From within the ruins came laughter. Deep, guttural, vile. Heavy steps followed, each one making the earth tremble. Out of the smoke he emerged. A giant of a man, barely clothed, his muscles bulged grotesquely, unnatural, as if his flesh strained against itself. In one hand he dragged a corpse behind him, dangling like a broken doll.

Wyald. Leader of the Black Dog Knights.

His eyes gleamed in the firelight, feral and wild. He drew in the scorched air, savoring the stench of death, then grinned wide—teeth yellow and sharp, the maw of a beast. “Hehehe… Beautiful, how they scream, isn’t it?” His voice was rough, half-growl, half-mockery. “But they never scream long enough.” With a flick of his arm, he hurled the corpse aside. Then he turned to the burning village, spreading his arms as if unveiling a masterpiece wrought in blood and ruin.

“This is the stage of the Black Dogs!” he bellowed, face twisted in ecstasy and madness. “Here, there is only blood, only fear—and me!” His laughter rolled out over the flames, drowning even the crack of collapsing timbers, echoing through the night like the voice of a demon.