside the church. The vast interior was dimly lit, the few rays of light that managed to pierce the fog outside casting sickly beams through the shattered stained glass windows. The church had once been a place of grandeur—its high, vaulted ceilings and towering arches still hinted at its former glory—but now it was a twisted shadow of what it had once been.

The pews, which had once lined the nave in orderly rows, were now in complete disarray. Some were overturned, others smashed to splinters, all of them covered in a thick layer of dust and grime. The air reeked of rot and decay, mixed with something far more foul—the unmistakable scent of dried blood. Mold and dark, creeping vines snaked along the walls and pillars, winding their way up toward the ceiling like a cancer spreading through the once-sacred space.

The stone floor was cracked and uneven, jagged lines radiating from the center aisle as though the earth itself had split beneath the weight of the corruption within. Pools of stagnant water and dark, viscous fluid collected in the cracks, their surfaces shimmering faintly in the dim light. Broken candles and shattered relics littered the floor, scattered among bones—human and otherwise—that had been left to molder where they fell.

Above, the ceiling was a tangle of broken rafters and sagging beams, many of them covered in the same blackened vines that strangled the walls. What remained of the chandeliers hung precariously from rusted chains, their glass shattered, leaving sharp edges that glinted ominously. The faint echoes of long-lost prayers seemed to linger in the air, now twisted into barely audible whispers that sent chills down Sorin’s spine.

At the far end of the church, dominating the space like a monument to desecration, stood the altar. It had once been a symbol of reverence and peace, but now it was a grotesque perversion of its former purpose. The stone surface was cracked and smeared with dark, dried blood, long since turned to rust-colored crust. Blood had been splattered across the altar in violent arcs, as though some vile ritual had taken place there. Twisted, blackened candles surrounded the altar, their wax pooling like molten flesh. Strange symbols were carved into the stone, pulsating faintly with a sickly green glow.

Behind the altar, the remnants of a once-beautiful tapestry hung in tatters, its holy image now obscured by defacement. The faces of saints had been gouged out, replaced with grotesque, mocking figures drawn in blood. Skulls—both animal and human—had been piled at the base of the altar, many with candles stuffed into their hollow eyes, flickering weakly in the gloom.

The air around the altar seemed heavier, thicker with the weight of dark magic, as though the very fabric of reality was thinner here. Sorin could feel a palpable sense of death emanating from it, a void of desecration that had consumed whatever sacredness the church had once held. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the distant, eerie drip of water echoing through the hollow chamber, and the faint, almost imperceptible murmur of voices that seemed to rise from the altar itself—whispers of the dead, forever bound to this place of corruption.

Sorin approached the altar and noticed symbols that, while covered in blood, were not completely obscured by it. Carved into the stone were shining lighthouses, the symbol of Beacon, the God of Guidance and Inspiration. Beacon was a god of the Light Pantheon, so it made sense that Wuthum, a worshiper of Mortis, the God of Death and Decay, would desecrate Beacon’s church. This symbol, coupled with the fact that the necromancer’s tower resembled a repurposed lighthouse, led Sorin to conclude that Beacon had once been the patron god of this city.

“Wuthum must be a real powerhouse if he managed to take down an entire city dedicated to worshiping Beacon,” Sorin muttered.

Sorin circled the altar, studying it carefully. As he reached the back of the altar, something caught his eye—a lighthouse carving pulsing softly with a warm glow. Sorin stared at it, partially fascinated and partially disgusted. The blood altar didn’t bother him nearly as much as this faint, comforting glow. Despite its appearance, the warmth it exuded invoked a sense of revulsion deep within Sorin.

It made sense, he supposed. If the altar still contained even a sliver of Beacon’s power, it would repel someone like him, a follower of the Dark Pantheon. But why was Beacon’s power still present in the city after so many years? Why wouldn’t Wuthum snuff it out? Surely the necromancer would have destroyed the altar if it still contained the power of a Light Pantheon god. Why desecrate the altar in what seemed like an attempt to suppress Beacon’s power, rather than obliterating it?

Sorin shrugged. Perhaps he could ask the necromancer when the time came—if everything went well. He turned to leave the church but stopped after only a few steps. The lingering presence of Beacon made him uneasy, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving it behind. Sorin felt an almost primal urge to extinguish it once and for all.

“It’s for the best,” he muttered. “I don’t know why Wuthum wouldn’t destroy this remnant of Beacon’s presence. Maybe he doesn’t even know it’s here.”

Sorin turned back to the altar, approaching the pulsing lighthouse symbol. He drew a dagger but hesitated, feeling a bit foolish. A simple dagger wouldn’t even scratch the stone, let alone an altar imbued with divine power. Sorin sheathed the blade, scratching his head in frustration.

“How does one go about extinguishing divine power?” Sorin muttered. “If only it were that easy...” He sighed. “Fuck it.”

Sorin channeled a significant amount of spirit into his Shadow Control, forming a spike of solid shadow in his hand. Perhaps the power granted by one god could destroy that of another. With a determined thrust, Sorin drove the shadow spike into the center of the glowing lighthouse. The spike pierced the glow effortlessly, sliding into the stone until it met resistance.

At first, nothing happened. Sorin stood there, frowning in confusion with his arm still outstretched. Then, the air vibrated with a deep, guttural rumble, like a growl growing louder and louder. Sorin glanced around, trying to locate the source, but it seemed to come from everywhere at once. Dust shook loose from the rafters, falling like toxic snow. The lighthouse carving, pierced by Sorin’s shadow, began to glow brighter in response to the growl. Sorin’s heart sank. He had a sinking feeling that he had royally screwed up.

The growl escalated into a full-blown roar, shaking the church to its foundations. The lighthouse flared with blinding light, and a beam shot into the sky, piercing the roof of the church without resistance. The light illuminated the entire city, visible for kilometers around. But before Sorin could fully grasp the spectacle, the area around his shadow spike began to turn a dark, sickly purple, consuming the light. The once-brilliant pillar of light twisted and darkened, purple splotches spreading like an infection.

Beneath the spectacle, Sorin stood with his jaw hanging open in awe. He could feel the immense power contained within the light—a power that belonged to Beacon, made evident by the overwhelming display before him. What had triggered this? What could have caused such a reaction?

Sorin’s shock turned to panic as he felt a massive influx of spirit surging from the altar, up the shadow spike, and into him. At first, he thought it might be a defense mechanism, but quickly realized the spirit was not attuned to the Light Pantheon. It was attuned to darkness, just like his own. The spirit rushed directly to his Divine Conduit, flooding it until Sorin thought he might burst. Then, his Divine Conduit compressed the spirit and grew, ascending to the next Degree.

But the flow of spirit didn’t stop there. Sorin’s body absorbed it like a sponge, his euphoria fading into burning pain as his Divine Conduit expanded further. He ascended another Degree, the spirit coursing through his veins like fire. Sorin gritted his teeth, trying to hold onto the boon, but the pain only intensified.

The burning became unbearable as Sorin’s Divine Conduit ascended a third Degree in mere minutes. Unable to take any more, Sorin released the shadow spike and fell backward. The spike remained in place, still piercing the light, which continued to darken as more of the power of Vesperos overtook it. Only Vesperos’s power could so perfectly attune to Sorin’s spirit and overwhelm Beacon’s lingering presence.

Soon the entire pillar had become a black mass that rose into the sky. The black pillar stood briefly before it began to flake and fall apart like ash drifting in the wind. Sorin watched the ash float through the air in wonderment. He had done it—somehow, he had destroyed the remnant of Beacon, the God of Guidance and Inspiration.

Sorin was about to begin celebrating his triumph and leaps in power when the city came back to life. At first, it was subtle—the faintest shift in the atmosphere, a deep, unnatural tremor vibrating through the stone beneath his feet. He paused, his hand moving to the hilts of his swords, his sense of triumph draining as a strange, eerie hum filled the air. Outside the church, beyond and within the walls of the ruined city, something was stirring.

The first sound to break the silence was a distant moan, low and mournful, carried on the wind like a warning. Then came the scraping—hundreds of feet and claws dragging themselves across stone and mud, the sound growing louder with each passing second. Sorin’s heart raced as he turned toward the shattered windows. From the fog-shrouded streets, figures began to emerge—dozens at first, then hundreds, shambling through the mist, their grotesque forms barely visible in the gloom. The city was waking up.

The dead were everywhere. Corpses that had once lain forgotten in the ruins now pulled themselves from the earth, their skeletal hands clawing at the ground, dragging their decayed bodies upright. Some were long dead, little more than bones wrapped in tattered, rotting cloth. Others were fresher, their skin bloated and wet, as though they had just crawled from the depths of the swamp. Their faces were contorted into grotesque masks of agony, their empty eye sockets glowing with a faint, sickly green light. Sorin could see the remnants of humanity in some—clothing torn and faded, armor rusted and covered in mud—but whatever they had been in life was long gone.

And it wasn’t just humans. From the outskirts of the city came the unmistakable shapes of twisted beasts. Wolves, their fur hanging in patches from their skeletal frames, loped toward the church on broken legs. Crows, their feathers molting and their eyes hollow, swooped low, their wings beating the thick air with eerie, ragged flutters. Even larger creatures, grotesque mockeries of their former selves, lumbered forward—bears with exposed ribcages and deformed limbs, monstrous abominations fused together in nightmarish shapes that defied explanation. Sorin’s breath caught in his throat as a towering form emerged from the mist: a massive, hulking creature with multiple heads, its flesh stitched together in uneven patches, dragging a thick, jagged chain behind it.

The silence that had dominated the city was shattered. Now, the sound was deafening—moans, growls, and the clattering of bones echoed through the streets, growing louder as the dead closed in from every direction. Sorin felt the cold grip of fear tightening around his chest. The sheer number of undead was overwhelming—an unrelenting tide of corpses, pressing in from the streets, rising from the fog like a nightmarish flood. They were everywhere, pouring in from the far reaches of the city, their steps uneven but relentless.

Sorin backed away from the shattered windows, his gaze flickering toward the altar at the far end of the church. The whispers that had been faint before were now a cacophony, rising to a fevered pitch. Sorin’s hands trembled as he drew his swords, his pulse pounding in his ears. The sense of triumph he had felt only moments ago was gone, replaced by a deep, gnawing dread. Sorin knew he couldn’t contend with such numbers and power.

The undead were converging on the church now, moving faster, their twisted forms writhing as they pressed in from all sides. Sorin’s mouth went dry. He could feel the weight of the horde bearing down on him—an inescapable tide of death that would soon breach the walls. There was no time, no escape. A true, unrelenting fear gripped Sorin. He was surrounded, trapped in a city that had come back to life in the worst way possible.

Sorin ran to the entrance of the church and stood before the growing tide of undead, his eyes narrowing, heart racing. His fingers tightened around the hilts of his twin Niuweidao swords, the curved blades gleaming faintly in the rare light filtering through the fog. His mind raced, already searching for a way out, but he knew there was no escape without a fight.

The first wave of undead began to charge up the steps of the church. The first attacker—a twisted, rotting human, its eyes hollow, jaw hanging loosely—lunged at him, skeletal hands outstretched. In a flash of steel, Sorin cut it down, his blades singing as they cleaved through bone and sinew. But there was no time to rest. More corpses shuffled forward, an endless tide. Sorin moved with precision, weaving between them, his swords carving arcs through the air. Each strike landed true, the sheer mass of bodies making it impossible to miss. Limbs and heads hit the floor, but for every undead he felled, two more took their place.

Sorin’s arms quickly began to burn from the strain of the unending slaughter. His body, already in agony from absorbing too much spirit, screamed with exertion. He had to change his approach. Sorin drew on his powers.

Muttering an incantation under his breath, he invoked the Veil of Vesperos. Shadows wrapped around him like a living cloak, his form blurring and vanishing into the dark. He slipped between the undead, unseen and unheard, moving like a ghost among them. For a moment, the advantage was his. He darted through the throngs of corpses, leaving them swinging at nothing but air, their grotesque faces twisted in confusion as they clawed at shadows, desperately trying to locate him.

But some of the undead weren’t mindless. Wuthum’s necromantic magic coursed through them. The monstrous abominations in the distance sensed him—twisted beasts with too many limbs, their eyes glowing with sickly green light. They zeroed in on his location and began trampling the smaller undead in their pursuit. Sorin knew he couldn’t outrun these massive creatures. Gritting his teeth, he raised his hand, channeling his Shadow Control. With a forceful motion, he unleashed a wave of shadows shaped into spikes. The spikes flew forth, peppering the nearest undead, causing it to stumble and buying Sorin precious moments to continue his retreat.

But from every alley, every crumbling building, more undead appeared—humans, animals, twisted things that defied description, all drawn by the spectacle Sorin had foolishly created. His own actions had summoned this nightmare, a consequence of his arrogance and ignorance. Desperate, Sorin invoked Echoes of Fear, channeling the dread-filled power of his father. A ripple of terror surged toward a particularly large undead, stitched together from countless bodies, its mismatched arms flailing as it lumbered toward him. Sorin hoped the fear would send it fleeing, trampling those behind it.

It did no such thing. The abomination pressed on, unfazed, closing the gap with terrifying speed. Sorin’s heart sank. His powers, which had once brought foes to their knees, were useless against these relentless monsters.

His despair deepened as another hulking figure emerged from the fog. Sorin’s heart skipped a beat. The creature lumbered into view—an abomination, its massive body a grotesque patchwork of flesh, heads lolling grotesquely atop its shoulders. Thick, rusted chains hung from its arms, each link jagged and heavy. Its many eyes locked onto Sorin, glowing with a malevolent hunger. With a growl that shook the ground, it charged, dragging its chains behind it.

Sorin moved to engage, his blades flashing in the dim light as he cut down the smaller undead swarming around him. But before he could clear enough space to face the abomination, one of its massive chains lashed out. It coiled around his waist, the jagged metal biting into his flesh. Sorin’s breath left him in a sharp gasp. With a powerful yank, the creature hurled him through the air. He slammed into the stone wall of a building with a sickening crack, pain exploding through his back and shoulders. His vision blurred, the edges of his consciousness dimming as the world spun around him.

Before Sorin could recover, the creature’s chain whipped again. It pulled him from the ground and slammed him back down with brutal force. Sorin hit the cobblestone street, the impact sending shockwaves of pain through his body. His limbs went limp, his body beginning to shut down. Sorin fought to stay conscious, but it was a losing battle. The last thing he saw before his vision went black was the towering figure of the undead monstrosity, its eyes glowing with malice as it advanced on him.