The walls of the Chamber of Azareth were not made of stone, but of petrified shadows—an inverted dome suspended in the void, where every word weighed like a verdict.
There were seven of them. Draped in black, faces masked, voices altered by magic. Each bore a forgotten title, inherited from bloodlines as ancient as the curses that plagued this world.
— "The Monarch has returned," intoned the Third.
— "He has donned the crown," added the Fifth.
— "We must act," concluded the First.
But the Seventh, silent until now, laid his gloved hand upon the obsidian table.
— "No."
His tone rang like a bare blade.
— "Let him believe he is building something. Let him gather the ashes. When he rises… then we will strike. And he will learn what the Black Heritage truly conceals."
In the tense silence, a flicker lit within one of the dome's mirrors. A figure appeared for an instant: a man with golden eyes standing amid Dornhal's ruins.
The Third whispered, doubt creeping in:
— "He is already there."
His name was Ceylen Arveth—at least, that was the name preserved in the lost chronicles carved into the fire-touched stones buried beneath the old world.
He belonged neither to the Forsaken Realms nor to the powers of the North. He was the heir of a forgotten pact, sealed between the Primordial Shadow…and the last Green Kings of the East.
His golden gaze was no gift. It was a scar. A mark of forbidden knowledge.
He watched Kaelen from afar, hidden among the crowds.
— "He believes he rebuilds," Ceylen breathed. "But he only awakens what should never have been loosed from the abyss."
In his palm, a black ring glowed faintly. At its center, a gem pulsed in time with Kaelen's heart—at a distance.
He was bound to him. By flesh. By blood.
Meanwhile, Kaelen pressed on with his designs. He dispatched the first expeditions into the underground mines. Roads were cleared. Watchposts rose from the scarred hills.
But Maelis, his strategist, caught his arm, eyes wide with concern:
— "There is a man… He speaks to no one, eats only when none are watching. His eyes… they glow like molten amber."
Kaelen stiffened.
— "You saw him?"
— "Yes. And he watches us. He waits for something."
A shiver of alarm ran through the young monarch.
This nascent kingdom had drawn more than survivors. It had called forth monsters, spies…and perhaps even ancient gods.
Deep within the Chamber of Azareth, an artifact was unsealed.
A black sphere, pulsing like a heart.
The Seventh placed his hands upon it, and it split open, revealing a massive eye fringed with violet flames.
— "The Pact of Seven may be invoked. The Monarch has broken the cycle. The time has come."
And in the North, within the cold mountain crypts, the first silent armies awoke. Flesh-less soldiers. Petrified priests. And creatures too old to have names.
To be continued…