Prologue

A man was walking down the street on his way home. He was tired and wanted nothing more than to sleep. Before he could reach his house, something moved at the corner of his eye.

A strange figure stood in the dark alley beside him. He considered ignoring it, but curiosity pulled him closer.

Hesitantly, he moved toward the figure— but before he could tell what it was, he was knocked out.

When he opened his eyes, grass filled his vision; he found himself floating in the air—but pain in his wrists and ankles told a different story. His mouth was stuffed with a cloth; his arms and legs were bound to a stick, and he was carried forward.

His heart began to race— he lifted his head up only to find a stranger covered in red robes in front of him. Behind him stood a lone chapel, its peak eclipsing the moon.

Moss clung to the roots of its walls, and the rose-tinted glass looked as though it was stained in blood.

Inside the chapel stood figures dressed in different shades of red, some hooded, others with their faces hidden behind masks. They formed circles around seven figures, each different from the others.

One was covered in bones and blood.

One was draped in rotting flesh, crawling with maggots and dark blotches.

One was adorned with gold necklaces and bracelets.

One was clad in black armour.

One stood naked, his porcelain body unmarked.

One wore a black cloak, his face barely visible beneath the hood.

The last was dressed comfortably, with only his face concealed.

All seven sat at the points of a heptagram, with the man lying at the centre of the star.

Soon they began chanting a poem.

A poem written in a language only known to them. When the chanting stopped, the chapel fell silent. The man at the centre began to move unusually. His vision burned, heat flooding his eyes— and then they ignited, painting the chapel walls with a dark shade of red.

The last thing he saw before dying was the faces of the strangers in the chapel. Everybody present in the chapel waited for this moment.

A smile spread across their faces, their hearts overflowing with joy to witness their gods for the very first time.

—————————————————

A short, middle-aged dwarf was running through the heavy downpour, searching for cover and finding none, as there were only shacks in the outer section of Graven. He had been running longer than he should have.

The dwarf slammed open the door of a tavern called the Midnight Fox.

“Pathetic rain god had to bless us just when I was hunting,” he cursed.

The tavern keeper greeted the dwarf while polishing the counter. He was thin and tall, wearing an apron over a brown shirt and pants. His hair was cut short, with visible dark circles and green pupils.

“Greetings, Willbore!” He paused for a moment, waiting for a reply.

“Greetings, Neil. Same as usual,” Willbore replied.

“I take it you had no luck with the hunt today?” Neil said as he served Willbore his usual drink.

“It had to rain right when I decided to go hunting,” Willbore sighed. “I swear if it happens again, I will give up hunting.”

Neil smiled a little, listening to his friend and the usual patron’s curses.

Willbore sat at the table in front of the counter and said, “Your work appears easy. I might start a tavern of my own soon.”

Neil’s smile grew faint. He picked up a mug on the counter and started cleaning it.

Willbore went silent after cursing for a minute.

Neil noticed his friend had not touched his drink.

“What happened, Will?” Neil asked.

“That ruined chapel on the outskirts,” Willbore said.

“What of it?” Neil met his eyes with a hint of coldness.

“I hear weird chanting coming from it every night I return from my hunt. I thought it was just in my mind, but today I spotted light coming from inside.”

Neil leaned in as Willbore spoke.

“I felt something while I was near it. Something is definitely wrong with that chapel. The sooner they raze it, the better.”

The mug in Neil’s hand slipped.

Neil bent down to pick it up.

Silence settled between them for a moment.

“I see you kept the painting,” Willbore turned towards it.

“I wonder who those seven Men are? ” Willbore sipped.

One month later.

Willbore was holed up inside his own house with tables and chairs piled against his door. Joining his palms together, he began praying to his god.

“Please leave…please leave…” his heartbeat was fast and loud enough that he could hear it.

As the loud metallic foot steps grew fainter with each passing second, Willbore breathed heavily. Finally, when he could no longer hear them, he sighed.

I need to leave Graven, he thought to himself.

He picked a chair up and set it beneath a ventilation gap. He climbed on top of the chair and peered outside. To his relief, there was no one outside except littered corpses and dried blood staining the stone road.

He began packing, taking only essentials. With a crossbow, a quiver of bolts, and a small one-handed axe, he prepared himself to leave. Without making a sound, he carefully cleared the furniture blocking his door.

He carefully opened the door and checked again; to his relief, there was no one outside. He slipped outside quietly and made his way toward the Midnight fox. On his way, he found human effigies burning on top of poles, with severed limbs arranged as a shrine beneath them. Horrified, he quickened his pace. Several makeshift walls using furniture and carts blocked his path, but since Dwarves were small, he was able to squeeze through narrow gaps in between them.

Soon, he made his way to the back door of Midnight Fox; to his surprise, the door was open. He crept in; it was in disarray, tables and chairs piled against the front door, broken bottles scattered across the ground. He quickly went down to the basement and pushed barrels of wine aside. A hatch door was beneath the barrels. He knocked on it, waiting for someone to reply.

“Who’s there?” Neil yelled.

“It’s me, your dumba-” before Willbore could finish it, Neil pulled him in.

“Will! Thank god you are alive,” Neil sighed.

“How did you get here?” Neil asked.

“It wasn’t that hard. There was no one except me on the streets,” Willbore replied.

Neil sat on top of a barrel and offered Willbore a bottle of wine that was resting on another barrel. Willbore, without wasting a minute, took it and finished the bottle without putting his head down.

“Thank you, Neil”, Willbore said.

“How is it outside…?” Neil asked.

Willbore remained quiet for a minute.

“Massacre,” he replied at last “, It’s a massacre out there, not even goblins do this to their enemies.”

“In a month?” Neil asked. “How could they?”

Both of them remained quiet for a minute. Neil joined his palms together and began chanting something.

Willbore had never familiarised himself with the ways of humans, so he could not understand the words Neil was speaking. Only this time it felt slightly different from his usual prayers.

He let Neil complete his prayers. Neil opened his eyes, looked straight at Willbore and said,

“We need to leave this city.”

Neil quickly packed the essentials, with Willbore helping him.

“Your wine?” Willbore asked.

“I can’t take it with me,” Neil replied, looking at the wine bottles with a noticeable hint of sadness in his eyes.

Willbore knew how precious the wine was for Neil. Life comes first, he thought, feeling sad for his friend.

They both left the Midnight fox through the back door and made their way toward the back gate of Graven, and decided to climb, as the outer wall was not tall. They carried a rope and a pair of pickaxes and made their way to the back gate.

Surprisingly, there was no one in their path. Willbore found this suspicious and shared his concern with Neil.

“Where are the guards?” Willbore said.

“What?” Neil asked.

“There are no guards. Don’t you think it’s suspicious?” Willbore replied.

Neil looks around and says.

“Look, the gate is near,” Neil points to the gate “Let’s just get out of here. We’ll think about what happened later.”

As they drew closer to the gate, Willbore began to feel sleepy; his body was giving up.

Wake up, he thought. He tried his best to stay up, but his thoughts grew heavy and unfocused.

Three days, he stayed awake for the last three days. No matter how hard he tried, his strength failed him, and he fell on to the ground.

Willbore slowly opened his eyes. The altar in front of him and the statue looming behind made him realise he was no longer outside; he was inside the Graven chapel.

Willbore still don’t come to his senses when a raspy, commanding voice begins to speak.

He could not understand the words spoken by the stranger; he tried to focus on the speaker, but the darkness inside the chapel made it hard.

The stranger in front of the altar turned and began walking toward him. He was draped in bones and blood.

Soon, Willbore found his arms and legs tied together with a single rope, forcing him to kneel.

The figure began speaking, this time it was in the common tongue.

“You are not the first to try to escape, and you will not be the last.”

“Wh-Who?” Willbore asked.

He squinted, trying to focus on the stranger in front of him—a face pale as a ghost, cloaked in dark red robes, bones draped around his neck and waist. His eyes widened as realisation struck him. It was the stranger that brought chaos to the city, The self proclaimed herald of the gods who appeared a year ago.

“You thought you could escape terror?” the Herald asked.

“Escape and go where?” he paused.

“All the cities in Erenare are corrupted,” the Herald said.

Willbore’s face went pale. He is lying… right? Erenare was vast; how could it descend into such madness in a single month?

“The unnatural killings across Erenare,” the Herald paused, “it was us. We spread the fear among you mortals, and when the time was right, we extended our arms—and you gladly took them.”

“Do you want to know the truth?” the Herald looked into Willbore’s eyes and asked.

“Mortals are weak, Willbore.”

He paused.

“You hunted because you feared hunger. You drank because you feared loneliness. You ran because you feared death. And you pray because you fear being alone.”

The Herald leaned closer.

“Fear walks with mortals in every step of their lives. The same fear that drove your friend to us.”

Willbore noticed he was alone. Neil was not with him.

“Where is—”

“Your companion?” the Herald finished for him.

“Your companion was the one who brought you here.”

Willbore’s eyes widened once more. The shattered bottles across the tavern were empty, without a single stain of wine on the floor. Now he understood why Neil had never taken his wine bottles with him.

“Why? What did you do to him?” Willbore growled.

“He accepted the blessing of terror long ago,” the Herald replied. “He feared his business was growing stagnant. I personally helped him.”

"Your friend... values you more than you know." Herald paused. “He betrayed you to give you a chance.”

Willbore gritted his teeth. He tried praying to his god.

No—it can’t be, he thought.

He recalled every prayer he had ever spoken. Every memory of visiting temples flashed through his mind.

“Terror is inevitable,” the Herald paused.

“You can accept it when it comes to claim your life, or you can embrace it and become its embodiment.”

Silence followed.

He repeated his prayers, hoping someone would answer him.

But silence followed.

Willbore stared into the darkness without uttering a word.

Herald kneels and places his arm on Willbore’s shoulder.

“Join us, and I will make sure Archdevil Pavourus himself will grant you your wishes.”

What if he is right? A thought appeared in his mind.

Willbore felt different. He felt it was his, but at the same time, it was different.

What if I make the wrong choice and die for nothing? He tried to silence his thoughts, but failed.

All your life, you have worked hard to be noticed by your family, but they ignored you. Now the chance to prove yourself is right in front of you. The thought lingered.

The Herald cut his bonds and gently lifted Willbore.

“Join us, Willbore.”

The Herald extended his arm. Willbore stood there motionless for a moment.

Hesitantly, he extended his arm and took it.

With the arrival of the Heralds of Ruin, the Third Great War had begun.