A dark whisper. A malevolent pulse rising from the void,  heralding the final awakening of primordial horrors from their deathless sleep. There's a little known, centuries-old story...a group of Magicians, a religious Alchemist, an 800-year-old FrenchCrusader, and Death, all had one thing in common – they knew the end was near...

Illusionist Reginald Black, shaken by his ominous dream - a lone figure standing in a field, blood raining from a crimson sky, and believing it a harbinger of the end of the world, penned a letter to “The Great” Banerjee.

For any traveling professional, time on the road can be a lonely place. For a touring illusionist in the mid-1800’s it was no different. Reginald Black, head-strong and eager to make a name for himself, hopped from venue to venue, day after day, for nearly three years straight…

Life goes on. A simple phrase. Common after loss or failure. Lingering in silence after something breaks. Meant to comfort, maybe? But really, it’s a reminder time waits for no one. There’s no mercy or pause. The world keeps turning, indifferent to mental wounds…

After Orem Black vanished in front of the Order of Wormwood, time was of the essence. What happened to Orem, where did he go? The other mystery would be the MAN appearing in Orem’s place. Who was he?

Texts of magic are nothing new...but the title of the grimoire mentioned to Orem Black, by the reanimated corpse of General Collie...“The Book of Amar”, was particularly intriguing, if not telling. 

Long ago, as daylight bled to dusk and the sun retreated behind the horizon like a hunted thing, shadows would stretch their long limbs across the earth. Darkness wasn’t just absence, it was a presence. Creeping into homes, into hearts, into the wild places beyond where firelight could reach…

The fog still clung to the cobblestones as Orem Black left London after his father’s funeral in 1888. Alone now in the world, he set out on his own journey, blazing a trail towards the echo of the Book of Amar...his only clue, the name, Broderick Zayne…

The Thread of Fate -- an oraclistic Hindu philosophy in which it's believed, not only is everyone's fate predetermined, but there are invisible forces, some divine, others malevolent - influencing a soul to follow a specific path for prophetic reasons. 

It’s well after midnight...thunder rumbles as a storm rages. Rain batters the roof of Black Manor. In the West tower, while Banerjee and Veera were learning of the stranger’s identity...on the other side of the estate, Joseph waited quietly in Reginald’s former study, doing absolutely nothing.

The air was thick with smoke and silence. The attack on the Order of Wormwood still resonating...all at the hands of Orem Black. Son of founder, Reginald Black. How could this be? A familiar face. Never considered a threat or foe...now enemy number one.

Our souls bind essence to flesh, and purpose to breath. Without our souls, the body is merely a vessel, drifting without compass or fire. In every heartbeat and choice, the soul is present, animating, remembering, guiding. Life without a soul is no life at all, but a hollow echo of what could be.

Years passed as Broderick Zayne trained under Gérard Roux, learning the Disciplina Arcani and gaining sacred wisdom. Though Roux was a knowledgeable mentor, Zayne found him a curious contradiction. He was talkative and wide-eyed, yet lived like a recluse.

By the dawn of the 20th century, a new darkness had taken root. Orem Black, armed with the Book of Amar, had become a prophet of doom, his gospel steeped in ancient and forbidden magic. Alongside him, Joseph and Fredrick Frost, two once-ordinary men, now students of shadow, acolytes of the arcane.

Deep into the abyss, Banerjee and Veera stumbled across someone. A man, a warrior. Tall, broad, dressed in a tunic, covered in full-body armor made of bronze. He wore a helmet, and brandished no weapons...only using his massive fists as he fought demons, one after another. 

In the year 604, in the Zhangzhung kingdom, on the edge of the Tibetan plateau, peace reigned gently across the farmlands and quiet towns. But beneath the serene veneer, darkness crept. A moon-whisperer named Zhi Na, part of an ancient tribe of shapeshifting Nyalmo, Or what we in the west, now refer to as Yetis, was on a blood-thirsty rampage. 

It was 1904. A decade since Orem Black called for an audience with the Order of Wormwood, since returning from his isolation in the Abyss, since his attack on what his father had built...and he hadn’t aged a day.

Hidden in a far corner of the Abyss, inside the thatched dwelling, the woman of starlight, Aolani, happy to have guests, welcomed Banerjee, Veera, and Herakles, but had no interest in ever leaving the quiet oasis she created.  

Broderick Zayne had never worked so hard before. In his former life, fitness was not fashion. Men and women labored, ate to live, practiced hygiene when necessary, and trusted in God’s word to sustain them.

As the bridge, the portal Aolani had torn open from the Abyss, sealed itself closed, Veera Sarin watched his uncle Banerjee vanish, swallowed whole by the dark. The silence without Banerjee left him hollow.