Lysithara had been a ruin to begin with—its sky bleak even in the day… the sunlight had seemed dull, filtered through a haze of gloom, and the shattered city was almost solemn in its ruined beauty… alive only with distant monsters and the skeletal wreckage of a forgotten age, its towering spires standing as gravestones beneath the black crack in the sky, that fractured wound casting everything beneath it into shadow.
But now—under the darkness of nightfall—the city was at war with itself.
Evangeline's light had drawn something out… something that existed within the black rift… and in response, the ancient denizens of Lysithara—the cursed, the malformed, the dead and the defiled—rose from the stones, clawed from the gutters and walls and collapsed cathedrals.
Some had once been human… others had never been anything close.
They rose to fight—fueled by vengeance, hatred, or the memory of duty—against the horrors from the blackness of the rift.
