The shadows did not arrive with fire and brimstone. They seeped silently through the fractures between worlds like ink in water—hungry, patient, inevitable.
At first, they called themselves The Reflected—beings woven from cursed energy, born of humanity's sins and forgotten nightmares.
They did not attack; not at first.
Instead, they Bargained.
In the shadowed halls of power, the ruling class, lured by promises of unimaginable strength, welcomed the shadows into their lands—forgotten ruins, cursed forests, and the dark hollows beneath their cities. The shadows adapted, twisting themselves to match their new domains. A desert shadow transformed into a swirling storm of sand, scorching flesh from bone. A frost-lord's breath turned villages to glassy tombs, freezing families in eternal dread. With each passing season, they grew stronger, feeding on the fear they cultivated like a crop.
When the first killings occurred, the nobles dismissed them as unfortunate accidents. When entire towns vanished overnight, the clergy declared it divine punishment for humanity's sins. But the truth was far worse than they could fathom.
Ravenous for power, the nobles and priests struck unholy bargains. The shadows offered The Blessing of the Vein—a dark ritual that fused cursed energy with mortal blood. Those who accepted gained strength and agelessness, but they also awakened a relentless hunger. The Vein-Touched lords, now more shadow than man, began hunting their own people, while the clergy preached that the shadows were "divine judges, purging the unworthy."
Then the war came.
Corrupted nobles and priests, their bodies threaded with blackened veins, turned against the last free kingdoms. Armies marched, but they were met with slaughter, and the cries of the fallen echoed in the air like a haunting melody. The final stand was led by a nameless emperor, the last uncorrupted ruler. He fought until his sword shattered against the obsidian fangs of a shadow prince. His last act was not one of victory, but of defiance, as he turned to stone. His final words etched themselves into the wind:
"Until next time."
The last thing he heard before darkness took him was Shadow Lord's laughter:
"Sleep well, Emperor. When you wake... you'll beg to join us."
When the shadows claimed the world, a prophecy was carved into the ruins in a language only the damned could read:
"When the dagger of the betrayed finds his hand, the Stone will wake."
And somewhere, in the dark, a blade began to rust with blood not yet spilled.
For centuries, men had vanished searching for the dagger. Some said it was a fool's errand. Others whispered it was better to die seeking it than live under the Vein-Touched.
The dagger was no ordinary weapon. Legends spoke of its forging—a shard of the emperor's shattered sword, reforged in the heart of a dying star, quenched in the tears of the last free souls. It was said to hunger for shadow-flesh, its edge whispering forgotten truths to those who dared wield it.
But the shadows knew. They watched. They waited.
And in the deepest dark, where even the Vein-Touched feared to tread, something stirred.
The Stone Emperor's fingers twitched.
The dagger's rust flaked away.
And the war—the true war—was about to begin.