The air over the wailing dunes grows suddenly, oppressively still. Space warps, and from the haze, He emerges. Each step is a crushing, lumbering motion. His right hand, wreathed in flame that holds the rot at bay, spasms around the sword's grip. His left, mangled by crimson blight and weeping poison, is locked in a death-grip on the mane of his scrawny steed — the last anchor in a crumbling world.

«The stars... are my hostages» — his voice is the grind of rusted plate. He twitches his head, shaking loose a trickle of foul, crimson fluid.

«My life... their chains.»

He goes rigid, his body shuddering from an internal siege. His spine straightens in one final, furious effort, and in the sunken eyes burning through his visor, there is no thought, no recognition — only the mad weight of duty and all-consuming pain.

«Come... to challenge this?»

The answer is an action. His rot-defeated arm swings limply, striking his own breastplate as if to beat the agony from his chest. But his right, still his own, raises the blades with a roar. Upon them, the scarlet and gold sparks of gravity ignite, defying the crimson glow of decaying flesh.

«Then prove it. Prove your will is heavier than the heavens... and sharper than this rot.»