Date: August 1, 541 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
The village of Rotten Bog was a place where time itself seemed to have decayed. The heavy fumes of the swamps shrouded the crooked huts, and the soil squelched underfoot, reminiscent of the sound of chewing flesh. Here lived those the world had long since written off—the lower members of the Cursed Tribe, whose bodies and souls were eaten away by the defiled power of these lands.
In the center of the settlement, in a longhouse of darkened wood, two sat at a table. Prince Kazai looked in this setting like a surgical instrument in a pile of trash: frighteningly clean, sharp, and cold. His black robes, devoid of ornamentation, emphasized the pallor of his impassive face. In his gaze, there was neither fury nor sympathy—only the icy emptiness of a man whose will had long since replaced his emotions.
Opposite him sat an elder. His face, covered with gray growths, twitched with a nervous tic. Behind Kazai, his attendants stood motionless. They didn't stir; even their breathing was barely perceptible.
"I have come for your allegiance," Kazai said. His voice was quiet and devoid of intonation, like a stone falling into a deep well. "The Tribe needs unity. Rotten Bog will become part of my army."
The elder swallowed, looking at the aristocrat. There was no servility or attempt to please in Kazai's manner. He wasn't asking—he was stating a fact.
At a sign from the prince, one of the servants placed a checkerboard on the table. The obsidian and bone pieces gleamed coldly in the light of an oil lamp. Kazai made the first move, not waiting for an invitation. His fingers moved with surgical precision.
"Your goals are great, prince," the old man rasped, moving a white piece. "But we are but a handful of cripples. What use are your wars to us?"
"Survival," Kazai replied curtly. He didn't look at his interlocutor; his gaze was fixed on the board. "The world is changing. The Cursed who remain in the shadows will be crushed. My banner is your only protection."
The game continued in oppressive silence, broken only by the dry click of bone pieces. Kazai played aggressively and flawlessly. He didn't waste words on persuasion. Each of his moves on the board was a continuation of his words—a methodical seizure of space. Kazai's inner essence, dense and heavy, corresponding to the rank of Pillar, filled the room, making the villagers crowded at the entrance gasp from an invisible weight.
The game neared its end. On the board, there was no room left for the elder. Kazai had blocked all his paths, leaving only one white piece surrounded by black obsidian figures. The prince looked up. His face remained a mask—not a trace of triumph, not a drop of fatigue.
"Endgame," he said. "Your decision."
The elder looked at the board, then at his frightened tribesmen. He saw in Kazai not a savior, but a cold flame that would consume them without a trace.
"No," the old man pushed the board away. His voice trembled, but held the firmness of despair. "We will not follow you. We'd rather rot in these swamps free than become fodder for your ambitions."
Kazai slowly folded his hands on the table. His impassivity became frightening. He didn't frown, didn't raise his voice. He simply looked at the old man, as if he were an inanimate object.
"Freedom is an illusion of those without power," the prince replied laconically. "My ultimatum is simple: either you submit, or you disappear. Rotten Bog can cease to exist today."
"You presume too much, pup!" A burly warrior burst from the crowd. His body was covered with chitinous plates, and his inner power suddenly flared with crimson light. He was the village's defender, a warrior of the Pillar rank. "I'll tear your tongue out before you finish your threats!"
With a furious roar, the Pillar lunged forward. His axe, reinforced by all the power of his rank, was aimed at Kazai's face. The air in the room trembled with the density of the attack.
Kazai didn't even blink. He didn't rise, didn't raise his hands in defense. He only said quietly, almost with just his lips:
"Spirit of Sin... Pride."
In that same second, the light in the house went out. Darkness, thick and oily, flooded from the shadow behind the prince. From this gloom, a figure materialized, radiating such cold and arrogance that the hearts of those present stopped for a moment.
It was a giant warrior, half as tall again as a man. His body was completely hidden under a bottomless, shapeless black cloak that seemed to consist of frozen smoke. The fabric of the cloak constantly billowed, although there was no wind in the house. Under the deep hood, there was no face—only absolute, yawning emptiness. From under the cloak emerged two pale, bony hands in gauntlets, clutching a long, elegant paired blade—a double-edged blade shimmering with a deathly light.
A dry click sounded. One of Pride's blades caught the attacking Pillar's axe, and the second instantly pressed against his throat. The Spirit's power was so overwhelming that the village defender froze, his own energy shriveling and dying before the face of true greatness of sin.
Kazai slowly rose. He adjusted his cuff, not even looking at the defeated enemy.
"Your fury was as empty as your decision, old man," the prince said coldly, addressing the elder. "You have chosen oblivion."
Kazai headed for the exit. His steps were silent. He didn't turn around; his face remained impassive, as if he had just finished a boring business meeting.
"Pride," he tossed over his shoulder, already standing in the doorway. "Kill them all. Cleanly."
The prince stepped outside, inhaling the fetid swamp air. Behind him, inside the house, Pride raised his paired blade, and the first cry of terror rent the silence of Rotten Bog. Kazai didn't quicken his pace. He walked towards his horse, already thinking about the next village. He needed to unite the tribe, and if that meant wiping out those too weak to see the future—he would do it, without batting an eye.