Rook's warpath began with names—each etched in his mind like scars. The witch whispered their sins to him through dreams laced with blood. And so he hunted.
Lord Halvern, a glutton and coward, hid behind brocaded walls and the laughter of courtesans. Rook found him lounging in his perfumed gardens and left his entrails strewn across his marble fountain.
Baron Marthen, who had given the order to forge false testimony, was drunk when Rook came for him. The cellar flooded with wine turned red with his blood. His screams echoed through the barrels long after he drowned.
The twin magisters of Blackglass Keep, bound by forbidden pacts of their own, conjured storms and demons. But they had not bargained for Kharzug. Rook slew them beneath a blackened moon, and the tower cracked, crumbled, and collapsed into the sea.
With each kill, the demon axe pulsed brighter. It hungered, and Rook fed it. His hands grew steadier, his conscience duller. He dreamed no more. Only vengeance remained.
He became a myth whispers in the dark, a shadow in the blood. Lords doubled their guards. Villagers barred their doors. But no wall, no spell, no prayer could stop him.
Because the gods had left.
And Rook had taken their place.