The fortress remained still in the wake of the phantom danger.
A tension hung in the air, one that was unsaid and seeped into the bone of the men and women who dwelled within. No warning had been raised, no invaders had hurled themselves through the great iron gates. And yet, the feeling of something approaching hung heavy on the air.
Draegor Nyx sat upon his throne, half-closed scarlet eyes narrowed as he listened to the stillness.
It had been two nights since the messenger had come through and disappeared, leaving nothing behind but suspicion.
Two nights since the tempest began to gather on the far side of the Blackspire Mountains.
And in those two nights, the world had not yet awoken.
Not on the surface.
But Draegor well knew better than to assume nothing where there was quiet.
Silence is the door to war.
And war was upon them.
A Tyrant Does Not Wait Without Cause
Draegor did not rest.
While his enemies mobilized secret armies in the south, he was working from within. There were preparations to be made—ones which required his own hand.
"Zaelith," Draegor bellowed, his voice cutting through the chamber.
The golden-eyed warrior stepped forward gladly. "Yes, my Lord?"
"You wanted to hunt," Draegor said smoothly. "So hunt. Take a unit and move on the southern ridges. Watch, but don't fight."
Zaelith's smile was sharp, ravenous. "Aye."
Draegor's gaze shifted. "Seraphis."
The Wraith Queen's spectral form quivered as she fell to the ground before him. "My Tyrant."
"The veil between worlds is thin on these lands," Draegor said to her. "See that it remains so. I want rumors spread faster than feet."
Seraphis leaned back, her slow smile creasing. "A web of unseen eyes. good."
Draegor only nodded.
Finally, he turned his gaze on Velistra. The woman leaned back against the cold stone wall, arms crossed over her chest, face impassive.
"You've been observing," Draegor said.
Velistra smiled. "That's what I do."
"Then tell me," Draegor leaned slightly forward. "What do you perceive?"
Velistra held his gaze for a long, momentous duration before she eventually did speak.
"I perceive a storm that has no face."
"I perceive a world that is being watched by something it has yet to see."
"And I perceive a Tyrant who does not give his enemies a choice as to the field of battle."
A slow, satisfied smile twisted Draegor's lips.
"Good," he breathed. "Then we will make the first move."
A March Without Sound
Zaelith's unit marched before sunrise.
A dozen of Draegor's best warriors, in black armor, their pace smooth and practiced. They were not an army—no flags were unfurled, no battle cries were raised. They did not march as conquerors.
They marched like hunters.
Zaelith led them along the broken ridges of the Blackspire Mountains, his golden eyes raking over unrecognizable land beyond the edges of what they had ever known. The moment that they passed beyond the edge of the territory of the fortress, something changed in the air.
There was something here.
Not an army.
But eyes were watching.
Zaelith smiled. Better.
It was always more interesting when the hunters thought they were out of sight.
Seraphis' Domain Expands
While Zaelith pushed into alien ground, Seraphis sewed her power deeper into the unknown.
She stood in the midst of the Wraith Hall, a chamber deep within the fortress where the thin veil that separated the living and the dead was at its thinnest. Dark, as clutching fingers, capered around her as she extended her power.
Beyond body. Beyond seconds.
She caught glimpses—shifting forms of those who had walked this world previously, shards of forgotten knowledge suspended like ghosts on the wind.
And then….
Something moved.
A tremor of something just out of reach.
Something that did not belong.
Seraphis squinted her eyes, focusing. "What are you?"
The shadows did not answer.
But they vibrated.
And that was sufficient to twist her mouth into a knowing smile.
The unseen was no longer unseen.
And soon the quarry would taste the kiss of the Wraith Queen.
Draegor's Preparations
Draegor waited not in idle anticipation.
While his armies pressed forward, he further refined himself.
Deep inside his fortress, he stood in front of a very ancient monolithic altar, a relic left behind by the Draconic Overlords who had once dominated this world. It pulsed with dormant power—power which had slept for centuries.
Until now.
Draegor raised a clawed hand, insinuating it into the cold of the stone.
The moment his palm contacted, the fortress reacted.
Low, deep growling echoed through the very center of Blackspire Keep. The air rippled, temperature shifting as dormant mechanisms awakened to life.
The Tyrannical Core within Draegor's body vibrated in response, the power trapped within it syncing with the long-dormant magics resident within the stone itself.
He felt it.
This place—this citadel—was not merely stone and mortar.
It was a throne carved out of the old ones' bones.
A sword in waiting.
Draegor laughed. "Then show me what you can do."
With a crack of his will, he pushed.
Energy pounded through the fortress like a secondary heartbeat, the walls themselves vibrating with a dim, deep hum. It was not yet done, not yet fully awakened….
But soon.
Very soon.
The Unseen Acts First
Far within Draegor's kingdom, within the shadows of an unseen fortress, a figure watched from behind a window of shifting darkness.
Zaelith's group rode the ridges of the mountains. Seraphis wove her unseen web. Draegor roused the power of his fortress.
It was all… expected.
The figure changed, his words a whisper against the cold wind.
"Begin."
And across the land, unseen pieces of a larger scheme began to act.