The fortress of Blackspire rose from the red desert like a wound—jagged, towering, and alive with the heat of a thousand forges. Its walls were carved from obsidian stone, veined with molten cracks that glowed like the beating heart of a beast.
Inside, soldiers marched in rhythmic thunder, drums shaking the air with each step. Crimson banners—dyed with real blood—hung from the rafters, rippling like flayed skin in the furnace wind.
At the fortress's peak stood General Varkos.
He stared across the battlefield training pits below, watching his soldiers fight with desperation and hunger. They swung their blades with fury, driven by more than discipline.
Driven by fear.
Varkos inspired that well.
He was monstrous in size—a mountain of scarred flesh and coiled muscle. His armor was a brutal mosaic of black steel, hammered into shape by mages who feared him too much to resist. A great war-axe rested on his back, its edge glowing faintly with runes that pulsed like dying embers.
But his most unsettling feature was his calm.
Most warlords roared, raged, or bellowed commands.
Varkos never raised his voice.
He didn't need to.
One word from him carried the weight of execution.
A terrified messenger knelt before him now, forehead pressed against the scorching stone floor.
"My lord… the scouts confirmed it. The message—the one written in blood—was found. It reached the Iron Monastery's hands."
Varkos didn't turn.
He simply rested his gauntleted hands behind his back.
"So," Varkos said, voice deep as grinding stone, "the monks have seen it."
"Yes, my lord."
"Good."
The messenger blinked. "G… good?"
Varkos turned then, and the man flinched. The general's eyes were not merely intense—they were illuminated. Not with magic, but with focus so absolute it bordered on unnatural.
"The Iron Monastery moves only for threats worthy of their blades," Varkos said. "If they walk into the western frontier, then the prophecy is real enough to frighten even them."
He stepped toward the wide balcony overlooking Blackspire. The desert winds tore at his crimson cape, whipping it like a banner of war.
"Tell me," he said, not looking back, "have the monks found him?"
"W-we believe so, my lord."
Silence.
The messenger swallowed hard.
"He is traveling alone—no escort, no guard, moving on foot. He appears… mortal."
Varkos's lips curled into a small, humorless smile.
"Mortal. Yes. He always looks mortal."
The messenger hesitated. "Is he truly—"
"The Deathless One?" Varkos finished. "He is. The gods cast their curse well. I've seen the records. I've studied the myths. The man has died a thousand deaths… none of them permanent."
He stepped closer to the messenger, who shrank back.
"Imagine it," Varkos whispered. "A man who time cannot kill. A man whose body holds the tension between life and death so tightly that even the gods took notice."
He leaned forward, voice dropping to a predatory softness.
"That tension can be broken."
The messenger's throat bobbed. "My… my lord… you wish to kill him?"
"No," Varkos said, straightening. "I do not wish to kill him."
The man's relief was short-lived.
"I intend to."
Varkos turned away again.
"Because if the Seer speaks truth… then when the immortal perishes…"
He looked skyward, the furnace-glow reflecting in his eyes.
"…the heavens will tremble."
He extended a hand, and a retainer placed a freshly forged war-helm in it—etched with the fanged sigil of the Dominion.
"Send the Red Talons," Varkos ordered. "My elite hunters. The Deathless One will not escape them."
"Yes, General!" the messenger yelped, scrambling to his feet.
"And send word to the Seer of Embers," Varkos added. "Tell her the hour she foretold draws near."
The messenger fled.
Varkos watched the desert horizon.
His voice barely rose above the crackling wind.
"A man who cannot die," he murmured. "And yet the world says he must."
His grip tightened on his helm until the metal warped under his fingers.
"Then I will be the one to end the immortal."