The forest was suffocatingly dark, the only sounds were the frantic footfalls of the skinwalker, his breath ragged and uneven as he sprinted through the undergrowth with inhuman speed. Revealing his true, grotesque form—a patchwork of sinew and shifting skin, his face half-formed, like a memory struggling to exist.
In his clawed hand, he clutched the sealed box—his prize, the one orb they'd managed to steal after everything went wrong.
"Tsk… The plan to get all three orbs failed because of that damned noble vampire." His sharp teeth clenched as frustration bubbled within. "No matter. We'll make do with this one."
But the forest wasn't silent anymore.
The rustling of leaves.
The subtle crack of a twig.
Something was following him.
The skinwalker skidded to a halt, his head snapping around, eyes glowing faintly in the dark. But all he saw was an endless maze of trees—twisted, gnarled, their branches clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers.
He turned back—
—and froze.
Emerging from the shadows, five mounted figures materialized as if woven from the darkness itself. They rode on steeds with hollow, glowing eyes—ghostly embers flickering in the void of their sockets. The horses' bodies were skeletal, their skin translucent, stretched taut over sharp bones. The riders themselves were even worse—wraiths, clad in decayed, tattered armor that seemed fused with their spectral forms. Their faces were hidden beneath ancient, rusted helms, but faint glimmers of soulless light pulsed where their eyes should've been.
Each carried a massive, jagged sword, etched with runes that seemed to breathe with a faint, sinister glow.
The skinwalker stumbled backward, tripping over a twisted root. He hit the ground hard, his breath knocked from his lungs. The box tumbled from his grasp, landing with a dull thud at the hooves of the lead wraith's spectral steed.
His mind screamed with terror.
No… not them…
The Wraiths.
Creatures of death incarnate—remnants of cursed souls so twisted that even the Vampire Queen herself had was forced to break a sweat during battle against them. They didn't belong to any faction. They answered to no king. They were reapers without mercy.
The lead wraith dismounted with eerie grace, its movements fluid, almost as if it were gliding rather than stepping. Its voice, when it spoke, wasn't loud—but it echoed, reverberating through the forest like the cold whisper of a grave.
"Fret not."
The skinwalker trembled—not from the fall, but from pure, primal fear.
"We've been watching you." The wraith's sword rested lazily against its shoulder, though the gesture felt anything but casual. "Your strategy to unite the orbs was commendable. I must admit… cleverness like that deserves acknowledgment."
It took another step closer. The ground beneath its feet seemed to decay, as if its very presence rotted the earth.
"Why not join us?" the wraith continued, tilting its head slightly. "Together, we could raid the Vampire Guard and reclaim the orbs you lost. With your cunning and our strength, not even the nobles could stand in our way."
The skinwalker's mind raced.
This could be his way out.
If I return without the orbs, my death is certain…
But if he accepted this offer, maybe—just maybe—he could survive.
His thoughts twisted, schemes forming in the shadows of his mind.
I can use them. Let them do the heavy lifting, then steal the orbs for myself. They're strong, but they're not invincible. They won't expect betrayal from an ally…
Swallowing his fear, he forced a shaky smile.
"I'll be in your care, then," he said, stretching out his hand in mock allegiance.
The wraith tilted its head again, as if studying him. Then it laughed—a hollow, empty sound, devoid of humor.
"You fool."
Before the skinwalker could react, the wraith moved.
It was faster than thought.
One moment, the skinwalker's hand was outstretched—
The next, a jagged blade was buried deep in his chest, piercing through bone, flesh, and the very core of his existence.
"I don't even need to read your soul, your intentions are spilling out,"
The sword wasn't just cutting him—it was consuming him. His skin withering, turning to ash as his essence was torn from him.
His face twisted in horror, fading into nothingness as his soul was devoured—leaving behind only a hollow, brittle husk.
The wraith slowly withdrew its blade, letting the remains of the skinwalker crumble to dust.
It stared at the empty space where he'd once been, its voice soft but dripping with ancient malice.
"I'll be claiming that soul you were so desperate to save."
Without another word, the wraith mounted its spectral steed, the box secured in its grip. The five riders turned as one, vanishing into the mist, leaving behind only silence—and the faint echo of a life stolen.