Blood soaked the dirt as the dawn's light crept over the battlefield. Caelum Draven, Commander of the Radiant Order, knelt in chains before his king. The accusations had come swiftly—treason, heresy, and murder. The faces of his comrades, men he had bled with, blurred through his haze of disbelief. He had trusted them. And now they stood silent as the king raised his sword.
"Caelum Draven," the king intoned, his voice cold as winter frost. "For your crimes, you are hereby sentenced to death."
Before the blade could fall, the earth trembled. From the cracks in the ground, black smoke spilled forth, twisting and writhing like living shadows. A voice whispered in Caelum's mind, low and insidious. 'Swear your soul to me, and I shall save you.'
Desperate and broken, Caelum made the choice that would damn him forever. The shadows surged, consuming him and his executioners alike. When the smoke cleared, he stood, alive—but not whole. In his hand was the Shadowforge Blade, its edges dripping with the essence of the damned.*