Lord of the Foresaken

The Hollow was alive.

Torches hissed in the mist. Goblin warriors lined the cliffs, their crude armor smeared in blood and paint. Hollowspawn coiled in the deep caves, twitching, hungry. Shia sharpened her blades in silence, eyes locked on the tree line, waiting for Hadren’s soldiers to appear.

But it wasn’t Hadren who came first.

It was something else.

The fog near the eastern perimeter thickened.

Two goblins vanished without a sound. A third returned, eyes rolled back, tongue bitten off. No wounds. Just gone.

Then Reed felt it: pressure. Like the air was holding its breath.

A shape emerged—cloaked in black stitched with red thread, hood drawn low. He moved like smoke through still water. No footprints. No scent.

Reed met him at the outer pit, Thornblade already unsheathed.

The figure bowed—not out of respect, but ritual.

"I bring no harm. Only opportunity."