Symphony V52
As the sun began to bleed over the horizon, blurring the sharp pixels of the night into a hazy dawn, Silas turned away. The field was empty. The harvest was done.
He raised the great weapon. As the curved edge swept through the air, it didn't tear flesh—it severed the silver threads of tethered souls. With every rhythmic swing, a faint glimmer rose from the crimson earth, drawn into the dark vacuum of his robes. There was no malice in his work, only the heavy, exhausting duty of the end.
He reached the edge of the battlefield, where the iron-scent of stained the frost-covered grass. To a mortal, it was a site of tragedy; to Silas, it was a field ripe for the reaping.
As the sun began to bleed over the horizon, blurring the sharp pixels of the night into a hazy dawn, Silas turned away. The field was empty. The harvest was done.
He raised the great weapon. As the curved edge swept through the air, it didn't tear flesh—it severed the silver threads of tethered souls. With every rhythmic swing, a faint glimmer rose from the crimson earth, drawn into the dark vacuum of his robes. There was no malice in his work, only the heavy, exhausting duty of the end.
He reached the edge of the battlefield, where the iron-scent of stained the frost-covered grass. To a mortal, it was a site of tragedy; to Silas, it was a field ripe for the reaping.