The moon sat high—an alabaster eye over Draegor's kingdom, shrouded in thick clouds which parted only at his command. Down below, his domains breathed in silence. Not the deathly silence, but the silence of mastery. Of concealed gears whirring beneath a velvet cloak.
The Deathborn Citadel, the throne of his dark empire, radiated soft amethyst and ghostlight colors. It stood tall above the earth and stone like a crown born from the marrow of the world—a manifestation of Draegor's will and a testament to the inescapability of his reign.
There in those halls, the Lord of Death waited, as he so frequently waited, in Silent Accord's Throne Hall. Obsidian columns carved like the arms of long-forgotten giants rose upwards, and on the floors, soulglass set inlaid its tales—of conquest, of resurrection, of ancient monarchs bowing finally before greater sovereignty.
Draegor's hand rested lightly on the armrest of his throne, fingers still, reflective.
Albedo stood beside him, quiet.
Shalltear knelt some paces away, head bent in deference upon her return from the north watchpost.
Cocytus stood guard at the edge of the hall, motionless as a rock.
And standing in their shadow all, the Court of Eternal Flame, the gathered named dead and high servants, waited in silence—each one a testament to Draegor's growing power and black genius.
A Message from Beyond the Mountains
It came not with bravura, but in soft voice and courteous form.
The envoy came late in the morning—not mounted, not with army or caravan, but preceded by four white- and gold-clad silent guards. The party was from distant Aurelian Compact, a merchant state better known for trade and impartiality than for conflict, but feared for its spies and killers.
They came with banners not of war, but of investigation.
"His Majesty, Lord Draegor the Eternal, Ruler of the Deathborn Throne, Master of the Thirteen Bound Thrones, Holder of the Mire Sigil and High Lord of the Endless Court," the envoy said, his tone smooth and sharp like a razor-edged blade.
"I, Selen Varris, come to observe, to look, and—if it please the Eternal Throne—to discourse of what shall be."
Draegor did not answer at first.
He simply looked.
But in that look lay a power to immobilize lesser men.
The envoy, to his credit, did not flinch.
Hospitality Beneath the Blackened Sky
Draegor allowed the envoy audience, not in the cold majesty of the Throne Hall, but in the Chamber of Echoes—a side room with high-arched windows that gave onto the moorlands beyond the citadel. The walls were inscribed with silent scripts in old tongue, words meant to bind truth and reveal deceit.
Servants moved like shadows, carrying wine brewed from necro-harvested fruit and chilled mistwater. Selen did not partake of either.
"I will admit," said the envoy after a moment, "what we have heard and what we see do not meet."
Draegor gazed at him coldly. "What is it you've heard?"
"That the undead army marches without cease. That you captivate everyone who bends their knee. That the earth in your hand shrivels away. That not a bird soars above your spires."
"And?"
Selen smiled feebly. "Birds fly. Your people breathe. The crops spring up. Order abounds. This… this we did not anticipate."
There was a silence of long duration that followed.
"You were looking for a monster," Draegor declared. "You received an emperor."
The envoy hung his head. "Perhaps. Or perhaps the two are not as different."
Albedo's eyebrows narrowed, but she said nothing. Her fingers tapped at the margin of her clipboard.
Hours of conference went by—hushed words over stagnant air. Selen did not request loyalty, nor did he request commerce. He requested answers—of laws, land, hierarchy, taxation, and purpose.
And Draegor, in rare patience, answered.
The Calm Before the Tides Shift
With darkness, the envoy was offered quarters—not in the outer corridors, but in the Gilded Wards, where only honored guests and trusted nobles dwelled. It was a strategic choice. Selen accepted it with a gracious smile, but his eyes spoke of silent calculation.
In Draegor's own war room, the guardians gathered once again.
"'That one hears too well," Shalltear mused. "I don't trust a man who smiles too easily in a court of the dead."
"He's a scout," Demiurge said, emerging from behind the side chamber. "Sent not to declare peace or war, but to measure which is more safe."
"And what did you sense he measured?" Draegor asked without lifting his eyes.
"That we are more dangerous at rest than most kingdoms are fighting."
A silence.
Draegor finally broke eye contact from the glowing map of his domain.
"Then let them send more."
A Garden of Obedience
Beyond the throne, the Miregarden bloomed anew—a disturbing garden of death flowers and rotting vines. There Draegor walked slowly, in solitude, through his gathered dead. Some muttered. Some whispered quiet prayers. Others stared blankly, waiting for instructions.
And they were all loyal to him.
Among them stood Varn the Mauler, bowing again. At their sides stood Lady Elithra, the former priestess now bound in chains of light, and Wreth Ironjaw, former warlord of the eastern mines.
All of them a conquered heart. All of them a silent testament to Draegor's unyielding will.
And as he marched past them, Draegor breathed something subdued.
Not with words. But with presence.
Something that coursed through the ground. Something that churned under the citadel. Something… growing.
The World Watches
Wherever his current kingdom reached, far beyond its reach, in still-free and still-proud kingdoms, the name of Draegor began circulating.
Some called him a myth-born tyrant.
Others whispered of an immortal king who ruled in silence.
A few, the wise or the fearful, began making preparations.
But within his own kingdom, Draegor did not stir.
He did not conquer.
He merely waited.
And with every passing day of silence, the world grew more agitated.