Night draped itself over Velmire Reach like mourning cloth, its silence broken only by the crunch of armored boots over cracked stone. The land bore the scars of an old battle—forgotten by most, but never forgiven by the world.
Five knights moved swiftly beneath the stars, armour-clad shadows bearing the crest of the Moon Division, the division of stealth and recon. Each one a master of the blade, trained in the arts of war and will.
They had followed rumors here—fragments of stories whispered through burned villages and half-mad survivors. Disappearances. Twisted bodies. Hooded figures murmuring in dead tongues.
A name kept surfacing, spoken only in fear:
The Cult of Nullum.
Said to have risen from the ashes of the Doomsday event twenty years ago—the day the world cracked and and almost ended—the cult was more than myth now. They were movement. They were shadow.
"The air's still," muttered Ser Veldran, the squad captain, drawing his blade. "I don't like it."
"It's always still near graveyards," said another.
Then they saw them.
A cluster of robed figures stood ahead, gathered in a perfect circle around an obsidian stone etched with runes. Their chants were quiet, yet the earth seemed to hum in response.
But something was off. They seemed to be stalling, putting up an act. A knight's intuition was almost always right... and Veldran's screamed at him that something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
"Steady," Veldran ordered. "On my mark, we—"
Steel hissed.
A sharp gasp tore the night open.
Veldran staggered forward, blood gurgling from his mouth as he turned.
Behind him stood Ser Garrick—his comrade, his sworn brother—blade plunged into Veldran's back.
"…Garrick?" someone whispered.
"I've seen the truth," Garrick replied, voice empty of regret.
It was a planned set up.
The cultists attacked in unison. Three knights fought with fury, but it wasn't enough. Their enemies wielded warped mana and unnatural strength—this was no battlefield. This was a culling.
One knight's blade carved a deep gash across Garrick's face before he fell. The traitor winced, blood painting his cheek, but did not fall.
Silence reclaimed the woods.
Garrick stepped forward, joining the cult's ranks. His breath was ragged, his eyes—certain.
"This was the first step," a hooded figure said. "The knights fall first."
"Then the mages," another intoned. "Then the kings."
A third voice, older, cracked and calm:
"And when the world has lost its light… we will undo the Star Seal—and release Him."
"The God of Unbeing."
"Nullum."
The words echoed, not through the forest—but through something deeper.
And somewhere, far from the bloodied stones of Velmire Reach, the ashes of Doomsday began to stir once again...