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Lance turned against Samuel in the end … but what if he hadn’t? ‘Netherknight’ Lance explores this possibility with Alternate Fates lore and a frightening new look straight from the Netherworld.

Check Out His In-Game Footage:

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Skin Highlights:

• Nether-forged armor
• Death’s Head sallet
• Wing-hilted zweihander
• Netherwyrm pauldrons

Alternate Fate Lore: Consumed By The Dark

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A shadow fled from Verdict and landed in Samuel’s periphery a split moment before pain flooded his belly. He whirled to face his aggressor and stared into his own face, at Malice pointed at his own torso. There was no time to register this ultimate betrayal before his shadow double flanked and shot again.

Lance lunged forward only to slam full-force into a shimmering green wall.

“For every action, there is a consequence,” said Lyra.

Through the magic wall, Lance watched Samuel fight his shadow double, unable to move, his teeth grinding. With all his might he stepped away from the grip of the wall and turned to face her. “He is my ward,” he said, raising his long blade. “You raised him like a son.”

Lyra flinched back then spun, her robes swirling, to run, but the knight lunged and his weapon found easy purchase in her back. She crumpled to the ground, blood pooling around Lance’s greaves; the magic bulwark dissolved and faded along with its maker.

Lance stood over the body of his first kill for five gulping breaths, marveling at how fragile and small she appeared in death.

“Kenaz!” cried Samuel behind him, and the curtain between worlds parted, and the Netherdark clouded the hall. Lance watched in horror as the greedy dead poured over the soul that hovered still near Lyra’s body. She struggled against the hands that gripped her by the arms and legs and hair but could not resist them, for she belonged no more with the living.

Lance stood on the precipice of his choice, the boy he’d sworn to protect behind him, the woman he’d murdered before him; beyond, the ice mage looked on, his bushy brows knitted, his face ashen, his knuckles white around his staff.

“I’ll handle the kid,” said Reim.

Lance rolled into the center of the dark cloud, allowed it to swallow him into its dark belly, and chased after the soul of his victim as she was spirited away –

– and then there was nothing.

There was no hall, no Samuel or Reim or Lyra. There was no Gythia; indeed there was no sun or ground. It was not dark: it was a complete lack of light. In that deep nothing Lance spun and touched nothing. He called out and the nothing swallowed his voice, and he realized that never before in his life had he been alone. He had, also, never been afraid, but of the Netherworld he was terrified.

And then, from farther away than he should have been able to see, he spied a light. There was no hope in the light as it grew brighter, only dread. It seemed to take ages to come close enough to make out its shape: an enormous three-headed armored dire wolf made of molten flame.

An armory grew up around them, illuminated by the flames, full of suits of armor, weapons of all kinds, shields and helms. In the firelight Lance himself took shape. His Gythian armor was gone; he knelt in a subarmalis in bare feet, unarmed.

“Rise, Knight, and choose,” said the middle head of the wolf. “Your charge awaits.”