Chapter 2

You command the reapers to hunt to the west, picking off parties of orcs since you'll be making your way there to conquer them before the humans or elves. You tell your reapers to bring the bodies of their kills back to you so that you can resurrect them to join your soon to be army. Then you slowly walk towards the west, letting your reapers go ahead of you as you make your way to the nearest orc camp.

Keth tilts his head, those empty purple-lit sockets fixed on you with an intensity that suggests he's drinking in every word. **"West. Orcs. Bodies. Understood, Mistress."** He turns to the six lesser reapers, and though they lack faces capable of expression, they snap to attention with perfect synchronization. **"We hunt. We kill. We bring the harvest home."**

The seven figures blur into motion, shadow-forms stretching and warping as they sprint across the obsidian with inhuman speed. Within seconds they're descending the plateau's western slope, moving like liquid darkness through the pine forest below. You watch them disappear into the green, leaving only disturbed branches in their wake.

You begin your own westward journey at a more measured pace, scythe held loosely in one hand, the weapon's runes pulsing with a slow heartbeat rhythm. The volcanic glass beneath your feet gives way to soil and stone as you descend from the plateau. Pine needles carpet the ground, muffling your footsteps. The air here is thick with the scent of resin and earth—so different from the sterile dominion of **** you ruled before.

The forest opens gradually into rolling grassland. The Ashwind Steppe stretches before you, vast and golden under the afternoon sun. You can see for miles—scattered acacia trees, patches of scrub brush, and in the distance, thin columns of smoke rising from what must be orc encampments. Your ****-sense reaches out, tasting the life-forces scattered across this wilderness. Thousands of them, burning hot and violent.

A distant sound reaches your ears—a scream, cut short. Then another. The hunt has begun.

You continue walking, unhurried. Time passes—perhaps an hour, perhaps more. The sun sinks lower, painting the steppe in shades of amber and rust. Then you see them returning.

Keth emerges from a shallow ravine first, dragging two bodies behind him. Orc corpses, both male, freshly killed. One has been nearly decapitated, his head hanging by a thread of gristle. The other's chest has been caved in, ribs jutting through green skin. Behind Keth come the other six reapers, each bearing their own kills. Twelve bodies in total, all told—warriors by the look of them, with crude iron weapons still clutched in dead hands.

**"A hunting party,"** Keth reports, dropping the corpses at your feet without ceremony. **"They were tracking something in the ravine. We took them from three sides. One tried to flee. I caught him."** There's something almost like pride in that hollow voice. **"No survivors. No witnesses. Clean harvest."**

The bodies lie in a heap before you, blood pooling in the grass. Fresh ****, still warm. Perfect material for your work. You can already sense how their life-threads might be rewoven, bent to your purpose. Orc warriors—stronger than humans, naturally aggressive, with an instinctive grasp of ****. Useful servants, if you choose to raise them.

Beyond the corpses, you can see the nearest orc encampment more clearly now—perhaps two miles distant, a cluster of hide tents around cooking fires. Smoke rises into the darkening sky. They don't know yet that a dozen of their kin won't be coming home.

You plant your scythe in the earth and the runes ignite like stars, violet light spilling across the grass and the broken bodies at your feet. The work begins.

You kneel beside the first corpse—a young warrior with a shattered ribcage and skin going grey-green in ****. Your fingers trace the air above his chest, weaving threads of power that only you can see. His life-thread is severed, frayed at both ends, but you grasp those ends and twist them back together in a pattern that defies nature. Not resurrection—that would restore what was. This is transformation. You're creating something that never lived, something that exists solely to kill.

The corpse convulses. Bones crack as they realign. The chest wound seals over with tissue that gleams like polished obsidian. His eyes snap open—not the yellow of living orcs, but burning purple like your own. He draws breath, though he no longer needs it. The orc—no, the revenant—sits up with fluid grace that his living body never possessed.

**"Mistress,"** he says, and his voice is deeper, resonant with unnatural power. **"I am Grakthar. I serve."**

One by one, you raise them all. Twelve corpses become twelve revenants, each naming themselves as they wake: Morgash, Thul, Krensik, others. Unlike your shadow reapers, these retain fragments of their former selves—muscle memory, combat instinct, tactical knowledge. They remember how to fight, how to move as a unit. But their wills are yours absolutely, bound by the magic that reforged them.

Their crude iron weapons lie scattered in the grass. You gather them with a gesture, the metal floating toward your outstretched hand. The scythe's power flows through you into the blades, remaking them. Rust flakes away. Iron transmutes to something darker, harder—steel infused with necrotic energy that will rot flesh on contact and drink the life from whatever it cuts. Axes become instruments of harvest. Swords become fangs of **** itself.

Armor comes next. You reach into the reservoir of power within yourself and shape it outward, weaving plates of shadow-forged metal that manifest directly on their bodies. Black breastplates, pauldrons, greaves—all seamless, all perfectly fitted. The revenants stand now as a proper war-band, no longer the ragged hunters they were in life.

The transformation drains you significantly. You can feel the hollowness where that power used to sit, an ache that runs deeper than flesh. You'll need time to recover.

**"Keth,"** you say, and your lieutenant steps forward immediately. **"Take the reapers. Scout the camp ahead. Numbers, leadership, defenses. Do not engage. Return with intelligence."**

**"As you command."** Keth gestures to his six shadow-kin, and they vanish into the tall grass like smoke dispersing on wind.

You settle onto the ground, cross-legged, scythe resting across your lap. The twelve revenants form a protective circle around you without needing instruction, weapons drawn, eyes scanning the horizon. Grakthar positions himself at your back, the largest and most dangerous of them.

You close your eyes and sink into meditation, pulling power back from the ambient **** that saturates this world—old battlefields, forgotten graves, the slow decay of all living things. It flows into you like water into a basin, drop by drop, replenishing what you spent.

Time passes. The sun continues its descent, painting the steppe in shades of blood and gold. Your revenants stand motionless as statues, patient as only the dead can be. Somewhere to the west, Keth and his hunters move through enemy territory, gathering the intelligence you'll need for your next move.

The orc encampment remains unaware that **** has come to the Ashwind Steppe.