The grand ceremony, a spectacle of carefully orchestrated illusion, was reaching its crescendo. Queen Sylvara, her voice resonating with an unnatural power, continued her incantations, her words weaving a spell of false hope and insidious control. The sigils etched into the stone floor pulsed with an eerie light, their intricate patterns casting dancing shadows that seemed to writhe and twist with a life of their own. The air grew thick with the scent of incense, its heady aroma masking the subtle undercurrent of dark magic.
But beneath the surface of the spectacle, a sense of unease began to permeate the courtyard. The sky, once a clear expanse of starlight, darkened unnaturally, as if a storm was brewing within the very fabric of reality. The temperature plummeted, a sudden chill that sent shivers down the spines of the assembled citizens.
A few among the crowd, their senses heightened by intuition or perhaps a lingering connection to the ancient magic, began to notice the subtle signs of possession. One gasped as they saw the Queen's eyes glow faintly, a fleeting flicker of unnatural light. A child tugged on their parent's sleeve, their voice filled with innocent concern. "She looks different," they whispered, their eyes wide with apprehension.
The dragon, its golden eyes radiating ancient wisdom, let out a low growl, a sound that resonated with the very essence of creation. Its breath stirred the sigils, making the candle flames flicker violently, casting grotesque shadows that danced across the faces of the citizens.
The Queen momentarily reacted to the dragon's growl, her pupils constricting, her breath hitching, but then the witch's influence tightened its hold, her expression hardening into a mask of cold resolve.
The heirs, sensing the growing unease among the crowd, prepared to make their move. They knew that the Queen was about to unleash the ancient power that threatened to consume Arkonia. But they were met with resistance. The crowd, manipulated by the Queen's dark influence, began to chant her name, their voices a hypnotic drone that echoed through the courtyard. They formed a barrier, blocking the heirs from reaching the Queen, their faces filled with a mixture of fear and fanaticism.
One heir, Vaelen, momentarily hesitated, his mind clouded by the Queen's insidious whispers. He questioned his own judgment, wondering if she was truly the enemy. But then, he remembered the dragon, the ancient being that had guided them, the chained dragon, and the look of fear in Revyn's eyes. He snapped out of the Queen's spell, his resolve hardening.
The Queen, oblivious to the growing resistance, continued her incantations, her voice rising to a crescendo. The sigils pulsed with an intense light, the air crackling with raw magical energy. The moment before the truth was revealed, time seemed to slow down. A single breath, a flickering flame, the weight of inevitability.
And then, boom—the Queen shuddered, her scream turning into something inhuman, a guttural roar that echoed through the courtyard. Dark veins spread across her skin, twisting and contorting her features into something grotesque. An ethereal black mist ripped out of her form, taking the shape of a twisted, ancient entity.
The citizens gasped in horror, their voices a collective cry of shock and disbelief. The Queen, who they once feared and worshipped, now looked like a puppet struggling against invisible strings. Veyra, realizing the truth, recalled her own visit to the ruins. She understood now—she was meant to be possessed, but something protected her. The Queen wasn't as lucky.
The dragon let out a powerful roar, its golden eyes burning with wisdom. It spoke the name of the witch korvath revealing her origins and her curse upon Arkonia. The sound alone weakened the entity's grip on the Queen.
The heirs, seizing the opportunity, joined forces, using their magic, weapons, and sheer will to shatter the ritual's power. The Queen let out a final, ear-splitting shriek as the dark mist was forcefully expelled from her body, dissolving into nothingness. The truth was revealed, and the battle for Arkonia had truly begun.
The grand chamber, once a beacon of regal authority, now pulsed with chaotic energy. The ethereal form of Korvath, the ancient witch, writhed within the sigil barrier, its shadowy tendrils reaching out, attempting to grasp the Queen's weakened form. The citizens, their faces etched with terror and disbelief, watched as the heirs and the dragon battled the lingering darkness.
Korvath, once destined to be the Queen of Witches, had been denied her birthright. The rituals, designed to select the most powerful and worthy leader, had rejected her. No one suspected the darkness that festered within her, the twisted mind that harbored a poisonous rage. Her power, the ability to conjure a corrosive black mist, was a reflection of her inner corruption, a manifestation of the evil that consumed her.