Darkness blanketed the ruins of the Bleeding Spire. Smoke curled from the crumbled remnants, spiraling toward the night sky like the last breath of something ancient. 

And through the settling dust, they arrived.

Four shadows, silent as death. 

The Harbingers. 

They did not move as one. They did not need to. Each was a force of destruction on their own. But tonight, their paths converged—because tonight, the Masquerade had spoken. 

Their prey was marked. 

The Widow

A figure stepped lightly over the shattered stone, the hem of her dark gown trailing like ink. The Widow moved with the grace of a specter, her twin blades glinting in the faint moonlight. 

She knelt, running a gloved hand along the scorched earth where the sigil’s power had last pulsed. It was still warm, the residue of magic humming beneath her fingertips. 

"Still fresh," she murmured. "They were here moments ago." 

Her mask—a widow’s face carved from polished obsidian—tilted slightly. She could feel the remnants of a struggle. The energy in the air was erratic, panicked. 

"Mm. They ran." 

A pause. 

"And when they run, they bleed." 

Her fingers traced the faintest smear of blood among the rubble. A single drop. Barely noticeable. 

But to her? 

A trail. 

A promise. 

She smiled beneath her mask. 

The Hound 

A low growl rumbled through the wreckage. 

The Hound towered over the ruins, a monstrous figure clad in heavy plated armor. His helmet bore no eye slits—only the snarling maw of a wolf, frozen in an eternal snarl. 

He inhaled deeply, the scent of blood, dust, and desperation curling into his lungs. 

"They went west," he rumbled. His voice was a storm, deep and grating. "Fell into the river." 

His hand flexed, gauntleted fingers curling into a fist. 

"They’ll come up somewhere downstream." 

The Widow gave a quiet laugh, rising to her feet. "Then we already know where to wait." 

The Revenant 

A whisper of wind carried something colder. 

The Revenant stood at the edge of the ruins, his form half-lost in the shifting shadows. He did not move like the others. He barely seemed real. 

His presence clawed at the air, distorting the world around him. The remnants of his last breath lingered in the cold. 

"The river won’t save them," he murmured, tilting his head. 

He could see it. 

Not the future. Not exactly. 

But the threads of what could be. The fractures of choice, of inevitability. 

Sioux and Caedric, dragging themselves from the water, exhausted. Vulnerable. 

He exhaled slowly, fingers twitching as if grasping something just beyond reach. 

"They will surface soon." 

His voice was distant, hollow. "And when they do…" 

The shadows pulsed around him, dark tendrils curling at his feet. 

"I will be there." 

The Ashen Saint 

Through the wreckage, a figure in white stood untouched. 

The Ashen Saint was still. Serene. 

His robes remained pristine, untouched by the dust or soot that clung to everything else. His mask—a smooth, featureless face of a saint—reflected the dying light. 

He did not chase. He did not run. 

Because fire does not chase. 

It waits.

And when it reaches you, there is no escape. 

His hands remained at his sides, but the air around him burned. 

"The bloodline must be erased," he whispered, his voice a gentle prayer. 

A single ember flickered at his fingertips. It pulsed once—twice—before vanishing into the night. 

But the fire had already started.   

A gust of wind howled through the ruins, carrying away the last echoes of the Bleeding Spire. 

The Harbingers did not need to speak further. 

They had their orders. 

They had their scent. 

And now—they moved.