Air within Draconic Eclipse Fortress stagnated, yet something irreversibly changed.
Draegor Nyx lay reclined upon his throne, tapping his fingers upon the armrest, his eyes shut in reflection.
Memories flashed back of whispers of power—the quiet thrum of his Tyrannical Core, the presence which had slipped his grasp within the recesses of his own mind. He had brushed against something colossal, something greater than his current capability.
And yet, he did not begrudge it.
Anticipation.
Mastering was an art. True rulers did not seek to force power to their will without comprehending its depths.
For the time being, he would let it slumber.
But when the time was right… he would take it all.
A Gathering of Shadows
A knock echoed through stone halls.
Draegor's eyes opened, blood-red eyes sharp as the great doors to his chambers creaked wide.
Seraphis preceded them, her ethereal form trembling in the dim light of the torches.
Then followed Zaelith, the Umbral Blade, his dark armor glinting in the dimmish light of magical runes. His steps were silent, but the danger that accompanied him was unquestionable.
And lastly, an added presence.
A woman, in black robes edged in ancient sigils, her chalk-white face gently emanating arcane energy.
She took a step forward, her golden eyes locked onto Draegor's with calculating intent.
Seraphis broke the silence.
"My Lord, I present before you Velistra of the Hollow Sun, the one who has brought information of the southern armies."
Draegor didn't move, taking in the figure in front of him.
Velistra didn't bow, and she didn't glance away. She was pushing his buttons.
A lesser lord would have bristled with it.
Draegor just smirked.
"You don't bow," he said.
Velistra arched an eyebrow, a smile playing on her lips. "Only to those who have earned the right to be respected."
The gesture of Zaelith's hand to his sword at the disrespect, but Draegor flashed a single finger, stopping him.
Interesting.
A woman who measured power before offering obeisance.
A valuable trait. A coveted one.
If he were a lesser king, he would demand submission.
But true tyrants did not demand respect—they simply demanded it.
Draegor moved forward, his aura not really shifting—but the room darkened.
The walls groaned as the air thickened, as if the fortress itself was responding to his will.
Velistra's breath caught for the briefest instant—so fleeting that only Draegor noticed.
And then, just as suddenly, the pressure was released.
Silence.
Velistra bowed her head, placing a hand over her chest.
"I see now," she breathed. "You are indeed… worthy."
As if there ever was a doubt.
Draegor relaxed back. "Tell me, Velistra of the Hollow Sun—what have you learned?"
The Tyrant Beyond the South
Velistra's hand waved, and the air distorted, reforming into a projection of a vast expanse—the Southern Wastes.
A region of wild ley lines, where the land itself appeared to pulse with untamed mana.
At its center stood a colossal fortress, one unlike any other.
Black spires branching out like arms, vein-colored with blood strength. Banner s that bore no symbol. No-named throne.
But despite that, there was no denying the air of mastery about it.
Zaelith pinched up the corners of his eyes. "A castle that bears no sigil. Which king does not write their name in their kingdom?"
Velistra frowned.
"That's the catch," she said. "Everyone forgets their name."
Draegor's fingers drummed against the throne. "Enlighten me."
Velistra's wrist flicked, shifting the projection to display the armies massed behind the fortress walls.
Thousands of warriors. Wearing darkened armor, their bodies charged with a strange, unnatural power.
Not dead. Not creations. Something else.
"They are not man," Velistra continued. "Nor animal, nor ghost. My spies tell me that they do not eat, do not sleep, do not even speak."
Draegor's eyes narrowed slightly. "A silent army?"
Velistra nodded.
And they are growing. Every other week, their numbers swell, but there are no recruitment posters, no hint of supply lines."
An army that doesn't have to be fed. That grows in silence. That waits.
Draegor could feel it.
This was not war as he had known it.
This was different.
"Have they moved yet?" Draegor asked.
Velistra shook her head. "Not yet.".
Zaelith sneered. "Then they are of no use. What is the point of an army that does not move?"
Draegor did not speak for a moment.
Then—
"You are wrong."
The room fell silent.
Draegor rose from his throne, coming forward slowly.
"A force that does not move is not weak," he breathed. "It is waiting."
He gazed at the projection, crimson eyes aglow.
"They do not move because they do not need to. Not yet."
They were waiting. Just like he was.
The question was why.
Draegor confronted Velistra.
"You will keep them under observation," he commanded. "If their ranks swell once more, I must be told."
Velistra dipped her head. "As you wish, my Lord."
Zaelith was not convinced but did not speak. Seraphis just looked, her face unreadable.
Draegor settled back onto his throne.
This did not matter.
If this power beyond their field of understanding believed that they could hide forever, they were in for a disappointment.
All that had been concealed from the Tyrant's gaze would be laid bare.
But not yet.
Draegor took deep breaths, absorbing once again the unrelenting thump of his Tyrannical Core.
There was still so much to learn. So much to master.
For the time being, he would wait.
For when he did move at last.
There would be no authority in the universe to stop him.