The Black Bastion sat upon the jagged spine of the World’s Edge like a rotting iron crown. For three centuries, it had stood as the absolute boundary between the realm of men and the screaming abyss known as the Maw. It was a place of exile, a fortress manned by the disgraced and the damned. But for the last six months, no ravens had flown from its towers. No supply caravans had returned. There was only silence, thick and suffocating.
Inquisitor Vaelen trudged up the winding, treacherous mountain path, his heavy iron boots crunching against the frozen earth. But it was not snow that blanketed the ground; it was ash. A perpetual, grey snowfall drifted down from the blackened sky, smelling of sulfur and burnt sugar. It coated Vaelen’s silver-chased armor and collected in the folds of his crimson cloak. He gripped the haft of his weapon—the heavy, rune-inscribed mace known as Penance—and approached the colossal iron gates of the Bastion.
The gates were sealed, but not by lock and key. A thick, pulsating webbing of pale flesh and hardened cartilage had grown over the iron hinges, sealing the gap. Veins as thick as a man’s wrist throbbed with a sickly, golden light.
Vaelen did not flinch. As an Iron Inquisitor, he had waded through the blood of heretics and cults of the outer dark. He raised his gauntlet, murmuring an incantation of purification. His hand ignited with a cold, white flame. He pressed his burning palm against the fleshy barrier. The biomatter shrieked—a high, piercing sound like a boiling kettle—and withered away, turning into black soot.
Vaelen kicked the rusted doors inward and stepped into the main courtyard. The sight before him made his seasoned blood run cold.
The courtyard was littered with the remnants of the Bastion’s garrison, but they were not dead. They were kneeling in perfectly straight lines, facing the central keep. Their armor was fused to their bodies, the metal twisted and warped by explosive internal growth. From their backs sprouted grotesque wings—not of feathers, but of elongated, multi-jointed fingers and stretched, translucent skin.
“In the name of the High Pontiff, I command you to speak!” Vaelen’s voice boomed across the courtyard, echoing off the high stone walls.
The closest kneeling figure twitched. Its head slowly rotated a full one hundred and eighty degrees. The knight’s helmet visor had been shattered outward to accommodate a cluster of seven glowing, golden eyes of varying sizes. Black blood dripped from the breathing slits.
“We have tasted the sky,” the creature whispered, its voice a horrific harmony of three overlapping tones. “We are full.”
The creature rose, drawing a rusted broadsword that glowed with the same unnatural golden heat. The other kneeling figures remained perfectly still, locked in their blasphemous prayer. The mutated knight lunged at Vaelen with a speed that belied its heavy, fused armor.
Vaelen stepped inside the creature’s guard, bringing Penance up in a brutal, bone-shattering arc. The rune-carved mace slammed into the knight’s chest piece, caving in the iron and the mutated ribs beneath. Instead of red blood, a spray of searing, golden liquid erupted from the wound, sizzling violently where it struck the stone floor.
The creature did not scream. It simply swung its sword backward, catching Vaelen on the pauldron. The sheer force of the blow sent the Inquisitor skidding across the ash-covered courtyard. His shoulder went numb. These were no longer men; they possessed the strength of demons.
Vaelen recovered his footing, channeling his aura into his mace. The head of the weapon flared with holy white light. As the creature charged again, Vaelen threw himself to the side, sweeping the heavy mace in a low arc that shattered the knight’s knees. As the monstrosity fell, Vaelen brought the weapon down on its cluster of golden eyes, crushing the skull entirely.
The golden light within the corpse flickered and died. Vaelen stood panting, his silver armor stained with the creature’s glowing blood. The other knights in the courtyard had not moved, entirely unresponsive to the violence. Vaelen looked toward the heavy oak doors of the inner keep. The corruption had taken the garrison, but the source of the rot lay deeper. He tightened his grip on his mace and walked into the dark.
