Kyra spat on the frozen earth, the ball of saliva freezing solid before shattering on the ground. The dead of her tribe worked tirelessly about her as she supervised the destruction of yet another trace of Nagash’s corruption. The ossified spire crumbled under the claws of her tribe’s ancestors, rendered into calcified debris before the shadow of the God Beast Rymrgand. Kyra stood unimpressed and bored by such petty acts.
The youngest of four daughters of the clan matron, Kyra was little better than another clanswoman, and had she no talent or ambitions she would continue to lead the honored dead of her tribe to commit more petty vandalism until she too numbered in their ranks. Her eldest sister, Helga, was a skilled and driven fighter who had long gained the favor of their God Rymrgand and had been given many boons to better serve him. Valda, the second daughter, was as much a scholar as she was a warrior. And Khraha, the third sister, was in no way as accomplished as her elders still commanded the loyalty and respect of her tribe like no other.
But in this contest of her elders, Kyra was not unarmed. For while she lacked the martial prowess, sorcerer skill, or raw charisma of her sisters, she did possess something of great value. An insight into the mind of the God Beast Rymrgand. He would come to her in whispers when she prayed to him in the deepest shadows beneath the beast. He had told her of a weapon, one that held an aspect of the world ender and who would grant her the power she needed to eclipse her sisters and ascend to the mantle of leadership that had always been rightfully hers.
Beneath the bones of the fallen monument to Nagash, a glint of dark iron caught Kyra’s attention. The hilt of a long-buried weapon sang out to her like the screams of her infant brothers beneath the ritual knife. She strode out, her hand reaching for the weapon even as the unholy choir became a cacophony of tormented wails. When her fingers touched the grip of the weapon, the world fell silent around her. For a moment, all there was in all the realms was the cool assurance of metal and the pounding of blood in her heart. Then there was a second pulse, a slow and steady rhythm out of sync with her own. Then a voice, as cold and biting as the winter wind. “Worthy champion, would you sever all bonds of family and clan in the service of a higher pursuit? To be The Harbinger of Entropy, and to be the Herald of the Conquerer?”
“I do,” replied Kyra, her soul willing and resolute.
“Then take me up champion, and claim your true destiny!” The weapon replied.
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Be’lakor permitted himself a chuckle as his hapless pawn gripped the hilt of the Demon Weapon Mamon. It had been a tricky task traping the daemon prince within the weapon, and more difficult still convincing the prideful creature to play along in the First Prince’s deception. But mortal ambitions and resentment were easy strings to play on, and even Mamon’s hamfisted deception was more than enough to have his newest pawn dancing to the right tune. But this was one of many mortals groomed and seeded across the realms in order to follow his instructions, only time would tell the value of this newest asset.
