A sickly, crimson glow painted the horizon. Not dawn, but the pulsing heart of a festering wound. Lorghar breathed it in, the air thick with metallic tang and decay. He stepped across the ward lines, the Baron's last defenses crumbling behind him. Six figures followed, clad in the Baron’s drab livery, faces grim and determined. Expendable, Lorghar reminded himself. Each one a tool. Dust motes danced in the unnatural light. Ahead, the forest choked. Trees, once towering sentinels of green, now twisted into grotesque skeletal forms, their bark scabbed with crimson ichor. The ground itself seemed to breathe, slow, rhythmic undulations beneath their boots. “Keep close,” Lorghar’s voice cut through the oppressive silence. He spoke to them, but his gaze swept the distorted landscape, searching for the tell-tale shimmer of Blight creatures. Sweat beaded on Sergeant Roric’s brow. His hand never left the hilt of his sword. The other guards, younger, newer, clutched their spears with white knuckles. Fear, a palpable entity, rode on their shoulders. Lorghar felt it, a faint echo, but dismissed it. Their fear was not his. Within moments, the familiar world vanished. Twisted roots snaked across their path, tripping hazards coated in glistening crimson. A strange, fungal growth, resembling bloated, pulsating organs, clung to every surface. Each step was a battle against the terrain. Lorghar focused. His will extended, a shimmering, invisible dome of force surrounding their small group. He felt the insidious tendrils of the Blight brush against it, seeking ingress, trying to corrupt, to twist. He pushed back, the effort a steady hum behind his eyes. This was different. The Blight vanguard, those initial monsters, had been a nuisance. This, deep within its heart, felt like pressing against a mountain range. Every breath of the tainted air, every tremor of the corrupted earth, screamed resistance. Energy drained, a slow, continuous leak. His omnipotence, usually a wellspring, felt like a tap left running. He had to maintain the shield, protect these tools. Without them, he’d be bogged down, vulnerable to any unexpected attack. They had to reach the Seeder. Hours crawled by. The crimson light intensified, painting the air a deep, blood-red. The ground beneath them pulsed with greater vigor, sending faint tremors up through their soles. Strange, guttural sounds echoed from the blighted thickets – the calls of things that should not exist. “What… what is that?” one of the younger guards, a boy named Finn, whispered, pointing a trembling spear. Ahead, a massive, bulbous growth, like a monstrous heart, pulsed with violent rhythm. It radiated a sickening heat. Closer inspection revealed grotesque, fly-like creatures, several feet in length, buzzing around it, their chitinous wings whirring. Lorghar tightened his mental grip on the shield. “Stay behind me. Do not engage unless absolutely necessary.” His voice was flat, devoid of emotion. He wouldn’t waste his power on minor skirmishes. They skirted the monstrosity, the heat oppressive, the stench of decaying flesh and something indescribably foul searing their nostrils. Lorghar’s jaw clenched. The Blight tried to claw at his mind, too, whispers of despair, images of his past, of the rat-infested alleys and the scornful faces. He pushed them away. He was not Trash. Not anymore. The memory of Seraphina’s relic, nestled in a pouch at his belt, flickered in his mind. *An ancient Weaver’s tool against a Seeder*. He hadn’t examined it properly. He hadn't trusted it. He still didn’t. Trust was a weakness, a luxury he couldn’t afford. Still, its presence offered a minuscule comfort. A contingency. Moving deeper, the air grew heavy, almost viscous. It clung to their clothes, to their skin, tasting of rust and something metallic. The very ground, no longer merely pulsating, now felt alive, a network of crimson veins beneath the surface, throbbing with malevolent energy. Each step felt like walking on a giant, suffering beast. Lorghar felt the corruption seep into him, not through his shield, but through the sheer atmospheric weight. His head throbbed. His omnipotence, usually so clear, felt muddied, resistant. The effort to maintain the shield was immense, a constant, draining battle. He had pushed against the Blight's vanguards, but this... this was the heart of the beast, trying to crush him with its sheer, overwhelming presence. His vision blurred for a fraction of a second. He stumbled, catching himself. No one saw it. He couldn’t show weakness. Not to them, not to the Blight, not to himself. “Are you alright, Lord Lorghar?” Roric asked, his voice rough with concern. Lorghar merely grunted, his eyes scanning the gloom. His hand went to the small, smooth stone Seraphina had given him. He felt a faint, cold hum from it, a stark contrast to the oppressive heat of the Blight. This was a test. A crucible. The Blight sought to break him, to make him yield. But Lorghar had been forged in a harder fire. He had been born in squalor, branded as nothing. He had clawed his way up, and he would not falter now. This power, his omnipotence, was his. And he would wield it, no matter the cost. His lips thinned. He pushed more power into the shield, a desperate act of defiance. The world around them seemed to snarl, the air growing denser, the crimson light turning almost black in places, then flaring with renewed intensity. The ground shuddered violently, throwing the guards off balance. “Hold!” Roric yelled, steadying Finn. Lorghar saw it then. A cluster of trees, far ahead, completely consumed, their twisted branches forming a cage around something obscured by the swirling crimson mist. A structure, perhaps? A village? They pressed on, the silence broken only by their heavy breathing and the Blight’s incessant, malevolent thrum. The drain on Lorghar became relentless. His muscles ached, not from exertion, but from the constant psychic strain. He felt a chill deep in his bones, even amidst the Blight’s oppressive heat. His vision swam, the edges of his sight growing dark. “Movement!” another guard shouted, his voice cracking. A shape emerged from the swirling crimson mist, stumbling, crawling, half-human, half-charred horror. It dragged itself towards them, leaving a smear of black and crimson on the blighted ground. Its clothes hung in tattered ribbons, its skin blistered and peeling. It was a survivor. Barely. Lorghar lowered his shield slightly, focusing a sliver of his power to assess the creature. Human. Male. Terrified. Its eyes, wide and bloodshot, fixed on Lorghar, then darted past him, into the deeper gloom from which it had come. A guttural sob tore from its ruined throat. It pointed a trembling, blackened finger, its body wracked with a final, desperate shudder. “He… he wears a crown of shadows. And he demands ‘The King’s Heart’!”

Chapter 28: Into the Blightlands