"The gods are cruel things. No, worse than that—they are indifferent. They weave our fates into grand designs, whispering destiny as though it is ours to command, when in truth, we are all but carrion for the wolves of time."
— Varaghast Ghuul, The Wight-Lord
The Battle at the Ribcage of Skald
Varaghast Ghuul, the Warrior-King of Norska, met his final fate upon the frozen bones of Skald, The Shattered, an ancient ice Elementari whose sundered remains lay beneath the howling winds of the north. It was here, at the heart of the Khaos Rift, that the Wight-Lord made his last stand against The Sunsations and their allies.
From the depths of the abyss, he descended upon them, mounted atop Azrythal the Wight-Wyrm, his monstrous undead dragon. With every sweep of its decayed wings, the frozen wastes howled, and with every command of Varaghast’s warhorn, daemons spilled from the rift, answering his call.
It was here, beneath a blackened sky, illuminated only by the writhing vortex of Khaos, that he faced the warriors destined to end him.
The Tyrant’s Hubris
Varaghast Ghuul had long believed himself the master of his own fate, the architect of ruin, the predator among prey. His conquest had begun as a quest for vengeance, a rejection of the fragile cycle of life and death that had abandoned him. He had slain gods, devoured souls, and reshaped destiny in his own image.
But as the battle raged and the Sunsations carved through his daemonspawn, the first seeds of doubt crept into his mind.
He fought like a beast, his greatblade cleaving through warriors, his laughter echoing amidst the storm. But for the first time, he was not laughing out of victory, but defiance. The Rift above him raged—a wound in reality itself—and he could feel the pull of something greater, something beyond his prideful understanding.
The Sacrifice of the Wight-Wyrm
As the battle turned against him, Varaghast, wounded and desperate, turned to his greatest companion—Azrythal. The lich-wyrm, a creature of necrotic ice and eternal servitude, had fought alongside him for centuries. With a cruel snarl, Varaghast plunged his clawed hand into its skull, consuming its phylactery, and absorbing the soul-forged power of his steed.
His form contorted, twisted by the Ruinous Powers, his flesh unraveling into pure shadow and flame. The last remnants of his mortal soul were burned away, leaving only a creature of pure, Khaos-Warped Ruin.
And yet, despite his transformation, despite his newfound power, something terrible clawed at the edges of his mind—a voice, a presence, a truth he had long buried beneath war and bloodshed.
For there, among the ancestral spirits of the Unknown, stood a man he had killed long ago.
The Legacy of Lightfall
Through the storm, Heran Lightfall stepped forth—not as a man, but as a spirit of prophecy, a revenant of fate.
Varaghast faltered. His monstrous, khaos-warped body shook as the spirit of the warrior he had slain so long ago locked eyes with him.
Memories surged. The past, the present, the future—all colliding at once.
He had caused this. His own actions had led to his undoing.
He had slain Heran Lightfall to silence the prophecy, to break the cycle, to become the predator, not the prey.
But now, in his final moments, he saw the truth.
"I was never the master of my fate."
"I was never the architect of ruin."
"I was just another pawn, a beast leashed by a master I never saw."
He threw his head back in a scream of rage, but there was no more laughter. No more revelry. Only desperation, only fear, only regret.
Fall of the Tyrant
Ashtai, the last of the Fyrashan Spirit-Seers, raised his lantern.
The ancestral warriors of Fyrashan—thousands of souls, long devoured by Varaghast—broke free from the chains of his soul.
A storm of spectral blades ripped through his body, and for the first time in centuries, Varaghast Ghuul fell to his knees.
Ashtai stepped forward, his voice a whisper carried by the wind.
"It is over."
Varaghast looked up at him, eyes burning not with fury, but with anguish. He reached out one last time, but before he could speak, before he could defy the gods even once more—
Ashtai placed his hands upon his twisted, monstrous skull and banished his soul to the abyss.
A howl of unimaginable agony erupted from Varaghast Ghuul’s lips as his body disintegrated into nothingness, consumed by the spirits of the dead, dragging him into the Rift.
His last words were not curses, nor prayers to Khaos, but a whisper of understanding too late realized.
"I was never… free."
Legacy of the Wight-Lord
Varaghast Ghuul’s death was not a victory—it was a warning.
The Rift did not close in time. It spilled forth one final horror before collapsing, as the Severed Shadow reached into the world.
In a single motion, Valekith, the Dark Revenant, the unseen puppetmaster, claimed the soul of Ashtai as his own.
And as he vanished into the void, the Sunsations stood amidst the ruin, knowing that the battle was won, but the war had just begun.