The Herald of Dusk

The forest bent beneath a presence too heavy for nature to bear.

The trees bowed not in wind, but in fear. Their branches curled inward, leaves wilting as if poisoned by the very air. The mist thickened, curling low over the ground like a burial shroud. It moved with a will of its own, winding through the roots, the rocks, the veins of the earth.

Everything slowed.

The wind stilled.

Time seemed to hold its breath.

Then, the quiet shattered.

From the depths of the darkened woods, it came.

A low hum reverberated through the air, like a dirge whispered by the bones of the land. Shadows parted. Light bent. And stepping through the swirling veil was the Herald of Dusk.

It towered above them twice the height of a man, maybe more. Its form was cloaked in living shadow, thick tendrils of darkness licking around its body like dying flames, folding and unfolding like wings made of ash. Around it, reality seemed to ripple. The trees recoiled. The earth hissed.

Its eyes burned like coals buried deep in forgotten firepits red and alive, and ancient beyond language.

The villagers saw and faltered.

Torches dropped.

Screams caught in throats.

Even the bravest warriors those who had faced the Nightborn and lived took a step back. The heat of defiance they'd clung to moments ago evaporated under the chill of its gaze.

This was no beast.

This was a memory given form. A curse given voice.

This was the Herald of Dusk a Nightborn commander, one of the first turned when the Pact of Rivers was broken. It bore that betrayal still, etched into its warped chest like a brand. A twisted sigil that pulsed with unspoken rage.

It was not here to fight.

It was here to end.

And yet one boy did not move.

Ola.

He stood firm, feet rooted like the old trees behind him. His hands trembled, but they did not falter. The drum at his waist quivered, alive with something deeper than sound.

The Herald's burning gaze locked onto him. It stepped forward, each movement warping the ground beneath. Where its feet touched, the earth smoked and curled inward. Flowers withered. Stones cracked.

When it spoke, the voice was wrong too many layers, as if a thousand ghosts whispered at once. It was a sound dredged from the bottom of a drowned world.

"You."

The voice rolled through the field like thunder.

"You wear the river's rhythm… but you are not its master."

The words echoed. Trees shook with them. Children buried their faces into their mothers' sides.

Ola's voice was quiet in comparison, but no less steady.

"I don't have to be," he said, eyes locked on the Herald. "I just have to be enough."

And then, he struck the drum.

BOOM.

The sound cleaved the air. The river behind the village rose, not in flood, but in fury. Water surged up the banks, forming a gleaming wall a living shield between the people and the coming storm. Light refracted off its surface, bending like shattered glass.

The Herald didn't flinch.

It raised one arm, long and thin like a dead tree limb, and thrust it forward.

A wave of shadow burst from its body black and thick as oil, swallowing everything in its path. It roared toward the village like a tide of oblivion.

Ola's feet dug into the ground. The force met him like a hammer, but he didn't step back. His shoulders bowed. His knees wobbled.

But he stood.

Behind him, Èkóyé screamed, voice carried by wind and desperation.

"Now! Call it! The second pulse!"

Ola's hands hovered.

He hesitated for half a breath. He didn't know what that meant. No one had taught him this. No scroll, no chant, no vision.

Just instinct.

Then, he closed his eyes. And struck again

BOOM—BOOM.

Two perfectly timed beats.

But they didn't send shockwaves outward.

They spiraled inward.

Light exploded from the drum, not like fire or lightning but like memory. Ancient, liquid memory. It surged into Ola's chest, through his bones, through the marrow.

He lifted from the ground, just an inch but enough.

The air around him slowed.

He could see it all everything.

The river's flow, not just the water but its spirit, winding through soil, breath, root, and bone. He felt every tree take its breath, every stone remember its time in the riverbed. He saw the grief of the land. The scars left behind when the pact was shattered.

He saw the songs that had once bound the world together.

And then

He saw the Herald's weakness.

Beneath its shifting mass of darkness, deep within its chest where the broken sigil writhed, was something still clinging to form.

A shard of music.

Broken. Bent. But still there.

Once, the Herald had been something else.

A guardian. A vessel of harmony. It had danced at the river's edge. It had sung.

And that voice had never fully died.

Ola's feet touched the ground again.

His eyes still glowed with the river's light. He stepped forward.

The villagers stopped. Even the wounded. Even the elders with tears running down their faces. All of them held their breath.

The wind ceased.

The birds were silent.

Even the mist pulled back.

Ola raised the drum one last time.

His hand hovered.

This was not a strike of force. It would not drive back the shadow.

This was a call. A remembering.

His voice, when he spoke, was not his alone.

"I call you… by the name you had before."

The Herald's form twitched. Its head tilted. Something in the old spirit heard.

Ola closed his eyes.

And struck

BOOM.

The sound rang pure and deep.

Not loud but eternal.

A single note that carved through shadow, memory, and time itself.

It pierced the Herald's form and for a breathless moment, the night stood still.

The tendrils faltered.

The glowing eyes dimmed.

From the Herald's chest, a ripple spread. The broken sigil cracked, then unraveled like thread unspooling in water.

The Herald collapsed to its knees.

Its body shifted melting, shedding, weeping away centuries of darkness. Underneath, something flickered a shape once human. Once whole. A spirit, flickering in and out of time.

A voice rose not in rage, but sorrow.

"Free… me…"

Ola dropped to one knee, gasping. The drum sagged at his side, still pulsing gently.

Èkóyé rushed to his side, catching him before he could fall entirely.

He looked up at her, weak but smiling faintly. "Did it… did it work?"

She knelt, eyes wide with awe and something close to reverence.

"You didn't just call the second pulse," she whispered. "You called the source."

Behind them, the river calmed. The wall of water lowered gently to its bed.

And the Herald of Dusk

Was gone.