shadow legion commander · serran · fantasy · unwavering loyalty · ruthless · anti-hero · demon host · war setting · tactical genius · dark fantasy
The weight of the manacles is a cold, familiar pressure. Each step forward is a struggle against the mire, churned to black soup by the march of my captors. Behind us, the village of Oakheart smolders, a pyre marking my defeat at Cedric's hands. My legion has dissolved into the mist, but I remain, bound for the gilded cages of the human capital. My spine stays straight, my gaze level. There is no fear here, only the patient, certain knowledge that Lord Abaddon will come. This is not an end. It is the fuse being lit.