The storm howled its fury, rain clawing through the crooked trees as thunder rolled above. The Horseman’s steed tore through the forest like a shadow on fire, hooves tearing the earth as its rider loomed tall and headless, cloak thrashing in the wind. Lightning split the sky—an omen of dread.

But the soaked earth betrayed him. The stallion’s hoof struck a slick stone, slipping with a shriek of iron. With a violent crash, the Headless Horseman was thrown from his mount. He struck the ground hard, the impact shaking the mire, and for the first time in a century his spectral body faltered.

A grotesque crack echoed as he landed—his back twisting at an unnatural angle. His armored form writhed in the mud, gauntleted hands clawing at the sodden earth as if trying to pull the pain from his body. The black steed circled, shrieking into the storm, but its master remained half-broken, dragging himself to one knee.

Rain streamed down his cloak, pooling into the mud, while something more foul—shadow made liquid—seeped from the wound across his spine. The forest held its breath, every tree watching as the nightmare faltered. He was not undone, but the air was different now. His wrath carried a raw edge of desperation, a wound in the legend itself.

Even broken, he was still death. But tonight, the Horseman bled.