GODFORGED

The night was too quiet.

The village beyond The Last Mountain was used to the howling winds and the distant cries of beasts lurking in the wilderness. But tonight, there was nothing—no rustling of leaves, no chirping insects. Only silence.

Elder Varen stood at the entrance of his home, gripping the wooden staff that had guided him for decades. His tired eyes scanned the darkness beyond the torches lining the village's outskirts. Something was wrong.

A soft murmur echoed through the streets, whispers slithering through the air. Not the voice of any villager—but something else. Unseen. Watching.

Then the torches flickered. One by one, the flames dimmed, swallowed by an unnatural darkness.

A child screamed.

Varen turned, his old bones protesting, and saw the villagers pouring into the center of the square, eyes darting in every direction. Shadows pooled at the edges of the village like ink bleeding into the earth. Then, they moved.

Figures in black cloaks emerged from the darkness, their faces hidden beneath deep hoods. They walked as if gliding, their steps making no sound. The whispers grew louder, pressing into the minds of the villagers like unseen hands.

A man stepped forward, his voice firm despite the fear in his eyes. "Who are you?"

The answer came not in words, but in action. One of the cloaked figures raised a hand, and the man was yanked into the air, his body twisting unnaturally before he was hurled into the side of a house. His lifeless form crumpled to the ground.

Panic erupted.

Screams filled the village as people ran, grabbing whatever they could—pitchforks, knives, makeshift weapons. But deep down, they knew none of it would matter.

"Inside! Everyone inside!" Elder Varen shouted, forcing himself to move despite his aching limbs.

But his son, Rhyken, didn't run.

The young man stood his ground, his sword already drawn. His father's words were distant noise—his focus was on the enemy before him.

His mana flared, reinforcing his body, making his muscles harder, his movements sharper. He had trained his entire life for moments like this—to protect, to fight. And now, it was time.

One of the cloaked figures stepped forward. Unlike the others, he carried no visible weapon. He didn't need one.

Rhyken tightened his grip and launched forward, his blade singing through the air. He aimed for the figure's throat—a single, clean strike.

But the Forsaken moved.

Not dodging. Not blocking. Just… shifting.

The attack that should have struck true sliced through empty air as the Forsaken reappeared a step away, untouched.

Rhyken barely had time to react before a cold hand shot forward, grabbing his wrist. Pain flared as the grip tightened, something seeping into his flesh. His mana resisted, but whatever force the Forsaken wielded was different—it didn't clash with his power, it devoured it.

With a sharp pull, the Forsaken wrenched Rhyken off balance. He staggered, but twisted, using the momentum to swing again. His sword met resistance—he had cut something.

For the first time, the hooded figure paused. A thin line of black dripped from its sleeve, though whether it was blood was unclear. The villagers watching held their breath. Had he hurt it?

Then, the Forsaken laughed. A hollow, distorted sound that sent chills through the crowd.

Rhyken growled and charged again, but this time, the Forsaken didn't move.

A shadow erupted from its form, slamming into Rhyken's chest. He gasped as the force knocked him back, his feet barely skidding to a stop before another tendril of darkness lashed out. He managed to dodge the first strike, but not the second.

The shadow wrapped around his leg, yanking him downward. His body slammed into the ground, the impact rattling his bones. Before he could recover, the Forsaken was upon him, gripping his throat.

Rhyken gasped, his reinforced body shaking under the unnatural weight pressing down on him. His mana flickered, struggling to resist the cold invading his veins.

"You are weak," the Forsaken whispered, its voice layered, as if spoken by many.

Rhyken's vision blurred. His body refused to move.

The last thing he saw was his father's face, eyes wide in horror, before the Forsaken crushed his throat.

The villagers screamed.

Elder Varen's knees hit the ground, his staff slipping from his fingers. His son—his strong, brave son—lay motionless, his sword inches from his lifeless hand.

The Forsaken turned back to the village.

"Take the child."

The villagers recoiled, parents clutching their children tightly. But the Forsaken already knew who they wanted.

A girl, no older than six, stood frozen near the elder's home. She hadn't run, hadn't cried. She had only stared.

One of the cloaked figures reached out, and she stepped forward—not forced, not taken, but willingly.

"No—NO!" A woman, her mother, screamed. She lunged, but a shadow struck her down, leaving her gasping for breath.

Elder Varen tried to rise, but his limbs felt like lead. The other villagers, too afraid to move, could only watch as the Forsaken took the girl's hand and led her away, vanishing into the night.

The village was silent once more.

But this time, it was not the silence of peace. It was the silence of loss, of dread, of something far worse than death settling into their bones.

For The Forsakens had come. And they had only just begun