The gates of Naboth yawned wide, and from their ancient hinges spilled a breath of pestilence and shadow. Through the breach rode Anabel—her eyes twin emerald lanterns gleaming through the storm, casting their unholy light upon the night. Her coming was as a plague upon the earth; the air thickened, and the heavens themselves recoiled in a violent green flash. Iron clouds gathered over the palace spires, their edges licked with green fire, while from below rose the thunder of demon hooves and the shriek of winged horrors.
From the ramparts came the cries of doomed men, their voices brief and terrible before the harpies seized them. Limbs were torn as easily as parchment, their crimson remnants flung upon the stones below. The streets of Naboth thronged with soldiers, brave in number but frail in destiny; their spears, once bright with mortal pride, splintered like straw against the bull-born fiends that trampled them beneath hooves forged in the pits of damnation.
Through the chaos, the cultists crept—vermin of devotion—pouring into the homes of the innocent. The light of hearth and cradle guttered out beneath their knives, and the white walls of Naboth wept red with the lament of the slain.
And at the heart of this ruin strode Anabel.
Her armor clung to her as though bewitched—a vestment wrought of blackened iron and dying brass, forged not for defence but for dominion. It moved with her like a living parasite, whispering its curses to the wind. Faintly it shone, as if every plate were steeped in the blood of those it had consumed. The chains that hung across her form chimed softly with each motion—neither ornament nor burden, but sacred bonds, relics of the foul god who had bound her soul.
Upon her hands she wore gauntlets of dreadful craft, each etched with runes that breathed like wounds. They pulsed in rhythm with her heart, hungry for both flesh and spirit. Beneath their cruel beauty gleamed the promise of agony—the kiss of torment from one who had long since forgotten mercy.
From behind, her hair—black as a fallen star—spilled in silken rivers over her pauldrons, veiling the faint shimmer of scales and the ghost-scent of brimstone. She moved with dreadful grace; each step a tolling bell, each breath a summons to despair.
Around her gathered the remnants of Naboth's defenders, poor souls trembling beneath her gaze. Spears bristled like a hedgehog's quills, yet she only smiled.
"Hold there, witch!" cried one, his courage fraying in the grip of terror.
Her laughter came low and musical, a sound sweet as poison.
"Stop? My dear boy," she purred, "I have not the faintest intention."
Even as she spoke, a harpy swooped from the gloom, its talons sinking deep into the man's shoulder. His scream rose and dwindled as the creature bore him skyward, vanishing into the storm above.
Panic broke the line. The soldiers' unity dissolved into chaos, and Anabel's smile widened. She raised her hands, and between her fingers flickered the ghostly flame of the Wendigo's tongue. The words of that accursed dialect slithered from her lips, seeping into the ears of men and worming into their minds. They shrieked, clutched their faces, black veins crawling like worms beneath the skin. With a gesture, her fingers curled—and their skulls blossomed like crimson flowers.
The square ran slick with gore.
None dared stand before her; no blade could wound her, no spear pierce the veil of her sorcery.
Through the dying city her cultists moved like a tide, shackling the survivors in chains of iron and despair. The cries of mothers, the wailing of children—all were but music to Anabel's black delight. Once, Naboth had been the crown of Zhuul—a jewel set upon the brow of men. Now it burned, its towers crumbling, its streets choked with blood and ash.
Above the ruin, the harpies wheeled and screamed, their wings blotting the moon, their talons wet with the spoils of the living. And Anabel, sovereign of the damned, walked on—her every step a benediction of ruin, her emerald gaze the last light seen by a dying world.
The harpies' shrieks rose and fell like a chorus from some accursed choir; their black pinions blotting the crimson streets as they wheeled and screamed above the tatters of Naboth. Their shadowed figures fell upon the houses like winged nightmares, and the air was full of that inhuman clamor which makes the heart recoil.
Anabel advanced with a terrible composure. Her knee-high boots rang faintly against the stones—each footfall a small, deliberate knell—and she seemed to accept, with a courteous smile, the savagery that surrounded her. From above there came a sharper cry; one of the winged things—riding down from the darkness—alighted upon the topmost stair that led to the palace gates and, with a metallic clatter, presented itself before the Queen.
Anabel's eyes met the creature's and she spoke, wiping the red smear from her cheek with a finger as a lady might blot rouge. "You bring news?" she asked, her voice as soft and steady as velvet drawn over steel.
The harpy answered in that harsh, gurgling note which is nearer to the scream of some crow from the world's edge than to any human speech. It bent its foul head and, with a hiss that might have been of serpent-blood, permitted Anabel's long, sharp nail to touch its beak.
Then, in a sight that would have turned the stomach of any mortal less used to the sorceries of the North, their eyes ran black as oil and a dismal communion passed between them.
Whereon Anabel saw, as one who reads a woven tale, the memory of the beast—clouds sliding like slow ghosts and then a castle rent and shattered. The harpy swept closer to the perimeter where the battlements fell away, its keen gaze following a lone black figure moving below. It wheeled above the ramparts and noted the rider's passage—the blood-soaked trail through the under ways that gave entrance to the keep. Here and there lay the broken bodies of cultists, limbs rent, demon-waste scattered as if some great hand had torn the place apart. The pens, where men and wretches were kept, were untouched—bubbling cauldrons still stood, their contents grisly; the harvest of the night was not the townsfolk at all.
The vision ran on to the combat that had wrecked the deep chambers: the foul wendigo-bastard and a single, black-clad wraith. The clash, the thrash and the final shudder as the monster fell—these images passed like lightning through the Queen's mind, and then fled.
The communion broke. Anabel's features sharpened as one who finds her pleasure turned to nettles. Her lip curled; the hot green light she wore about her as if it were a jewel flared with a vengeful hunger. "An interloper!" she cried, and her voice cast forth like an augury across the ruined roofs.
She raised her hand, and the green flame gathered about it—an accursed radiance that leapt up into the pall that hung above the city and strengthened that malignant mist until it swelled as if fed.
"Let not that rider baffle us! Find him—slay him!" Her command fell upon the winged throng like the crack of a lash. Six of the harpies sprang from the ranks, cleaving through the night with a scream that set the very blood to ice; they darted as a black spell toward the fields that led to Naboth's gate, their flight a piercing, despairing cry that would haunt the living and the dead alike.
Meanwhile, within the shadowed vaults of the palace, young Jack stirred from his unnatural slumber. King Jarec stood resolute about his throne, encircled by the royal guard—stalwart men whose spears gleamed with the pale light of duty. Yet the throne room was no sanctuary; it echoed with the distant screams of dying Naboth, a lament that seemed to mock the king's failure, haunting the priests who stood idly behind the wall of soldiers, their faces ashen with foreboding.
From the gloom, smears of green light—born of the maelstrom's fury—streaked across the soldiers' eyes, taunting them with visions of their doom. One guard, bold in his terror, advanced with spear gripped tight in his armored hand. Suddenly, he vanished into the darkness. A crunch of bones and a brief, piteous cry marked his end, and his decapitated head rolled across the fine rug that led to the throne, eyes wide in eternal surprise.
The remaining guards charged, their cries of defiance cut short by savage shadows that entombed them. A green flash from the maelstrom outside bathed the room in unholy light, revealing the horror within.
Jack stood, his figure loose yet unnaturally confident, poised above a sea of fallen men. In his left hand, he clutched a soldier's sword, its blade dripping scarlet ichor that hissed upon the stone.
Jarec's eyes flared with recognition, his guard faltering in disbelief. "Jack?" he stammered, beholding his son's savagery. "You… you are awake."
Jack's head tilted, his eyes blackened orbs lit only by tiny green embers, and he smiled—an unnerving grin that seemed to mock the very light.
He lunged, slashing at his father's face. Jarec dodged narrowly, but a fist—driven by unnatural strength—thrust into his ribs, hurling the wind from his lungs. The king collapsed, clutching his barrel chest, gasping for air.
"It seems my duels with dear Luther have borne fruit, would you not say, Father?" Jack hissed, his gaze shifting to the terrified priests. His eyes flashed, and theirs mirrored his—erupting into a frenzy.
Latta watched in horror as his once-peaceful clergymen turned upon each other, tearing flesh with bare hands, helpless against Jack's newfound power.
"Why, my son, why do you commit such acts?" Jarec gasped, lurching to his feet. "Those men raised you! The people beyond these doors are your subjects! Why?"
Jack's neck snapped toward Jarec, his beady eyes boring into the king's soul. A foul frown tore across his chin, his brow furrowed with rage. "Do you not see, old man?" Jack's scream sent shockwaves through the king's frame. "You treat me as a child, forever in Luther's pious shadow!"
He began to encircle Jarec, a predator sizing its prey. "Since Mother died, I have been naught but a blight to you—stored away in the clergy's library, rotting while the world beyond called to me."
"No, dear son, I—" Jarec's plea was cut short.
"Silence!" Jack lashed, his voice knocking the king to his knees. "No more, Father. No more will I be ignored." He cast the sword at Jarec's feet.
"I am sorry, my son," Jarec said, his eyes swelling with tears as he gazed upon the monster that had devoured his boy. "After your mother passed, I… I did not know how to reach you. She—she bridged us, boy, do you not see? You are so like her in spirit, in fire… I clung to the old ways, to duty and steel, for it was all I knew. Forgive me, and be better than I."
Jack's dark figure continued to pace, his gaze fixed upon his father. "I clung to what I knew, son. I am truly sorry. But you cannot—"
"Raise the sword, old man!" Jack snarled. "I need not your pity. Anabel frees me from your shadow. Through her, I shall be greater than you ever were!"
"She uses you, my son! See through her wickedness!"
Jack lunged. Jarec rolled, grasping the sword. They encircled one another—a tense standoff between father and son. Jack's blade cut the air, meeting his father's with a spark. He was strong, unnaturally so, bearing down upon the king's broad frame with a strength no mortal boy should wield.
The two clashed, swords flashing as the priests feasted upon each other in the shadows. Latta retreated, his indigo cloak now stained with the blood of his brothers. His sandals clapped heavily across the stone, his body flailing toward a nearby hallway. His ears filled with the cries of tortured souls and the fading clash of the king's duel as he climbed a shadow-stricken stairwell, his heart hammering like a war drum seeking solace.
Suddenly, Latta collided with a figure in the stairwell. It was Luther. The prince sprang up, embracing the elder.
"Luther," Latta sobbed, "you must reach the throne room! Jack—"
"Jack? Is he safe? What of my father?" Luther demanded.
"Your brother duels the king, my prince!"
"What?"
"Hurry—he churns with the Wendigo's magic! I fear your father—" Latta's words were cut short as a shadow—Jack—charged past.
Jarec began to tire. His aged frame could no longer withstand his son's savage barrage. Each strike fell like a battering ram upon the king's failing guard.
Jack hurled his boot into his father's chest, sending him toppling into the throne. Jarec gasped as his son's blade met his chest.
His eyes met Jack's, his life flashing before him. "S-son—" he murmured, his final breath cut short as Jack's blade sank deep within his chest. At that moment, the maelstrom outside shattered the grand window behind the throne, a vortex of green fire and screaming souls born of the surge in the North, now fed by a king's blood.
"NO!" Luther's cry was drowned by the storm.
Jack turned slowly, a serpentine grin slithering across his face.
Luther hurled forward. "You bastard!" he roared, leaping with fist clenched, time seeming to slow as his scream mirrored the maelstrom.
Then, he stopped—his body frozen mid-air, paralyzed. He lowered slowly, unable to move, as a feline laughter emerged from behind.
Anabel stepped forth, tracing the prince's chin with a gauntleted finger. "What devilry is this?" Luther muttered, jaw clenched against her magic.
Jack stared back, Anabel's armor pressing against his robes. "Dear Jack," she purred, her lips meeting his, strengthening her hold, "remove this trash from my throne."
Jack seized the vanquished king, hurling him to the frenzied clergy.
"Now," Anabel said, settling upon her newly claimed throne, crossing her legs with regal menace, "what shall we do with you?"
Luther stared, his eyes turning green as magic coursed through him. His screams filled the chamber as his body grew, muscles tearing and reforming. His once-magnificent frame contorted into a hulking demon—his head a hybrid of man and lion, crowned with a bloodied mane; his hands elongated into sharpened claws, his feet massive paws that clawed the stone; his back sprouted terrifying wings, his skull adorned with gnarled antlers.
The sounds from the once-handsome prince were now pained grunts and roars as he stood enslaved by the wretched queen.
"Now," she said, flicking her wrists toward the door, "go to the gates. Should the rider arrive, kill him."
Luther's reply was a dull roar as he stomped toward the palace entry.
Anabel snapped, signaling her flying fiends. From the maelstrom, a harpy landed beside her, bowing low. "Begin the ritual," she commanded. "We need not wait much longer."
The creature shrieked into the wind. Cries from the ether erupted—sounds of torture and agony as monsters dismembered the townsfolk with savage precision. The cultists cheered outside, their teeth sinking into Naboth's youth. The queen's eyes gleamed as a terrifying portal began to open before her, ripping a sliver of space-time.
She rose, her gauntlets grasping Jack's robes, tearing them from his body with a sound like the rending of fragile silk. "Sit," she commanded, her voice a silken thread woven with steel, nodding toward the throne that still bore the stain of Jarec's blood.
The prince smiled, a willing thrall to her dark enchantment, his form engorged with the unholy ecstasy of the hex. She returned the smile, her ruby lips curving in wicked delight, and sat upon his lap, jerking his head toward hers with a possessor's grip. "Soon, dear prince, he will walk among us at last!" Her hips thrust upon him, commanding dominance as beast-like moans erupted from her throat—the prince's own cries drowned by the encircling storm raging outside, a macabre manifestation of control that bound flesh and soul in equal measure.
Yet even as their shadowed union unfolded amid the throne room's gloom, the maelstrom beyond the shattered window swelled with greater fury. The vortex churned, a living maw of green fire and wailing souls, fed by the king's fall and the city's lament—a storm born of the surge in the distant North, now awakened to devour all. From its heart, the portal widened, ripping wider still the fabric of the world, and through that rent came whispers older than Zhuul itself: promises of endless hunger, of a god made flesh.
Anabel's eyes gleamed with triumph, but in the far distance—beyond the howling winds—Grimm approached, his pale horse cutting through the tempest like a blade through veil. The harpies she had sent screamed warnings into the night, their cries lost to the gale. And in the shadows of the palace, the demon that had once been Luther stirred, his roars echoing the storm's rage, bound to serve yet yearning for release.
The night deepened, and Naboth's doom hung like a shroud, waiting for the dawn that might never come.