His eyes are cinders, and his voice is a wound. He doesn’t raise the dead—he calls them home.
We don’t say her name in the courthouse anymore. If you do, she makes the ceiling fall. Or worse—she speaks.
If you see black fire drifting above a battlefield, turn around. That’s not smoke. That’s him.
You’ll feel it before you see it—like your bones are too heavy, and your shadow’s walking faster than your feet.
Don’t look in the third-story window. If she sees you, she thinks you’re her husband. And she’ll want to dance.
She speaks no lies—only truths the world should never hear. And when she opens her mouth, kingdoms crumble.
The king beneath the barrow still sits on his throne. He speaks no oaths, takes no coin… but if you kneel in his court, you’d best stay dead.
She doesn’t just eat the dead. She calls to them. And they answer, crawling out of the soil like children returning to their mother’s voice.
The bones walk not because they must—but because he wills it. You may shatter their skulls, but so long as his crown remains, so does the war.
They say he still stands at the gates—armor rusted into his flesh, eyes full of that dull, waiting hate. He doesn’t wander. He doesn’t moan. He just waits… for the call.
You don’t summon a Boneclaw. You birth one—when you make a promise soaked in blood, and break it.
Beneath a sand-buried ziggurat of the Endless Expanse, Sethek-Ka waits upon a throne of black basalt, wrapped in gold-threaded bandages that never fray.