The air tore open.
Not violently. More like something that had been held closed for a very long time finally being allowed to open. A seam split in the space between Marcus and the fallen creature and from it came shadow and pressure and the smell of old iron and something that had no name but made every instinct in every living thing nearby scream the same message.
Old. Dangerous. Do not run.
Seven feet of armored presence stepped through the gap and the air around him changed the moment he arrived.
He was massive in a way that took a moment to fully process.
Seven feet tall, built like something that had stopped caring about human proportions a long time ago. Shoulders wide enough to block a doorway without trying. Arms and legs that looked less like limbs and more like structural supports that had grown tired of holding up a building and decided to go to war instead.
The armor stopped you cold.
Deep black across every plate but not a flat black. The kind that had depth to it, like staring into dark water. And running through every edge, every seam, every groove carved into the breastplate and gauntlets was crimson that did not sit still. It pulsed. Faint and slow, like a second heartbeat living inside the metal, bleeding through the black the way embers bled through ash. The overall effect was simple and unmistakable.
This thing had come from somewhere still burning.
The sword in his right hand was longer than most men were tall, dark grey and heavy looking, with green blood running slowly down the flat of the blade from a kill nobody had seen him make.
His helmet had no visor. No eye slit. No opening anywhere. Just smooth black and crimson metal sealed completely shut across his face. And yet every person standing in that village felt, without being able to explain why, that whatever was behind that helmet was looking directly at them.
He stood in the silence he had created simply by existing in the space.
The creatures. The survivors. The people mid-run who had frozen with one foot still in the air. All of them looking at the same thing and none of them having a word for what they were looking at.
Then he turned.
Found Marcus in the crowd the way a compass found north, no hesitation, no searching, just a direct and immediate recognition. He crossed the distance in two steps that shook the ground slightly and went down on one knee.
The impact of it sent a small tremor through the dirt.
His head bowed. Both hands rested on the pommel of the sword he had planted before him like an offering. The posture of absolute and unconditional service.
The voice from behind the sealed visor was low and certain and sounded like the moment before something very old and very heavy finally came to rest.
"You summoned me, my liege."
"Ehhh"?.
Marcus looked at the armored giant kneeling in the dirt in front of him and tilted his head slightly to the side. He had seen a lot of things in his time..
He had watched men get torn apart by things that shouldn't exist.
So a seven foot armored entity stepping out of a tear in reality and kneeling at his feet was unusual, yes.
Worth losing his composure over, no.
Whatever this is, he thought, it answered my call. Which means it's mine. And right now I have bigger problems than being impressed by my own power.
He straightened up and rolled his shoulders once.
"Alright then," he said quietly, more to himself than the kneeling figure. "Let's see what you can do."
Marcus stood over the headless goblin and looked down at the knight kneeling in the dirt before him.
The crimson in the armor pulsed slowly in the afternoon light. Up close it was even more unsettling than it had been from a distance, that steady faint glow bleeding through the black plating like something alive was sitting just underneath the metal.
"What's your name," Marcus said.
Silence for a moment.
Then the voice came.
It didn't start at full volume. It built, like the first vibration of a bell before the sound fully arrived, low and resonant and carrying the particular weight of something that had not spoken in a very long time and was remembering how.
"Malachar." A pause, heavy and deliberate. "The Crimson Tyrant." Another beat, slower, like the words were being lifted from somewhere deep and dusty. "He who conquered seven realms. And was cast aside by the eighth."
The visor turned upward and found Marcus's face with the certainty of something that didn't need eyes to see.
"Your command is my duty. My liege."
Marcus looked at him for a moment. At the sword still dripping green in his gauntleted fist. At the sealed visor that gave nothing away and somehow still managed to communicate absolute and unconditional readiness.
"Good." He turned toward the field where three of the four remaining creatures were still tearing through what was left of the defenders. The fourth had already spotted Marcus and was moving toward him, unhurried, grinning with too many teeth, the kind of grin that came from something that had never once encountered a situation it couldn't handle. "Help me take care of our friends here."
Malachar rose.
Every survivors in that village stopped.
The mage with the fireball building in his palms let it die without noticing he was doing it. Two fighters back to back against a creature turned at the same moment without coordinating it, drawn by something that bypassed decision making entirely and went straight to instinct.
Even the creatures paused, heads swinging toward the thing that had just stood up and was now rolling its neck with the patience of something that had fought larger wars than this on mornings it considered slow.
One word moved through the crowd in a breath
"A Summoner".