The Bone Lords do not harvest with a scythe; they reap through surrender.
When an ancient lord of the abyss finally falls, their remains are not buried—they are planted. As their skeletal frame takes root deep within the cursed earth, their decaying magic feeds the soil, forcing dark, twisted blooms to tear through their own ribcages. The smoke steadily venting from their fractured skulls is the last of their cursed soul evaporating into the atmosphere, a toxic offering that poisons the land while giving birth to a parasitic new life.
It is the ultimate, quiet harvest: death tearing itself apart to nurture a much darker genesis.
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