Vow of the Voidspire

In the shadow of Mount Vyrthas, where the sky bled crimson at dusk, the Unsacshece were born not of flesh, but of betrayal. Once, they were the Sacrosanct—holy warriors sworn to protect the theocracy of Illysium. But when the High Pontiff declared their sacred oaths “tainted” by a lie, they were branded heretics, stripped of their titles, and hunted like beasts. Their name became a curse: Unsacshece—the Unhallowed.

Now, they lurked in the Withering Wastes, a sun-scorched desert where the sands whispered secrets of the dead. Their leader, Kael Voryn, a man whose eyes held the storm of a thousand battles, clung to a single truth: the Unsacshece were no traitors. The Pontiff’s accusation was a ruse to bury the discovery they’d made—a discovery that could unravel Illysium’s divine facade.

The Bleeding Dunes

The sandstorm came at noon. Kael crouched behind a jagged outcrop, his tattered cloak whipping like a wounded bird. Beside him, Jerek, a wiry archer with a venomous tongue, spat grit from his mouth. “Another patrol. They’re getting bold.”

Through the haze, Kael counted six Illysian riders, their silver armor gleaming despite the dust. The Pontiff’s crest—a serpent coiled around a sun—adorned their banners. “They’re not hunting us,” Kael muttered. “They’re herding us. Toward the Blackspire.”

Jerek’s hand tightened on his bow. “That cursed tower? Why?”

“Because whatever’s inside terrifies the Pontiff more than we do.”

The Unsacshece had heard the tales: the Blackspire was a relic from the Age of Ashes, a prison for entities even the gods feared. But three nights prior, Kael had dreamt of it—a pulsing, obsidian monolith, its gates groaning open. A voice, cold as forgotten stars, had whispered: “Bring me the Key, and I will unmake your chains.”

The Key. The reason the Unsacshece had been purged. A secret etched into Kael’s very bones.

The Ghosts of Illysium

They reached the Blackspire at twilight. Its spire clawed at the heavens, and the air reeked of iron and rot. Kael’s hand drifted to the scar on his chest—a mark left by the Pontiff’s dagger the night he’d stolen the Key. The Key was not an object but a soul, fused with his own during a forbidden ritual. He’d been meant to die, but the Unsacshece had dragged him back from the void.

“This is madness,” hissed Lira, their healer, her face pale beneath her hood. “The Blackspire’s a tomb.”

“No,” Kael said. “It’s a door. And we’re the key.”

As they crossed the threshold, the walls shuddered. Torches flared to life, revealing murals of ancient wars—armies of men and monsters, and a hooded figure wielding a blade of shadow. Jerek traced the carvings. “That’s… you.”

Kael froze. The mural’s warrior bore his face, his sword identical to the one strapped to Kael’s back. Beneath it, runes glowed: “The Unbound shall return when the spire bleeds.”

A roar echoed above. The Illysian patrol had found them.

The Pact

They fled upward, the spire’s stairs coiling like a serpent’s spine. Behind them, steel clashed as the Unsacshece rearguard fought the Illysians. Kael burst into the summit chamber—a cavernous space dominated by a throne of bones. Upon it sat a figure shrouded in smoke, its eyes twin voids.

“Kael Voryn.” The voice was the one from his dreams. “You carry my Key.”

“What are you?” Kael demanded.

“The First Betrayed. The one your Pontiff entombed here when I refused to kneel.” The smoke coalesced into a man-shaped void, a crown of thorns floating above its head. “Free me, and I will grant you the power to burn Illysium to ash.”

Lira grabbed Kael’s arm. “It’s a demon! Don’t listen—”

“You call me demon?” The entity laughed. “Your Pontiff butchered thousands to hide the truth. The ‘gods’ he worships are parasites, feeding on your fear. The Key in your soul is their bane. Break my chains, and we will end this.”

Kael hesitated. The Unsacshece had vowed never to become the monsters Illysium accused them of being. But the patrol’s footsteps pounded closer. Jerek nocked an arrow. “Choose, Kael. Now.”


The Unhallowed Ascendant

Kael stepped forward. “What must I do?”

“Die.”

The entity struck faster than thought. A tendril of smoke speared Kael’s chest, searing the scar. He screamed as the Key—his soul—was ripped free, a shard of liquid darkness. The throne shattered. The entity absorbed the Key, its form solidifying into a towering warlord with skin like cracked obsidian.

Illysian soldiers flooded the chamber. The warlord gestured, and shadows erupted, reducing the men to ash. Jerek loosed an arrow at the creature. “Kael, what have you done?!”

But Kael was gone, his body a lifeless husk.

The warlord turned to the Unsacshece. “You are free. Run, if you wish. Or stand with me and reclaim your world.”

Lira knelt beside Kael’s corpse, her tears falling on his face. Then, she saw it—a flicker beneath his eyelids. The scar on his chest glowed, threads of shadow knitting his flesh.

The warlord paused. “Impossible. The Key is mine.”

Kael’s eyes snapped open—now pools of endless night. “You stole a fragment,” he rasped, rising. “But the Key is mine.”

The Eclipse

The chamber trembled as two forces collided: Kael, fused with the remnant Key, and the warlord, thirsting for vengeance. The Unsacshece stood torn, but Jerek fired at the warlord. “For Kael!”

The battle spilled onto the spire’s roof beneath a blood-red moon. Kael wrested control of the shadows, hurling the warlord into the abyss. But the victory was hollow. The Key’s power was corrupting him, his veins blackening.

Lira gripped his face. “Fight it, Kael! Don’t let it consume you!”

He gasped. “The Pontiff… He knew this would happen. The Key’s a poison. It needs a host… or it unleashes hell.”

Jerek’s voice was raw. “So we kill the Pontiff first.”

Kael smiled faintly. “Take the others. Go to Illysium. Tell them… the Unsacshece are coming.”

“And you?”

He gazed at the horizon, where dawn cracked like a whip. “I’ll buy you time.”


Epilogue: The Dawn of Unbound

The Unsacshece marched west, their ranks swollen with deserters and rebels. Behind them, the Blackspire collapsed, a pillar of shadow swallowing the sky. At its heart, a figure knelt, his body crumbling to ash. But in Kael’s final moments, he felt no fear. The Key was silent, its hunger sated.

In Illysium, the Pontiff stared at the darkening horizon and whispered a prayer. But the gods did not answer. They never had.