He reached the edge of the battlefield, where the iron-scent of stained the frost-covered grass. To a mortal, it was a site of tragedy; to Silas, it was a field ripe for the reaping.
He raised the great weapon. As the curved edge swept through the air, it didn't tear flesh—it severed the silver threads of tethered souls. With every rhythmic swing, a faint glimmer rose from the crimson earth, drawn into the dark vacuum of his robes. There was no malice in his work, only the heavy, exhausting duty of the end. 1920x1080 #Grim Reaper, #sickle, #blood, #scyth...
Silas didn’t walk; he drifted, a shadow carved from the void. His cloak, darker than the absence of light, trailed behind him like spilled ink. In his skeletal grip, he held the . Its blade wasn’t made of steel, but of honed obsidian that seemed to drink the moonlight. He reached the edge of the battlefield, where