Lord of the Foresaken

The aftermath of battle clung to Goblin’s Hollow like a shroud of decay. Three days had passed since the coalition forces retreated, leaving behind the wreckage of their siege engines and the bloated corpses of their fallen. Ravens and other carrion feeders circled overhead, descending periodically to feast upon eyes and soft tissue, indifferent to the insignias that once proudly adorned the dead.

Reed stood atop the eastern wall, watching as goblin work crews dragged the coalition’s dead into great pyres. The stench of burning flesh had become constant—a miasma that seeped into clothing, hair, and memory. Yet Reed found himself increasingly unmoved by it. The fragments pulsing within him seemed to consume his human revulsion, replacing it with cold, analytical observation.

"The inner sanctum is secure again," Kalia reported, climbing the rampart to join him. Blood still crusted the joints of her armor; she’d had no time to clean it properly. "Shia has the wounded stabilized, but we lost twenty-eight defenders in the final push."

Reed nodded. "And the prisoners?"

"Seventeen officers, including two fragment bearers. They’re... compliant." She hesitated. "Reed, the things you did to Lord Denwyr—whatever you showed him—it’s broken something in him. He sits in his cell, repeating the same phrase over and over."

"What phrase?"

"’The void has eyes.’ What does that mean?"

Reed turned to her, and for a moment, Kalia caught a glimpse of something beneath his skin—a writhing darkness that twisted through his veins like living ink before fading from view.

"It means he saw the truth," Reed said simply. "About the fragments. About what they really are."

Before Kalia could question him further, a goblin scout approached, her movements displaying the newfound grace that had begun to characterize all of Shia’s elite forces.

"Riders approaching from the north," the scout reported. "Not coalition. Different insignia—black robes, silver masks. Six in total."