The mountain man swung his huge greatsword at his shield six times, each impact ringing like a war drum, a brutal battle cry tearing through the thick, rolling fog. The stinging clangs resonated through the shattered garden, a summons to the Reaper that was like a challenge it could not turn away from.
The Reaper stayed unnaturally still, frozen like a repulsive statue. Its scythe lay across the hump of its shoulders, a ghastly yoke of darkened metal. Both clawed hands held the haft loosely, elbows bent, arms slung over the weapon.
Its back hunched horribly, folding in upon itself like a predator ready to spring. Knees bent into a prowling, crouching squat, the mist shrouding its shattered shape like tattered veils. Tentacles of fog slid around its limbs, whirling with every small movement.
Its head leaned forward ever so slightly. Its muscles coiled tight, trembling with pent-up violence, savoring the precious moment before the slaughter began.
Without warning, the Reaper moved.
It didn't leap. It didn't run. It simply appeared — an explosion of mist and impossible speed that made Riven's heart jolt in terror. One blink, and the Reaper stood right in front of the mountain of a man.
Riven couldn't even comprehend the motion. One second the Reaper was crouched like a beast ready to strike; the next, it was already upon them. His instincts screamed, but his body couldn't even react. He was too slow. Far too slow.
But not Eros.
The man reacted reflexively. With a roar, he hurled up his bulbous shield just in time, shuddering as the Reaper's scythe bit down with an ear-shattering crash. The blow shook the earth itself, sending up clouds of dust, but the man did not move. He was rooted, as immovable as a mountain.
The Reaper would not be denied. It swung its scythe high again and brought it crashing down again, and again — from overhead, from the sides, even from beneath — each strike a whirlwind of killing rage. Steel rang against steel in a lunatic cadence, a series of savage blows that tolled like the knell of a death bell.
But the man never faltered.
He did not fall, did not retreat. His feet stayed planted, shield braced against the storm. The Reaper brought the blows down on him, blows that carried the power of death itself — and he absorbed them all, his shield warping under the impact but never breaking.
Riven stood there, stunned, hardly able to believe what he was seeing. Was this actually a man? Or some ancient wall of stone that had merely taken on flesh?
Eros stood beside Riven with cold, calculating calm, his face hidden behind a mask but his intent clear. He wasn't striking yet. He was waiting patiently, brutally, for the perfect moment to strike and help his partner.
The Reaper growled with fury, its attacks savage by contrast. It was covered in blood, contorting with a ghastly beauty, a blur of mist and claw and steel.
The truth was, he wasn't even fighting at full capacity.
He hadn't donned his mask yet. Without it, he couldn't unleash his true power — and yet, even now, he was a fortress, a bulwark that refused to fall.
Finally, with a deep, shuddering breath, the mountain man shifted. In a single, fluid motion, he wrenched his greatsword free from the ground and swung it with a force that could have split the very earth.
The blade howled through the air, a sick, terrible curve dead for the Reaper's side.
But the Reaper was no fool.
Even in its madness, it twisted aside with nauseating smoothness, the greatsword shaving a hair's breadth away and sinking deep into the broken ground instead.
Dust and broken stone exploded into the air. The force of the swing alone was enough to knock lesser foes off balance. But the Reaper simply floated back, its movements a contemptuous elegance, mist swirling heavily around its limbs.
The two titans faced each other — one a mountain of flesh and steel, the other a nightmare wrapped in mist and broken bones.
But that was the opening Eros had been waiting for.
Silent as death, he moved. In one swift, precise motion, Eros darted in from the side, his sword gleaming cold under the pale moonlight. He struck — a clean, ruthless stab aimed at the Reaper's exposed side.
The blade bit deep.
The Reaper let out a harsh, ragged gasp — a sound like the last breath of a dying world. Its body jerked sideways, thrown off balance for the first time.
It stumbled back, claws scratching against the broken stone. The scythe wavered in its grip. Mist bled from the wound, hissing and twisting around its limbs.
The world seemed to freeze.
The Reaper turned its head slowly, its burning sockets looking around, seeing — truly seeing — the garden it had once guarded.
Ruined.
Destroyed.
The ancient stone paths lay shattered. The statues, toppled and broken. The once-beautiful trees and flowers, ripped apart by the very violence it had unleashed.
The Reaper's clawed hand tightened around the shaft of its scythe. Its whole body trembled — but not from rage.
From sorrow.
A sorrow so vast it swallowed the night whole.
Under the cold, silent gaze of the moon, the Reaper dropped to one knee.
Without a sound, it turned the scythe inward, pressing the blade against its own chest.
For a moment, it hesitated.
Then, with a violent shove, the Reaper drove the scythe through itself.
The blade punched through its ribs, piercing deep, and the creature sagged forward, its misty breath escaping in one last, trembling sigh. It fell to the ground with a hollow thud, mist pooling around its broken body.
Under the pale light of the moon, the Reaper's form slowly dissolved into the mist, leaving only silence — and the shattered garden it had once sworn to protect.
Riven watched, frozen, unable to look away.
There was no victory here.
Only tragedy.
The fog lingered long after the Reaper withdrew, twisting in mournful tendrils around the broken stones and torn earth. Nothing but the soft pop of extinguishing coals and the dull crunch of boots on gravel broke the thick silence.
Eros exhaled slowly, the breath sighing from his mask in a soft hiss. He moved to stand before the mountain of a man, whose shield arm still trembled faintly from the ferocious exchange.
"It's done," Eros said, voice low, clipped.
The mountain man — Varik — grunted, slinging his battered shield onto his back with a clang. He raised his massive sword in one hand, balancing it on his shoulder as though it were weightless.
Eros glanced over to Riven, still panting, still shaking with the sheer speed and terror of the fight. His wrists were shredded from previous wounds
"You know the orders," Eros said to him, stepping forward. "Chain him."
Varik did not hesitate. He grasped Riven roughly, jerking his arms behind his back with effortless strength, as he might handle a sack of grain and not a living man. The iron manacles closed about Riven's wrists, cutting into bare skin.
Riven gritted his teeth but said nothing.
The fog was beginning to lift, shredded by a chill wind that low moaned through the debris. Above, the moon was a broken crescent, casting its faint light upon the ruined garden, the dead Reaper, and the three survivors.
"We're going," Eros said. His voice was lower now, almost grave. "Nira's waiting."
Varik's eyebrow rose beneath his helm, his voice a snarl. "At this hour?"
Eros nodded once. "She doesn't sleep."
Varik snorted, cinching chains around Riven's arms tighter. "Neither do we, it would seem."
They strolled down the devastated walkway, under broken walls and moss-drowned statues of unknown persons. A rough camp was established nearby — no more than a ring of charred rocks, a pair of frayed tents, and a small fire fighting the darkness.
The air stank of blood and fog.
As they approached, Eros slowed, glancing once at the bound Riven. His cold voice sliced through the heavy silence.
"You'll see her soon," he said. "Be careful what you say."
Varik low, humorless laugh came. "If he's capable of speaking at all when he sees her."
The fire before them spat and snapped, shadows twisting in every direction. And there, in the warmth of the fire, waiting for them with an unnatural, waiting stillness, was a woman in black, her hair a dark veil flowing around a pale face.
Nira.
Even in the uncertain, feeble light, she was recognizable — a beauty so sharp it hurt, a stillness that seemed deep as the night itself.
The fire was low and threw long shadows across the devastated ground. Somebody had cooked a meal — dried meat, stale bread, and some bitter vegetable stewed in an old tin pot. It was little enough, yet after the long night even that felt a feast.
Riven was sitting a little apart from the rest of them, chains clinking softly as he shifted. Varik tossed him a loaf of bread roughly.
"Eat," the giant grunted. "You will need your strength."
Riven caught it awkwardly in his bound hands, muttering something indistinguishable beneath his breath. He bit into it anyway, the coarse crust tearing at his throat.
Eros stood nearby, whetting a sword in slow, deliberate strokes. Sparks skittered from the stone with every stroke.
They ate in silence for a while, exhaustion too deep for words.
But Riven could not help but look up eventually. He looked at the torn, worn clothing they both wore — all layers of dark cloth and battered leather, stitched with care but nigh. ceremonial in its torn state.
"You all," Riven said, his voice rough, "why do you wear that? "
Eros didn't glance up from what he was doing. "Wear what?"
"Wear." Riven fought for the proper description. "Hunters. In a nightmare."
Varik laughed softly under his breath, low and raspy. Eros smiled, not amused.
"Because we are," he said, simply.
Riven's frown deepened.
Eros finally looked at him, the firelight catching the subtle shine of his mask.
"We hunt what the world forgets. What the world fears." He sheathed the sword with a soft hiss. "When you're hunting monsters long enough, you start dressing the part."
Varik grunted agreement, gnawing on a strip of jerky. "Besides," he said, "black hides the blood better."
Riven looked at them, their scarred bodies golden and shadowed in the firelight, and a strange and uneasy shiver settled over him.
Maybe he was not tied to men after all.
Maybe he was tied to something far worse.
The fire crackled on, and somewhere far outside the camp, the darkness moved once more.