The room was silent long after Velistra had departed.
Draegor sat upon his throne, one hand resting lightly upon the armrest, his mind churning over the revelations that had been presented to him.
A building army. A fortress without a leader. A force that did not march.
The more he considered it, the more it became apparent: This was not a test of power—it was a test of time.
There were two kinds of rulers in the world.
Those who struck first, lest idleness leave them exposed.
And those who understood that patience was the deadliest of all weapons.
Draegor was one of the latter.
For now, he would watch.
For those who waited the longest… gained the most.
The Stillness Before the Storm
The Draconic Eclipse Fortress sat high amidst the corrupted spires of the Blackspire Mountains. Below, the ground extended far, valleys carved by rivers of firestone and dark plains where smaller warlords once ruled.
Now, they all knelt or were under the ruins of their shattered hopes.
Draegor stood on the outer balcony, gazing over his kingdom.
Zaelith stood at his side, arms crossed, looking out over the landscape with an unreadable face.
"You are quiet," Draegor said.
Zaelith smiled weakly. "There is not much to say."
Silence.
".You don't trust Velistra."
Zaelith's gold eyes flashed to his. "No. I don't."
Draegor sneered.
"Because she did not curtsy?"
Zaelith snorted out, his own laugh. "Because she is too measuring." He turned completely around, face darkening. "A woman who tries her ruler is a woman who considers her options."
Draegor understood. Loyalty was either absolute, or it was a fleeting shadow.
But Velistra was not a minion to be kept on leash.
She was a tool to be used.
And a sharp tool needed its cutting edge sharp.
"For now, she is useful," Draegor said bluntly. "And if someday she is not… then you may do as you please."
Zaelith's grip on his sword relaxed a little, but he did not continue.
There was quiet between them as they still stood there, looking down at the ground below.
Then—
"My Lord."
Draegor turned his attention.
Seraphis had appeared, her form materializing out of the shadows, her ghostly presence burning with an unearthly power like a dying spark.
"There is… a disturbance."
Draegor's brow furrowed.
"Where?"
Seraphis held up a hand. The air around them shook, and a whirling image of darkened lands exploded into existence.
The southern border of his lands.
And in the distance—
A figure.
Alone.
Moving towards them at a slow, deliberate walk.
Zaelith's hand flashed to his sword. "A challenger?"
"No," Seraphis breathed. "Something. else."
Draegor's eyes grew narrow.
He could feel it.
This was not the doing of a fool warlord or some desperate mercenary hoping to curry favor.
No.
This was something different.
Something deliberate.
His mouth curled into a small smile.
Interesting.
The Visitor
Hours passed.
Draegor did not call for his armies. Did not sound an alarm.
Instead, he waited.
And as the moon rose high, the lone figure finally stood before the gates of the fortress.
A giant of a man, wearing dark crimson robes, his face hidden behind a deep hood. There was something unnatural about him—not like warlocks or mages, but like the air itself distorting around him, as if it had difficulty understanding him as something that existed.
The gates remained closed.
But the man simply lifted a hand and—
Knock.
One harsh knock upon the great metal gates.
And just as quickly—
Silence.
From the high walls, the guards hesitated. Weapons shifted.
But before anyone could act, the doors swung open.
Draegor allowed him entry.
Because he wished to know why.
A Tyrant's Audience
Draegor sat upon his throne once more, watching as the stranger was brought into the room.
Zaelith stood at his right. Seraphis at his left.
Velistra had returned, silent in the darkness.
The man walked unhesitatingly, stopping just short of the throne's steps.
He did not bow.
Draegor exhaled slowly.
Another one.
This time, though, he didn't enforce his will through his presence.
Instead—
He spoke in a simple tone.
"I have come," the stranger said, his tone smooth and easy, "to deliver a message."
Draegor tilted his head. "A message?"
The man nodded.
His fingers danced, and in his palm now rested a scroll—composed not of parchment, but of stretched-out threads of darkness.
Zaelith's sword half-drew in the blink of an eye.
Seraphis went rigid, her ethereal form shivering from the contact with the magic.
Velistra's golden eyes narrowed. "That energy."
But Draegor merely held up a hand.
Let him speak.
The stranger smiled beneath his hood.
And then—
He released the scroll.
It did not fall.
Instead, it hovered mere inches above the ground, unwinding itself as blackened letters burst into existence across its length.
Draegor's eyes flashed across the words.
And slowly, his smirk returned.
"To the Tyrant of the North—
We see you. We know your name. And when the time is upon us, we shall see whether you are worthy of it."
A challenge.
A promise.
Draegor clenched his fingers into a fist.
And the scroll burned to ash.
The chamber was utterly silent.
Then—
Draegor laughed.
A low, rumbling sound that sent a shiver through the air.
Zaelith's grip on his weapon tightened. Seraphis' body wavered uncertainly. Velistra remained inscrutable.
The stranger simply watched.
Draegor knelt forward, red eyes blazing.
"Then let them come."