Lord of the Foresaken

The battle was over.

But war doesn’t end when the bodies fall. It rots deeper — in secrets, in silence, in the blood that hasn’t yet been spilled.

Reed stood at the edge of the battlefield, watching his goblins drag the three surviving knights through mud and ash. The prisoners were bound, bleeding, eyes hollow. Behind them, Hollowspawn feasted noisily, ripping the armor from twitching corpses.

Shia approached. "We should kill them."

"Not yet," Reed said. "They might still be useful."

Shia arched an eyebrow. "You’re showing restraint."

Reed smiled without warmth. "No. I’m showing cruelty."

They were taken to the war-cave’s deepest pit — a cell carved from the remains of the fallen. Femurs formed the bars. Ribs made the floor. Skulls lined the wall, mouths agape in silent screams.

The knights were shackled naked and upside down. Their mouths were gagged. Not for silence. For humiliation.

Reed entered barefoot, his steps soft against bone.

He crouched before the first man — a young officer, not more than twenty-five. Still clinging to honor in his eyes.