The horizon shimmered, a deceptive mirage in the relentless glare of the desert sun. For as far as the eye could see, an endless ocean of sand stretched, its undulating dunes sculpted by the ceaseless wind. The air crackled with heat, each breath a dry, rasping reminder of the land's unforgiving nature.
Yet, against this backdrop of desolate beauty, a line of movement punctuated the stillness. Lean, hardy horses, their coats the color of sun-baked earth, pulled sturdy chariots across the shifting sands.
"I can't believe those fools didn't comply," a man clad in dark steel armor said amusingly from the lead chariot. Dust danced around the hooves of his powerful, black steeds. "Instead, they actually fought us! What a waste." He gestured with a gauntleted hand, the dark metal gleaming in the harsh sunlight, towards the hazy distance behind them.
"Indeed," replied another figure, similarly armored but with subtle gold tracery etched into the steel, sitting beside him. His gaze swept across the empty expanse. "One would think the mere sight of the Legion would be enough to crush any such pathetic defiance. Their resistance only expedited the inevitable, and as Kaelen said, what a waste of our time and resources." A hint of impatience flickered in his voice.
Kaelen, the man in dark steel, chuckled, a dry sound that did little to penetrate the oppressive heat. "Expedited, yes, Torvin. And it served as a… demonstration. A rather visceral reminder of the price of insolence." He smirked, though his face remained largely hidden by the shadow of his helmet. "A waste of good lives on their part, certainly. Though I admit," he paused, a hint of genuine amusement entering his tone, "their initial foolish bravery was… almost entertaining."
"How pitiful," Kaelen said, his voice suddenly cold and dark, all amusement vanished, replaced by a chillingly efficient tone. "Their defiance, their deaths… utterly meaningless. We will report this to His Majesty exactly as it transpired – their foolish resistance and our… necessary response." He shifted in his chariot, his dark armor creaking softly. "Fortunately," he added, a hint of something akin to anticipation now coloring his words, "we are not that far from the palace. This news, however insignificant the resistance itself, must reach him swiftly."
Soon, in the distance, a stark contrast to the ochre hues of the desert, a black spire rose into the sky. It was a sharp, obsidian finger, piercing the blinding glare of the sun as if daring to challenge its dominance. As the chariots continued their relentless progress, the spire grew steadily larger, resolving itself into a formidable structure of dark stone. This was their destination, the heart of their power, the ominous silhouette against the horizon that declared their dominion over this parched land – the Herald Palace. Its very presence seemed to exude an aura of cold authority, a silent testament to the might of those who dwelled within.
The palace was a hive of grim industry. The air thrummed with the clang of steel against steel as ranks of disciplined soldiers drilled in the vast courtyards, their movements precise and brutal. Elsewhere, the heavy shuffle of shackled feet echoed through the stone corridors as slaves, their bodies bearing the marks of hardship, were led by heavily armed warriors. The glint of steel and the crack of whips were commonplace, a stark testament to the iron fist that ruled this desert domain.
At the very heart of this imposing structure, a grand staircase of polished black stone swept upwards, its imposing ascent clearly leading to the inner sanctum of power – the throne chamber. Even from a distance, one could sense the weight of authority that resided at its summit.
The air in the throne chamber hung heavy and still, amplifying the sheer scale of the space. A colossal door, crafted from some dark, unyielding wood and reinforced with bands of black iron, stood as the primary barrier to this seat of power. Once within, the eye was inevitably drawn to the far end of the hall, where a massive throne, carved from what appeared to be a single piece of obsidian, dominated the space. Upon it sat a man whose presence filled the chamber with an almost palpable weight. His long, raven-black hair cascaded down his shoulders, framing a face adorned with a neatly trimmed, mid-length beard. He wore no armor, only a simple tunic of deep crimson, yet this lack of martial adornment did nothing to diminish his imposing figure. The very air around him seemed to crackle with a silent authority, an oppressive aura that spoke volumes of his power. This was the ruler of the Northern Heralds.
The colossal doors to the throne chamber groaned open as Kaelen entered, his dark steel armor echoing softly on the polished stone floor. He was alone; his expeditionary crew had dispersed to attend to other pressing matters, leaving him to deliver the report. His gaze fixed on the imposing figure seated upon the obsidian throne, Kaelen moved with practiced deference towards the heart of the chamber. Reaching the foot of the dais, he knelt, one knee touching the cold stone, and lowered his head in a respectful, yet not subservient, bow. The oppressive aura emanating from the man on the throne seemed to intensify as Kaelen offered his silent acknowledgment.
"Lord Nyxos, your humble servant greets you," Kaelen announced, his voice resonating with respect in the vast chamber.
Upon hearing his name, the man on the obsidian throne, Lord Nyxos, fixed his gaze upon Kaelen. His dark eyes, as deep and still as a moonless night, held a weight that seemed to press down on the very air. For a long moment, he remained silent, his scrutiny intense. Then, a low chuckle rumbled in his chest, and a smile spread across his face. It was a smile of such genuine warmth that it felt strangely out of place in this oppressive setting, almost… unsettling.
"Kaelen," Lord Nyxos said, his voice a smooth baritone that nonetheless carried an undercurrent of immense power, "Herald of Ruin. Welcome back. Tell me, how did the expenditure go?"