It hunts for pleasure. For sport.
I hunt to put an end to the suffering his victims endure.
Night has fallen. The sky above stretches dark and vast. The old gods—the watchers, now bound to the constellations—peer down through drifting clouds. The few with power enough to claim their place among the stars.
With the ash driven from this part of the world, their distant resting places are visible once more. And still, they remain as ever—silent. Indifferent.
Mardoch gallops even onward, but the tension in his body grows, and his wariness to proceed tells me we are close. That whatever we face is no soulless thing.
The stench thickens as we near a small, ramshackle town. It clings to the air, heavy enough to taste.
The cries—high, feminine—never cease. Many have reached me through the night, a barrage of terror and pain. Pleas torn from raw throats, offered to anyone listening, begging for mercy as if they knew I was coming.
The creature’s malevolence presses against my power—not recklessly, but with intent. It tests. Measures. Probes the edges of what I am, searching for weakness—something to exploit.
It sensed me some time ago and has been anticipating my arrival.
That becomes more evident when I reach the cluster of homes and find it waiting.
It steps from the shadows with two women held fast in its grasp. One, it casts forward harshly, her body striking the ground between us with three sharp, distinct cracks. Bones give way under the force. She goes limp instantly—broken, lifeless—her soul tearing free in the same moment before her last breath has passed her lips.
What remains lies twisted where it fell. Naked skin marred with bruises, torn skin, and darkened handprints that mar flesh.
The act is deliberate. A welcome gift and a clear sign of what he’s capable of.
“It’s a pity your god made them so easy to break. Don’t you agree? Toys are much more fun to play with when they're not so fragile.”
I mask my revulsion as I slip from the saddle and, with a few quiet words, send Mardoch from this place.
I disguise my visage, draw back my hood, and let my cloak fall away. “What it looks like is you’ve come to a plane you don’t belong in and need assistance finding your way back to Hell.”
The creature laughs as he stands bare before me. He’s massive—easily a head taller than I am. Power is built into him, thick muscle corded beneath dark, unyielding skin. His flaccid length hangs between those corded thighs, matted with drying blood.
Scores of shallow marks line his torso—failed attempts from those who tried to fight back. Their nails weren’t nearly sharp enough to pierce the thickness of his hide.
An Underworld Lord, by the looks of him. A species I know well… though not this one in particular.
His head is crowned with horns—long, curved ones and shorter, jagged protrusions—jutting from a ridged, armored skull, the bone running down the bridge of his nose. His skin does not resemble flesh. It’s more a mix between charred stone and aged leather, scarred and textured as if shaped by endless torment.
His eyes burn white in the darkness.
Not reflecting light—producing it.
Born and bred for a single purpose: to torment, to guard, to break what passes through Hell’s keeping.
A beast wearing the shape of a man.
One who smiles as if delighted by my arrival.
“Help! Please!” the woman sobs.
Striding forward, he drags her across the ground, fist tangled in her hair. When he stops, he forces her down onto her knees before him. She’s facing me with soot, dirt, and blood cake on her skin. Her face is a patchwork of bruises. One side of her face is a bloody mess, swelling where there’s fractured bone.
Her breathing is labored—each inhale takes effort. Her heartbeat, though thunderous, weakens with every passing second.
“The Harbinger is not here to save you,” he growls, his voice deep enough that it travels across the ruined ground and vibrates in my chest.
He tilts his horned head, studying me. “Are you?”
