The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the fortress as the air grew colder. The silence that had settled over Blackspire Fortress was not one of peace, but of anticipation. Everything was set in motion.
Draegor Nyx stood on the balcony of his war chamber, watching as the last traces of daylight disappeared beyond the jagged peaks. The fortress thrived in darkness—it was where they held the advantage, where their enemies lost their sense of direction, where the line between reality and fear began to blur.
He exhaled slowly, his breath curling into mist in the cold air.
The hunt would begin soon. But not yet.
No, there was still time.
And Draegor believed in using every moment wisely.
A Moment of Preparation
In the lower levels of the fortress, Velistra moved with deliberate grace through the dimly lit corridors, her long coat trailing behind her as she descended into the Hall of Echoes. This chamber was where the fortress stored its knowledge—forgotten scrolls, shattered relics, and whispers of the past, all sealed away beneath layers of time.
But tonight, she sought something specific.
A name. A connection. A history buried beneath myths and half-truths.
Varros was a figure that few spoke of openly, yet his existence left a distinct mark in the hidden annals of the world. He was not just a threat—he was a variable. And Velistra despised uncertainties.
As she sifted through an aged, dust-laden tome, her fingers traced over faded ink. The words were fragmented, eroded by time, but she pieced together enough.
"One who walks the veil between order and ruin. Neither chained nor free. A blade unsheathed only when the world requires it."
Her crimson eyes narrowed.
A mercenary? A rogue warrior? No… something more.
She closed the book, her mind already considering the possibilities. If Varros had ties to the old world—to the ones who had ruled before—then this battle would not be one of brute force alone.
Draegor needed to be prepared.
Zaelith's Game of Patience
Outside the fortress walls, Zaelith crouched at the edge of the ridge once more, surveying the distant glow of enemy encampments. They hadn't moved.
Which meant they were still debating.
Still uncertain.
That was good.
But uncertainty did not last forever. Sooner or later, someone would make a move.
Zaelith's fingers drummed lightly against his sword hilt. His orders had been clear—observe, but do not strike first. It wasn't his preferred method, but he understood its value. Let them squirm. Let them question their own intentions.
Still, he grew restless.
Waiting was a game for men with time. And Draegor had already decided when time would run out.
Seraphis and the Veil of Night
Deep within the fortress, Seraphis maintained the veil. The darkness stretched far beyond the fortress walls, a living force woven into the very land. With every pulse of her magic, she ensured that no unwanted presence could see within their domain.
Yet something pulled at the edges of her awareness.
A disturbance. Faint, but present.
Her fingers twitched, and a ripple of shadows spread outward, probing for the source. It was distant, subtle—not an attack, but a watchful presence.
Someone was observing them.
Seraphis opened her eyes, her gaze sharp and calculating. Whoever it was, they were skilled. Few could navigate past her veil without her notice.
She did not alert Draegor immediately.
Not yet.
Instead, she waited. Watched them back.
Let them think they remained hidden.
It would make their eventual realization all the more terrifying.
Draegor's Reflection
Draegor remained at the balcony long after the fortress had settled into its eerie quiet. The night before a hunt was always the same.
It was not a moment of rest.
It was a moment of clarity.
Every warrior who had lived long enough understood the weight of these hours—the space between decision and action. The stillness that came before the first blade was drawn.
The moment before dominance was asserted.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, listening to the fortress breathe.
His forces were ready. His generals were in place. The game was in motion.
When dusk fell again, they would move.
And when they did…
There would be no retreat.
Only conquest.