Goddess of Death



In the ruins of forgotten kingdoms, where stone spires pierce the ashen sky, she walks—barefoot upon the bones of the condemned. The earth splits beneath her step, molten veins glowing like the blood of worlds long slain. Cloaked in obsidian shadows, the Goddess of Death moves with a grace that shames the silence.
Her name is whispered only in the final breaths of kings: Nyxara.
Once, mortals believed death to be a passage—a door to somewhere beyond. But Nyxara was no guide, no ferryman. She was the hunger in the void, the unending end. Her scythe, forged from the marrow of dead suns, hums with a crimson fury, each blade-edge rune etched in the screams of fallen empires.
She does not speak; she does not need to. The message is written in every corpse that litters the cobblestones, in the crimson halos that drip from her weapon, in the hollow eyes of her silent acolytes lurking in the shadows. They do not worship her—they fear her, as all life does.
Above her, the bells toll from shattered towers, though none remain to ring them. A storm gathers, and with it, the last warmth of this forsaken city. When her scythe sings, the sound is not of steel, but of eternity shattering.
And so Nyxara walks on, unhurried, unstoppable. For where she steps, hope dies—and death reigns forevermore.