The Blackspire Fortress pulsed with a dormant power, stirring deep within as Draegor Nyx stood before the ancient monolithic altar.
The power that had rested within these walls was stirring, responding to his will. It was an undercurrent thing—a sleeping predator rousing itself after its slumber, not yet fully awakened but alive.
Draegor permitted his claws to slide along the stone, feeling the soft thrum beneath his fingertips.
The fortress was iron and stone. It was a legacy.
A throne built upon the ruins of the old world.
And soon… it would be his to command in full.
But power in itself did not ensure mastery.
Control did.
And that was why he remained still, listening, waiting—not merely for the fortress to yield, but for the world beyond these walls to react.
Zaelith's Return
With the dawn, the first movement was observed.
A single shadow walked the foggy paths of the mountain, striding at a quick but controlled pace. The ridgeway guards did not even try to stop it. They recognized immediately.
Zaelith had returned.
The golden-eyed warrior strode into the fortress gates, his armor covered in dust and a trace of dried blood. Not his own.
He saw Draegor down in the lower halls, standing before a humongous map of the known world, black iron markers placed down over key areas of interest.
Zaelith dipped his head, a fraction, before he spoke.
"They're on the move," he said.
Draegor's eyes flicked, the red glinting from the low torches. "Who?"
Zaelith's grin was unforgiving. "Not an army. Not yet. But they're waiting. Watching more than just scouts. Waiting for something."
Draegor's fingers drummed against the stone table. Expected.
But it meant something.
It meant the enemy was faltering.
Which meant… they were frightened of something.
Draegor glanced at Zaelith. "What did you find?"
The warrior leaned forward, his finger tracing a spot on the map. "Small encampment on the riverbank, just beyond the southern ridges. No banners, but they weren't common mercenaries."
Draegor's eyes narrowed. "And how many were there?"
A dozen or so that I saw," replied Zaelith. "And more in cover. They were not advancing in the way of a scouting unit. They were holding their line."
That was the most perceptive bit.
An army that was waiting instead of moving forward was waiting for someone to instruct them.
Or waiting for something to fall into line.
Draegor slowly exhaled, thoughtful.
"Then we make them respond first."
Seraphis' Whispers
While Zaelith came back with tidings of the material world, Seraphis explored deeper into the unknown.
Within the Wraith Hall, she stood amidst the flowing shadows, eyes closed, listening.
Whispering in darkness.
Silken sound of passage across the land.
Something unseeable stirred.
"What are you concealing…?" Seraphis breathed.
She wove her power deeper, permitting her presence to bleed through the veil, seeking fragments of forgotten words, unspoken horrors suspended in mid-air.
One name came forward in the whispers.
Varros.
Seraphis' lips curled into a cruel smile.
She left, vanishing from the room in a cloud of dark mist.
The Tyrant would want to hear this.
The Name That Should Not Be Spoken
Draegor overheard Seraphis speak the name.
The moment the syllables left her lips, something shifted.
A tension that had not been there before.
Zaelith's sneer vanished. Velistra, who had stood silently against the stone wall, straightened slightly. Even the fortress, for all its unliving existence, seemed to hum in silent recognition.
Varros.
A name not spoken in over a decade.
Draegor's face still revealed nothing, but his eyes burned brighter.
"So it is him," he whispered.
Zaelith blew out through his nose, crossing his arms. "I presume you know him?"
Seraphis cocked her head. "Oh, our beloved Tyrant does a lot more than 'know' him."
Draegor said nothing for a very long time. Then, at last, he did.
"He used to be a warlord."
The room hung in silence.
"He campaigned in the East, carving a path through smaller kingdoms with brutal efficiency." Draegor's voice was level, detached. "But he did not campaign for a throne. He campaigned for something… else."
Velistra's gaze narrowed infinitesimally. "And what's that?"
Draegor's smile wasn't amused.
"He campaigned to kill gods."
There was quiet.
Zaelith had a low laugh, but it wasn't amused. "Well. That's ambitious."
Seraphis' fingers spasmed. "And?"
Draegor's face went expressionless. "And he failed."
Velistra exhaled. "If he failed, why is he still dangerous?"
Draegor's eyes ignited.
Because men such as Varros did not simply vanish.
Because failure was only the opening act for something much worse.
Because the dead do not call a name unless it still has power.
Draegor returned his gaze to the map, his mind falling into gear.
If he's in play again," he said, "then our enemy is not merely observing."
Zaelith grinned, showing his teeth. "They're waiting for him."
The First Move is the Bold One
Draegor wasted no time.
Lesser men procrastipated.
And he was no lesser man.
He turned back to Velistra. "You'll find out where Varros was last spotted. I want all rumor, all spoor. The Wraith Queen's reach extends far—use it.".
Velistra nodded once.
He turned to Seraphis. "You will strengthen the veil along our borders. If they think we don't see them, we will ensure that they see nothing of us, either."
Seraphis smiled. "As you wish."
Finally, his eyes came to Zaelith. "And you," he said, voice smooth, deadly. "You will return to the ridges."
Zaelith's smile grew wider. "Shall I make official acquaintance?"
Draegor's smile was echoed. "Not yet. But let them know that they are not alone."
Slowly, Zaelith nodded, and on his heel, he started to move already.
As the three of them departed, Draegor stood alone before the sweeping map.
The storm had been brewing for quite some time now.
But now, it was no longer faraway rumble.
It was out there on the horizon.
And he would decide where it hit first.