PROLOGUE

The night was black as pitch. Selen rushed through the burning city, her cohort of knights right behind her. They all wore the silver armor and blue frills of the Eastern Empire, though, unlike their usual pristine state, the accouterments were stained with soot and blood. The fight for the city was both brutal and intense, with the usually demoralized Southerners fighting with renewed vigor. Their morale was boosted by their string of victories to the north, as well as the presence of their empire’s new champion: a vile, merciless killer who wielded the black Witch Arm.

Although it was unknown if that foreign devil was even in the city, she would be prepared to face him nonetheless. As the bearer of Evelyn the Willow, she was the only one in Eastern’s entire military capable of holding him back. 

She and her retinue came to a stop near a cross street. From the lights of the streetlamps, she was able to see an obstruction up ahead. A small group of Southern militia men had erected a ramshackle wall made of wagons and bits of wood. They stood behind their barrier, crossbows at the ready, waiting for any Eastern forces to come their way. 

It would have been a costly endeavor to assault the barricade in force. Conversely, going around the position would be a waste of valuable time given how intricate the streets of this city were. Thankfully, Selen didn’t need to resort to either of those choices.

She hoisted up the glaive she carried in her right hand and aimed its sharp tip towards the barrier. Evelyn the Willow. It was a beautiful weapon, it's color green as grass and constructed completely from an unknown mystical metal. Selen clutched the haft tightly and began concentrating. Focusing her will on the weapon’s emerald blade, it began to softly glow an eerie green. The absent wind suddenly appeared, flowing swiftly through the streets and alleys until it became a gale blowing from all sides of the knight. 

The enemy on the other side of the wall saw what she was doing and began to panic. A few of them shot their crossbows at her, but with Selen being out of range combined with the swirling winds, the bolts didn’t even come close to hitting her. 

Selen let out a soft breath which seemed to act as a signal. Within a second’s passing, an impossible gust of wind shot out from the glaive towards the wall. The wind was so condensed and concentrated that it was visible to the naked eye, looking like a sideways-swirling cyclone that snaked through the air and smashed into the makeshift wooden barrier. The carts, boxes, and other debris were sent flying, as did the men who were seeking cover behind them. The unfortunate souls flew through the air and landed heavily onto the hard cobblestones of the street. Some were lucky and able to get to their feet quickly; others less so, suffering broken bones and fractures that took away their ability to fight. Many still remained unmoving where they lay.

Selen and her knights didn’t wait for the enemy to regroup. They rushed forwards while the militiamen were in disarray, swords swiftly cutting down those that were still standing. The clang of weaponry was heard, as were the screams when blade met flesh. Selen faced off against a militia member who ran at her with his sword raised, but a quick slash from Evelyn’s emerald blade bisected both the man and his weapon.

She turned to see her men finishing off the last of the standing militia before going after the wounded. She frowned and looked away. Selen never liked killing those incapable of defending themselves, but knew it was necessary. If they were to rejoin their side the enemy priests could heal them. Then, in a few days’ time, the men would be battle-ready, fit enough to meet her own forces once more. 

“Let’s hurry,” she told her knights. “Captain val Huyden’s forces will require assistance if his last message was accurate.”

After finishing off the last of the wounded militiamen, Selen quickly rushed off, leading her knights forward. The Easterners, as swiftly as their heavy armor allowed, ran down several city blocks before coming to a street corner. The group turned into the adjacent street, then stopped dead in their tracks.

Littering the thoroughfare were bodies clothed in the same blue and silver as their own. They all lay dead, both knights and infantry, with swords, spears, daggers, and other myriad armaments impaled into their bodies. The weapons stood tall upon the dead, looking like grave markers for the fallen. 

Selen let out a small gasp. It was as if a vast rain of weaponry had fallen from the sky to kill the dozens of men and women laying there, pooling blood soaking the cobblestones red. 

What was truly frightening was the color of the weaponry. All of them, from the blades of the swords to the hafts of the spears, were black.

“It’s him,” Selen heard one of her men mutter, his voice utterly filled with terror.

Directly ahead of them, standing tall among the dead, was a black-clothed figure. A heavy cloak covered most of his body, and the night’s shadows obscured his features. But the moonlight allowed Selen to see directly into his eyes. 

It was him. The black-eyed monster. The Butcher of Armen Field. The Killer of Heroes.

It was the Witchbound.