The wizard tilted his head, the brim of his wide, weathered hat casting a shadow over eyes that glinted like chipped obsidian. “Do you know the tale of Drusia?” His voice rasped, low and deliberate, cutting through the cave’s damp stillness.

The girl, crouched by a sputtering fire, snapped her gaze up from the embers. Her dirt-streaked face tightened, and she shook her head sharply. “I’ve no time for tales, old man. We need to move—now.” Her fingers gripped the hilt of a chipped dagger, restless.

A dry chuckle rumbled from the wizard’s chest as he raised a battered tin cup to his lips, taking a slow, deliberate swig. The scent of sour wine mingled with the smoke. “Oh, you’ll want this one, girl,” he said, wiping his mouth with a sleeve tattered by years of wandering. “It’s no mere story—it’s the key to our fight.” Her eyes narrowed, annoyance flaring, but she gave a curt nod, slumping back against the cave wall.

With a flick of his gnarled hand, the air shimmered, and a vision unfurled like a tapestry woven from mist and flame. The wizard’s voice deepened, weaving the scene with the cadence of a storm gathering strength.

“Beneath the towering Ziggurat of Urun, where a blood-red sun scorched the cracked plains of Kishara, an ancient people teetered on the edge of oblivion. The Kisharans—masters of clay tablets and worshippers of the star-crowned sky—once ruled a land of shimmering bounty. Along the Tira River’s winding banks, their cities rose, mud-brick spires piercing the heavens, canals glinting like veins of liquid starlight. But a century ago, the demons clawed their way into the world, birthed from the Nether Rift—a gaping wound in the earth, black and jagged, a scar the gods themselves had forsaken. Horned fiends with molten-bronze eyes and claws that rent stone asunder torched villages to ash, gorged on screaming herds, and dragged wailing souls into the abyss below. The Kisharans met them with bronze-tipped spears and desperate hymns to Enzu, their sky-god, but their legions thinned, their prayers swallowed by a wind that carried only the stench of sulfur. Hope flickered, frail as a dying ember in a storm.”

Drusia was born under a blood moon, her mother a priestess of Enzu named Lirath, her father unknown—or so the whispers claimed. Her skin shimmered faintly, a silvery hue no human bore, and her left eye burned amber while the right gleamed blue. The elders called her a gift, a bridge between worlds, for she could hear the demons’ guttural tongues and sense their approach through the earth’s tremors. At nineteen, she stood tall and wiry, her black hair braided with bone beads, a bronze dagger at her hip. The Kisharans revered her, naming her their Blade of Dawn, the one who would lead them against the infernal tide.

The war council gathered in the ziggurat’s sanctum, its walls etched with cuneiform hymns. Drusia faced the elders—grey-bearded High Priest Tamuz, warrior-chief Keshar, and the seeress Ninra, whose blind eyes saw beyond flesh. “The Rift widens,” Ninra rasped, her voice like wind over sand. “The demons mass beneath the Black Mesa. We strike now, or Kishara falls.” Tamuz clutched his staff, its lapis head glinting. “Drusia, you’ve tracked their lord, Zaruthrax. Can you slay him?” She nodded, her amber eye flickering. “I feel his pulse in the stone. I’ll end him.”

The Kisharans marched at dusk, five hundred strong—spearmen, archers, and priests chanting Enzu’s name. Drusia led them across the dunes, her senses guiding them to the mesa, a slab of obsidian jutting from the desert. The air reeked of sulfur as the demons emerged: hulking brutes with spiked tails, shrieking harpies with talon-wings, and Zaruthrax himself, a towering figure wreathed in shadow, his horns curling like a ram’s. His voice boomed, “Mortals, your blood will seal the Rift anew!”

Battle erupted. Bronze clashed with claw, arrows pierced leathery hides, and priests summoned gusts of divine wind. Drusia danced through the chaos, her dagger flashing, severing demon throats with uncanny precision. The Kisharans rallied behind her, their cries of “Blade of Dawn!” echoing as she carved a path to Zaruthrax. She leapt, driving her blade into his chest. Black ichor sprayed, and he fell, his roar fading into silence. The demons shrieked and fled, the Rift’s glow dimming. Victory seemed theirs.

But as the Kisharans cheered, Drusia stood over Zaruthrax’s corpse, her breathing ragged, her silver skin pulsing faintly. Keshar approached, grinning. “You’ve saved us, girl!” She turned, her amber eye blazing, and without a word, plunged her dagger into his heart. He crumpled, shock frozen on his face. The warriors faltered, Ninra’s blind gaze snapping toward her. “Drusia, what—?”

“I am no savior,” she said, her voice doubling, a demonic timbre threading through it. She raised her hands, and the Rift flared anew, wider, brighter. Demons poured forth—not fleeing, but summoned. “You thought me your weapon, but I am their herald. Zaruthrax was a pawn. I am the key.”

Tamuz staggered forward, staff trembling. “Half-demon… we trusted you!” Drusia’s lips curled, a bitter smile. “My mother prayed to Enzu for a child, but it was a demon lord, Varkhul, who answered—siring me in secret. I’ve walked your world, felt your fear, your weakness. The demons promised me a throne, not a cage. Kishara’s blood will birth their dominion—and mine.”

The truth crashed like a tidal wave. Drusia had played them all, her half-human heart masking a darker will. She’d led the Kisharans to kill Zaruthrax not to save them, but to clear her path, to claim the Rift’s power for herself. Ninra lunged, chanting a banishment, but Drusia’s hand shot out, snapping the seeress’s neck with inhuman strength. The priests fell, the warriors broke, and the demons swarmed, their laughter a cacophony.

As the ziggurat burned in the distance, Drusia stood atop the mesa, the Rift’s light bathing her in crimson. Her blue eye wept a single tear—her human half mourning what she’d forsaken—but her amber eye glowed with triumph. She was no longer the Blade of Dawn, but the Ashen Veil, the bringer of ruin. The ancient civilization crumbled beneath her, and from its ashes, she would rule—a queen of dust and flame, half-human, half-demon, wholly betrayed by her own divided soul”

The images dissolved in thin air and the wizard sighed. “This is our journey, to rid the world of this demonic force.”