Date: February 12, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
Arannis didn't just float above the obsidian floor—he was part of the air itself, which in an instant became cold and thin, as on the peaks of the Great Ridge. His appearance was a living challenge to the harsh aesthetics of the North. His armor of "ironwood," threaded with fine obsidian strands, perfectly fitted his lean but wiry body. On his shoulders rested overlays carved from bark, resembling the wings of a bird of prey, and his silver braids, bound with emerald rings, trembled faintly, though there was no wind in the hall.
A distinctive feature of Arannis was a small flute, carved from lightning-struck wood, which he lazily twirled between the long fingers of his left hand before drawing his blades. His eyes lacked pupils; instead, miniature foggy vortices rotated within his eye sockets, now lightening, now filling with the heavy blue of a stormy sky.
"Order is merely the silence before the true storm," Arannis said. His voice didn't just sound; it vibrated, causing the Order knights to feel nauseous.
Bernard, overcoming the pressure of the Herald's power, raised his sword. "Seventh Detachment! 'Wall' formation! Close shields!"
The knights, spurred by survival instinct, rushed towards each other. Seven Warriors, wounded and exhausted, tried to form a monolithic barrier. Their inner essence, gathered into a single circuit, momentarily flared with grey light, creating a barrier.
Arannis merely lifted the corners of his lips slightly. "Spirit of the Storm Wind," he whispered, and in that same second, his flute disappeared into the folds of his armor, and his hands filled with emerald radiance. "Art of the Cut: Vacuum Lash."
The Herald made a short movement with his wrist, as if shooing away an annoying insect. Neither swords nor arrows appeared in the air—only a transparent distortion that slammed into the knights' formation with a wild whistle.
The impact was so powerful that the "Wall" of the Order knights simply burst. It wasn't a physical collision—Arannis instantly sucked the air out of the space before the defenders, then brought down a zone of extreme pressure upon them. Bernard felt his shield, reinforced by years of training, crumple like eggshell. He himself was thrown back, and he heard his own collarbones crack.
Arannis gave them no time to recover. He became a blurred emerald streak, moving through the hall with the grace of a hurricane. His Spirit allowed him to completely ignore air resistance.
One of Thorn's knights tried a counterattack, but his sword passed through empty space. Arannis was already behind him. "You are too slow," the Sylvan whispered.
The thin curved blade, saturated with the power of the Storm Wind, traced a perfect line in the air. The knight's armor didn't help; steel and flesh were parted with such ease as if they were made of mist. The knight collapsed, not even realizing his death.
Thorn, seeing his comrade fall, rushed to intercept, pouring all the remnants of his energy into a desperate lunge. But Arannis simply waved his hand, and a stream of air, dense as granite, slammed into Thorn, pinning him to the obsidian wall. The Warrior's bones cracked, and he slid to the floor, leaving a crimson trail.
"Your energy is so... bland," Arannis stopped in the center of the hall, and a genuine vortex of stone chips and dust began to swirl around him. "It lacks the taste of life. Only dry law and dusty regulations."
The remaining five knights huddled by a fallen statue, knowing their time was running out. Before them was not just an enemy, but a natural disaster cloaked in the form of a beautiful and cruel being. Arannis took out his flute, brought it to his lips, and produced a single note—high, piercing, making the mirrored surfaces in the nearby corridors begin to shatter.
It was the signal for the final harvest. The Sylvan Herald had come to the Temple not for the Relic; he had come to prove his race's superiority, and the lives of seven knights were merely a warm-up for meeting truly worthy opponents.
"Death by wind is the purest," Arannis said, and his eyes filled with black storm clouds. "Do not resist. Just close your eyes and let the storm take you."
The next second, the vortex around him exploded into hundreds of invisible blades, hurtling towards the Order's last defenders.