The battlefield lay in ruins, a desolate expanse of ash and blood. The sky churned with an unnatural darkness, blotting out the sun as an oppressive silence fell over the land. The Heretic Vassals stood frozen, their battered forms trembling as they stared at the epicenter of the shadow that stretched across the heavens.
From the darkness, a figure began to emerge.
Lucius—or rather, what he had become—stepped forward, his new form radiating an overwhelming aura of death. Towering wings of shadow unfurled from his back, their edges shimmering with an eerie, shifting darkness. His body was enveloped in a swirling vortex of black energy, his once-human visage now concealed by a skeletal mask. Twin pinpoints of glowing, malevolent light burned where his eyes had once been. In his hand, he gripped a massive, menacing scythe, its blade crackling with the essence of death itself.
