Cyclus Mortis

The squelching of flesh. The clanging of iron. The screams of the fallen. This was the orchestra of war, and its conductor was Death.

Blood blurred Heinri’s vision, rolling down onto his parched lips. As corpses sunk into the mud, the ashen sky burned a gradient of despair. The smell of smoke and putrescence was obtrusive.

A tall man clad in a black cloak stood upon a hill of gore. Looking down onto Heinri, he watched with a viridian gaze.

Wielding a crimson stained blade, he spoke.

“In justice death is absolute: unwavering, indiscriminate. The heart of man is feeble, nothing more than silver-laced words fallen upon eager ears. As the pestilence of corruption lingers, our endeavours are worms struggling against the current of fate. Warrior. Puppet. Murderer before me, what is the difference between us and beasts?”

Tightening the grip on his straight-sword, Heinri marched towards the Viridian King. Each step heavier than the last, he approached.

‘Onwards.’

“Cyclus mortis,” Heinri muttered to himself as he raised his blade. As he began to sink into the sea of dirt and blood, he felt something visceral beckon to him in the depths of his mind.

Do not seek the key.

Do not seek the key.

Do not seek the key.

The dreamer awoke, yet the words lingered like a whisper behind his thoughts.