The Reaper emerged from the mist like a shadow given shape — tall, terrible, the Scythe hissing against stone, the air growing colder with each step.
Then came a flurry of footsteps behind them. Not one, not two, but five.
The other Firstborn stumbled through the alleyway, bloody and limping, their cloaks torn, their armor cracked, their bodies wrecked as if the gods themselves had punished them.
One fell to his knees. Another clutched his side, blood seeping through his fingers. One had lost his mask entirely, leaving only wide, desperate eyes.
The Veiled turned, saw them — and behind the mask, their eyes narrowed, not with fear, but with relief.
The Reaper remained still.
Slowly, he tilted his head, and the red line running through his cracked mask pulsed once, alive and hungry.
From the periphery of the chaos, Riven watched.
And he understood.
The time had come. Now or never.
He took off running.
He didn't look back.
Didn't hesitate.
What happened next didn't matter — not to him.
Not the Firstborn.
Not the Veiled.
Not even the Reaper.
Stone clattered beneath his boots.
He ducked under a broken archway. Slipped past a crumbling statue.
The mist coiled around him like fingers, trying to drag him back.
He ran harder.
His throat burned from breathing.
Every step sent knives through his legs.
But he kept going.
Because if he stayed, he would die.
Behind him, the others had no chance.
The Veiled stood only meters away from the Reaper now.
Between them, the shattered Firstborn.
One of them — tall, slender, eyes still burning bright through bruises — stepped forward.
"Captain... let us fight with you. You can't face that monster alone."
The Veiled said nothing at first.
Only stared ahead — mask silver, unreadable.
The wind caught their torn cloak, whispering across the stones.
"This is my fight," they said at last, voice flat and cold.
"I was the one who fell for it.
I'm only paying for my ignorance... for failing to see he was buying time."
They glanced at the five — bloodied, broken.
"You wouldn't survive against me," they added, voice sharp as ice. "Much less against that."
The tall Firstborn faltered. "But Captain—"
"Stay out of this."
The Veiled's back remained turned.
Voice colder than death.
"That's an order."
They stepped forward, toward the Reaper.
The creature didn't move. Didn't lift the Scythe.
The mist thickened, like the world was holding its breath.
The Veiled stopped a few feet away.
Raised their twin blades low, ready.
"Come at me, you bastard," they whispered.
---
In the garden, the mist coiled around the Veiled's legs.
Above, the moon hung like a pale, watching eye.
Her twin swords gleamed low. Silent. Waiting.
Movement stirred in the fog.
A whisper behind her.
She pivoted — too late.
The Scythe screamed through the air.
Steel met steel.
Sparks exploded through the mist.
She stumbled back, boots scraping across stone.
He stood before her — robes like smoke, the cracked mask leaking cold light.
The Scythe dragged beside him, carving a bleeding line into the ground.
He didn't walk.
He flowed, like mist given form.
She lunged.
Twin blades cut — one high, one low.
He moved.
The top blade missed. The lower nicked cloth — nothing more.
No blood. No flesh. Only shadow.
Pain bloomed as his elbow struck her ribs.
She made no sound.
Kept moving.
She slashed again.
This time, she tore his shoulder — cloth shredded, emptiness beneath.
He brought the Scythe up.
She ducked under it, thrusting a blade for his heart —
The fog burst outward.
He vanished.
She froze.
Then — cold breath behind her.
She spun—
The haft of the Scythe slammed into her back.
She flew, crashing through a dead tree.
Ashblossoms rained down like snow.
He came again — no mist this time.
Only the slow, dreadful pull of the Scythe, and the mask's pulsing light.
She stood, shaky but unyielding, blades ready.
For a moment, the world stilled.
Then steel clashed again — furious, desperate.
She moved like a blade herself — fast, sharp.
The Reaper moved like fate.
Inevitable.
One blade scratched his side.
The other missed.
He swung —
She rolled, narrowly dodging death.
Cut again — missed again.
He vanished into mist.
Reappeared.
The Scythe hissed past her neck — an inch from severing her head.
She gritted her teeth.
Held her ground.
Slowly, the Scythe rose for a final blow.
She crossed her swords high, bracing.
The Scythe fell.
Stone shattered.
The garden trembled.
Silence fell again.
Only the moon knew who still stood.
---
Riven caught only a glimpse of the chaos before he fled — the last flicker of battle burning in the garden's heart.
He didn't look back.
In the distance, fighting raged. But it was no longer his concern.
His soul was already tired — worn thin by death and despair.
All that mattered now was escaping this cursed city.
The ruins were a labyrinth of death.
Creatures lurked in the shadows, twisted bodies crouching, waiting for weakness.
With each step, Riven's mind frayed further.
Even the mask's strength, that strange, cold clarity, couldn't keep exhaustion from his bones.
Time didn't exist here.
Only ash and ruin stretched around him, endless and uncaring.
He didn't even care about the pain anymore.
Only about survival.
Ahead, an ancient cathedral loomed —
its spires once reaching for heaven, now jagged and broken.
The roof torn away as if ripped by some monstrous hand.
It didn't matter what had destroyed it.
It was just another ruin.
Another piece of a world collapsing into itself.
He staggered toward the shattered doors.
Maybe inside... maybe there would be sanctuary.
A moment to breathe.
Inside, the cathedral was cavernous and cold.
The floor was strewn with rubble.
Dust hung heavy in the air.
Stillness filled the broken temple like a weight.
Riven crossed the threshold, boots loud against the stones.
The silence was wrong.
But he pushed the thought aside.
It didn't matter.
Nothing mattered except that, for once, no one was chasing him.
He pushed deeper inside, weaving between shattered pews and toppled statues.
His body screamed for rest.
But he kept moving, searching for some corner of safety.
The cathedral was a ghost — a memory of a place that once meant peace.
Now it was just another broken monument.
And Riven no longer cared about its past.
He just needed to survive the night.
The cathedral interior was somber, moonlight and from the sky that had broken through the gaps in the decaying walls reaching far, deformed shadows across the floor. Wooden pews filled the area, their solid frames now breaking down to rot and decay. Mildew and age clung to the air. Riven's gaze swept the room with hardly any care, too exhausted to actually notice anything in front of him. His eyes finally focused on a chair that, unbelievably, had been less ravaged by the rot. It wasn't great, but it would have to do.
He staggered to it, his muscles grumbling at each step, and dropped into the chair with a heartfelt sigh. His body was crying out for sleep, and his eyelids grew heavier by the second. The pain in his bones, the pounding in his head, and the weariness of all the running forced him to sleep. The stillness of the cathedral seemed to virtually invite him to do so. Here, at least, it was safe—at least, safer than the city outside.
Riven settled back, his eyes closed, exhaling slowly. The burden on his chest, the incessant pressure of survival, relaxed just a bit in the quiet.
'At least I'm kinda safe,' he thought, the words barely leaving his lips in a whisper. A fleeting moment of peace, fleeting enough that he almost believed it. For a moment, he let himself believe that he had found sanctuary. But deep down, a nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach told him otherwise. The shadows were never truly empty, and in a city like this, safety was nothing more than an illusion.
Before he could settle further, a shiver ran up his spine, and he stiffened. The merest glint of metal came into the corner of his eye, inches from his neck. He went rigid instinctively, the edge of the knife nuzzling his skin sending a cold shiver along his spine. The metal flavor of blood was in the air. His heart pounded harder, and a delicate trickle of blood began to ooze from his neck, each bead a testament to how near death had lain.
The voice behind him was low and even, its tone flavored with a sort of coldness that made his blood run colder than the knife pressed against his neck.
"No, you ain't, buddy," the voice spat, each sentence dripping with scorn. "You are a Firstborn and have been causing us so much problem."
Riven's muscles locked. He ached to turn, to see who it was that had found him, but something stayed him. Perhaps it was the fear eating at the nape of his brain, the dreading that if he so much as moved an inch, his head would come loose. His breath was caught in his throat, and for an instant he could do nothing more than feel the hard edge of the blade against his skin.
"Who are you?" Riven could manage, his voice harsh, strained. His eyes snapped open, staring straight in front of him, not even daring to glance over their shoulder. The knife didn't waver, the pressure constant.
A dry, humorless laugh came from behind him, echoing through the air between them.
"Me? I'm a Veiled," the voice replied, its tone laced with something that sounded like amusement. "Sent to capture a Hollowborn, and it seems you're more trouble than you look, kid. You've given my partner a lot of work to do."
The words echoed in his mind, every one a bitter reminder of how low down in this hell he was. He didn't know how much longer he could keep running. He didn't know how much longer he could stay ahead of people like them, people who could so easily kill him.
and check for any words that are repeated too much Do not change anything. Just do proofreading no dash got it