The hardest war is the one a man fights alone. One hundred years ago, the Eternals, thirteen men and women of immense power, closer, many believed, to gods than mortals, stood against the greatest threat the world had ever faced. And they lost. They died. All save for one, known as the Youngest, who managed to flee with the enemy leader's weapon, a cursed blade of incredible power. He has traveled for a hundred years since, alone save for his companion, Veikr, the only remaining horse of a legendary breed. The last, just as he is the last.

The truest stories are written in blood. The wanderer knows this, for over the last century, he has lived those stories, has seen them scrawled in his blood or the blood of others. Others like those dead Perishables scattered about the noble's courtyard, like those servants of the enemy, mortal and not, lying beside them. And yet… he knows it is only the beginning. They are coming. Servants of the enemy, creatures forged and fashioned for one purpose and one purpose only—to kill anything in their path.

The flames danced like madness in the wanderer's eyes. He'd faced the monster posing as Soldier in combat, and he had won. But at what cost? Forty-seven villagers of Alhs are dead. So many that they could not bury them all, and so they had looked to the old ways. They had looked to the flames. Forty-seven. They had been people yesterday. Today, they were nothing but memory. Nothing but ash drifting away on the wind, disappearing into the night.

Death was coming. That was nothing new, for death had been coming for the wanderer for a long time now. But this time, it did not just come for him. It came for Dekker and his family, for Clint and the Perishables, and the villagers of Alhs. Death was coming. And it was he who had called it. The enemy who had taken Ranger's place hunted them, and at his back marched an army of Revenants, creatures who felt no pain, who knew no fear, and so the wanderer and his companions head deeper into the Untamed Lands in search of safe haven. But whatever else they might be, the Untamed Lands are not safe.

Death has a voice. The wanderer knew that, for he had heard that voice often enough. And as he walked through the village of Alhs, past the corpses of those who had chosen to stay, he heard it again. And with each body passed, each tragedy witnessed, the wanderer made himself a promise. There would be a reckoning. He would see to it. And so the wanderer sets out to Celes in order to find the ones to whom that name belongs, to find the enemy and, when he does, to find his vengeance.