The grand chamber of the Imperial Palace stood as a monument to power and tyranny. Ornate chandeliers bathed the room in a golden glow, illuminating the polished marble floors engraved with the sigil of the Dreadlion. Aurelian Voss was absent, but his presence loomed over the council like a storm waiting to break.
Seated at the head of the vast obsidian table was High Chancellor Regulus Varn, his fingers steepled as he observed the gathered officials. To his right, Grand Marshal Kaedric Dorne sat clad in his imposing blackened steel armor, the scent of oil and metal lingering around him. Across from him, Lord Treasurer Severian Vos, an aging but shrewd man, tapped his ring against the table in thought.
Further down, Spymaster Lucian Marrow remained silent, his pale features unreadable. Beside him, High Inquisitor Veyron Saldor rested his chin upon his gauntleted hand, his expression carved from stone.
"The bandit incursions grow bolder," said Dorne, his voice heavy with irritation. "Caravans between Drakenshield and Kaldoros have been hit more frequently. My men have captured several of these wretches—most are lowly mercenaries, but some are… former soldiers."
A hush fell over the room. Severian Vos let out a slow breath. "Deserters."
Dorne nodded. "Disillusioned men who have lost faith in our emperor. They rally under different banners—some claim loyalty to outlaw lords, others follow nameless specters. But one thing remains constant—they all speak of shadows lurking in the empire."
High Chancellor Varn leaned forward. "Explain."
Dorne's fingers curled into a fist. "They claim someone is watching. Or leading. A force unknown to us, hidden in the dark."
A scoff came from Veyron Saldor. "A common bandit's attempt at deception. Men whisper of ghosts and unseen hands when they are too craven to admit their own failures."
Spymaster Lucian Marrow finally spoke. "Perhaps. But rumors, when left unchecked, have a way of becoming truth in the minds of men."
Varn exhaled. "If a force is rising within our borders, we must uncover it. We cannot afford unknown variables."
Lucian nodded. "I have dispatched agents into the wilds, but we must look beyond our own lands. The Xathir Dominion stirs, and there have been strange movements within Elyndor as well."
Severian Vos frowned. "The Elyndorians have always been self-righteous fools, but they have never meddled in our affairs directly."
"Not openly," said Lucian. "But times are changing."
The room fell into heavy silence, the weight of uncertainty pressing down upon them all. Regulus Varn stood, his voice final. "Increase patrols, tighten our hold on trade routes, and purge any signs of treachery. The empire must not waver."
A chorus of agreements followed, yet an unspoken dread lingered in the air.
News from Blackwood had arrived a day prior, carried by a terrified scout who had fled the cursed site. Grand Marshal Dorne had sent a battalion to investigate, and now he stood before the council, his face grim.
"Raze Vakros is dead. His entire faction has been wiped out."
The room fell silent. Veyron Saldor leaned forward, his expression unchanging. "All of them?"
Dorne nodded. "Every single one. We counted over three hundred bodies. Some were slain by blade or arrow, others crushed by blunt force. But… there were those whose deaths were beyond explanation."
Lucian Marrow narrowed his eyes. "Explain."
Dorne's jaw tightened. "Some bore wounds akin to those found on a battlefield—shattered bones, deep slashes, caved-in skulls. Signs of an overwhelming force. Yet others… their bodies were whole, untouched, but lifeless. As if something had drained them."
Severian Vos shuddered. "Drained?"
"Their eyes were hollow, their skin sunken, their veins blackened. Whatever killed them took more than just their lives—it took their essence."
Silence suffocated the chamber. Regulus Varn's gaze darkened. "And Raze Vakros?"
Dorne hesitated before speaking. "We found his body at the center of the carnage. His head… had a hole, clean and precise, as if a dagger had been driven through his skull and then removed."
Veyron Saldor tapped his fingers against the table. "No blade does that."
Lucian Marrow's voice was low. "Nor does any soldier we know."
Varn exhaled sharply. "Who do we suspect? Any rival factions?"
Dorne shook his head. "The Blackfangs would never risk war with Vakros' forces, and the Crimson Vultures are too disorganized. The Nightborne Syndicate, perhaps, but their methods are more… subtle."
Lucian Marrow considered the names. "The Ebon Raiders?"
"Unlikely," Dorne replied. "They prefer small skirmishes, not outright slaughter."
Severian Vos rubbed his temples. "Then who? A foreign agent?"
Dorne's expression darkened. "Or something else entirely."
The dunes of the Xathir Dominion stretched endlessly, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. The great capital, Zar-Hadun, stood as a testament to ancient power, its towering spires casting long shadows over the desert.
Within the opulent palace, Vizier Rashad Al-Zahir sat upon a cushioned divan, watching the swirling incense dance in the air. Across from him, Warlord Kassim Darim loomed, his scarred hands gripping the pommel of his curved sword.
"We received word from our spies in Vordania," Rashad said, his voice smooth as silk. "The empire grows restless."
Kassim scoffed. "The empire is always restless. What makes this any different?"
Rashad smiled thinly. "A storm brews beneath their noses, unseen yet potent. Their council grows anxious, their grasp on their territories uncertain. And most recently, there has been an event most... unsettling."
Kassim leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. "Speak plainly, Vizier."
Rashad took a slow sip of his wine before continuing. "Blackwood. The cursed forest that housed one of the most notorious bandit factions to ever plague Vordania. Gone. Every single one of them wiped out in a single night. Raze Vakros, their leader, who evaded the empire's grasp for over a decade, met a death unlike any other."
Kassim's brow furrowed. "I have heard whispers. Some claim it was the work of a rival faction, others blame a vengeance-driven warlord. And yet, there are darker theories."
Rashad nodded. "Indeed. Some of the corpses bore the marks of battle—shattered bones, deep gashes, torn flesh. But others... they were not killed by sword or arrow. Their very life force was drained from them, as if something had reached into their souls and pulled the essence from their flesh. Even Raze's body was a sight of horror—his skull impaled with surgical precision, a dagger-sized hole carved cleanly through his forehead."
A silence settled between them before Kassim spoke. "And you suspect sorcery?"
Rashad exhaled, as if reluctant to give weight to such an idea. "I suspect something greater. Whatever did this was not seeking wealth, nor territory. It was a message. And the empire will be scrambling to determine its meaning."
Beyond the dominion, the distant kingdom of Elyndor faced its own turmoil. Lord Regent Vaelin Aerion stood before a gathering of his council, his sharp eyes scanning the assembled nobles. "Vordania is weak," he declared, "and weakness invites opportunity."
Some of the gathered lords nodded in agreement, while others shifted uneasily. "You propose war?" one of them asked.
Vaelin smirked. "Not war—positioning. We offer shelter to those who flee the empire's grasp, train them, mold them. When the time comes, we will not need to strike first."
The chamber erupted into debate, some seeing wisdom, others fearing the wrath of an empire even in decline.
Meanwhile, within Vordania's high council, the discussion surrounding Blackwood had escalated into paranoia. High Chancellor Regulus Varn leaned over the vast obsidian table, his fingers pressing into the polished surface. "Who among our enemies would be so bold? Who would gain from such a complete extermination?"
Grand Marshal Kaedric Dorne scowled. "It does not fit any known faction's pattern. No banners were left behind, no messages carved into the walls. This was not a warning—it was an execution."
Lord Treasurer Severian Vos added, "If this was a rival faction, we would have heard whispers of their movements. And yet, no one is taking credit. Not the Dominion, not Elyndor, not even the scattered warlords of the east."
Spymaster Lucian Marrow, ever the quiet observer, finally spoke. "Then perhaps it was not an enemy. Perhaps it was something far closer."
The room fell into a tense silence.
"Explain," Varn commanded.
Lucian leaned forward, his voice lower now. "What if this was not an external strike but an internal one? Someone—or something—cleansing the empire from within. A force unknown to us, moving in the dark, choosing its targets with chilling precision."
Veyron Saldor, the High Inquisitor, narrowed his eyes. "That is a dangerous assumption. If there exists such an entity within our own borders, and we have no name for it, then we are blind. And blind men are slaughtered first."
The conversation weighed heavily upon them. Just as it seemed they had reached a standstill, a messenger burst into the chamber, his face pale with dread.
"My lords! Another report—just now from the western watchtowers. Another outpost has fallen."
Varn turned sharply. "By whose hands?"
The messenger swallowed hard. "We... we do not know. There were no survivors. But..."
He hesitated, then stepped forward, opening his trembling hand. The council leaned in, their eyes narrowing at what he revealed—a fragment of blackened cloth, brittle and ancient, marked with an unfamiliar sigil.
Silence hung thick in the room.
"This was found nailed to the captain's chest."
Dorne felt his breath hitch. "Nailed?"
The messenger nodded grimly. "Not with steel. With bone."
A chill crept through the chamber.
Then, from the hallway beyond, a scream tore through the air—raw, strangled, and abruptly cut short.
The council spun toward the sound. The doors slammed shut on their own.
And the torches flickered out.