Across the rubble-strewn wasteland beneath the shroud of night, countless black-robed figures silently walked in the same direction. Twilight Faint Light from some unseen dimension shone upon robes as dark as the night itself, surrounding these towering phantoms with an illusory radiance. They moved across the wilderness, gradually converging into rivers of twilight flowing through the darkness—until at last, those rivers reached the heart of the Deathlands and gathered around the funeral.
A Gate stood there, its triangular doors silent and solemn. At first, Duncan had thought it was a small hill, but in what felt like the blink of an eye, he arrived near it and saw how vast and towering it was, like another stretch of earth standing upright. The opening at the center of the triangle was tightly shut, covered in dark red vein-like patterns that bound it layer upon layer like chains.
The order of death had been locked away by this Gate, and the deity who had personally turned that lock now sat quietly upon a throne before it—far larger than Duncan had imagined, even taller than Tarquin. Though seated, that body was nearly the size of a house.
He wore a tattered robe black as night, wrapped in dark red thorns. Yet no face could be seen beneath the shadows of that robe, as though he had never possessed one at all, as though he were merely a dark silhouette outlined by cloth—just as the sacred texts of the Church of Death described:
Death was a faceless shadow, hidden within a coat called darkness. This shadow was everywhere, and when you saw him, he saw you as well.
But now, this faceless shadow of death was dead. A crooked, sharp dagger like some alien thorn had pierced his chest, nearly pinning him to that