There was silence in the citadel that lasted for days. The cacophony of war, the thunder of an empire's rise, was not in the vicinity. Here, at the heart of Draegor's realm, the progress of time happened at its own pace, measured and slow, as if the land itself inhaled with its master.
Once more, Draegor stood at the black stone windows, looking out across the Miregarden, that country which over the years had become familiar and restless strange. His eyes tracked the fine movement of the bone flowers swaying in the breeze, the white petals the pale glows of moonlight. The air seemed to thrum with a sense of being alive, something that resonated deep beneath the surface.
But tonight it was different. Something changed, quietly, surely.
Selen's mission report had been forwarded to the Aurelian Compact. It was to be expected that it would spread waves of discomfiture, or even curiosity, among the higher echelons of power. The Compact, notorious for its network of spies and diplomats, would soon begin realizing the reality of Draegor's kingdom.
Selen's Departure
A couple of days had passed since the envoy's last report. Selen Varris had stowed his belongings and was to leave, his mission accomplished—or at least it seemed so. He had already traveled the great distance through the lands of Draegor, observing, taking in information, preparing his reports for the Compact's rulers. But just as his ship was to set sail, something nagged at his mind.
A disquiet lay unset within his breast as he stood upon the citadel's balcony in Draegor, watching the sea in front of him. The Elder Sea—open, vast, and merciless—provided no comfort. Draegor's authority seemed to reach within Selen's soul and imprint a indelible shadow there, unremovable. And now he felt it—the gentle thumping of power within the citadel, the land, and from Draegor himself.
Selen was not an easy man to scare, but there was something about the Lord of the Deathborn Throne that gave him a persistent feeling of discomfort in his heart. It was not fear per se, but a realization that Draegor played by a different set of rules than other men did.
The winds stirred as the sails of the vessel were unfurled, and Selen turned to leave the citadel, looking back once more at the spires rising above. Draegor's kingdom appeared to be calling to him, a voice he could not discern, nor did he wish to know.
At the very heart of the Aurelian Compact, in the great hall of the council, powers gathered around a huge, round table. They were all men of power, the greatest in the world that was known. They had sharp thoughts, their fingers skilled in the arts of men and empires, and eyes that had been trained to look beyond what others were seeing.
The report had arrived, carried on the fast messenger's back, and now lay on their desk.
A man in somber ceremonial robes, Lord Irvin, leader of the Compact's council, unrolled the parchment with slow deliberation. His fingers traced over the lines inscribed in ink, his expression unyielding. The other members of the council paced about him, each lost in his own thoughts. The room was so still that it felt like the air itself was holding its breath for the next.
"A report from the ambassador," Lord Irvin said finally, his voice low and commanding. "It seems that the Lord of the Deathborn Throne is not what we anticipated. The land he governs. it's not like anything we've ever known."
Another man, Elder Ryswin, who had been the Compact's envoy for years, squinted as he leaned forward. "Say more. The land itself is disturbing, aye, but what of the man? Draegor.
Irvin hesitated before continuing, as though weighing his words carefully. "Selen's account describes a ruler unlike any we've encountered. There is no oppression in his lands. Instead, it is a strange loyalty that binds the people. It is as if they are drawn to him by an invisible force, something beyond the reach of mortal understanding."
One of the younger council members, Lady Elira, spoke up, her voice sharp with curiosity. "A force beyond mortal understanding? Does this mean he wields a power greater than any known to us?"
Irvin's mouth puckered into a hard frown. "It is not so simple. He does not claim to control the forces of nature or gods, nor does he talk about power. But. there is something in his domain, something distinctly otherworldly. A dark energy hums through the land itself."
The council fell silent, the weight of the words sinking in. Few times did anyone speak of a land that wielded power so inhuman, but here they were, fighting to believe it.
The Rise of Draegor
Away from the corridors of the Aurelian Compact, Draegor's thoughts were elsewhere. He had sensed the approach of his report in the land of the living. His connection to his servants and the lands that he ruled over was not one that was limited by space or time. Even now, as his body stayed behind in the citadel, the farthest reaches of his power were leaking out, like tendrils of darkness slowly consuming more of the world.
Draegor had not yet announced himself to the Compact. There was no need to. They would find him, in time. Their curiosity would draw them like moths to a flame, and they would watch, firsthand, what kind of power he possessed. But for the moment, he was content to wait.
Under the darkness of night, Draegor sat upon his throne, gazing out into the activity of his kingdom. His army—the Deathborn, his slaves, and the trapped souls within the soulglass—growing stronger, withstanding. Not only did his influence stretch across the earth and the power of arms, but through the minds and hearts of those he'd claimed.
Patience was his ally. The world would never know that he was on his way. But when they did, then they would realize. And when they came to encounter him, they would discover that Draegor was more than a man, more than a king—he was an immortal power, one who was to alter everything.
The Whispering Shadows
At the center of the citadel, one of Draegor's faithful servants, Lucia, a powerful sorceress who had been serving him for many years, approached her lord. She had been busy in the depths of the citadel, conversing with the veil through old rituals—the dwelling place of the dead, which breathed its secrets.
"Lord Draegor," she said, her voice soft but commanding. "I obeyed your commands. The shadows speak of movements beyond the walls of our kingdom. There are whispers—ancient and forgotten rumors from distant lands—talking of something awakened."
The eyes of Draegor blazed with an unnatural fire as he stood before her. "Awakened?"
Lucia nodded. "Aye, master. It seems that the time is nigh for something to happen. Something. beyond our power to control."
Draegor relaxed back in his throne, his gaze inward turned as he considered her words. "Then it begins," he whispered softly, a slow smile creasing his face. "Let them come."
The Threads of Fate
The winds of change were blowing, though it would be some time before the world fully understood their significance. Draegor's reach extended far beyond the citadel, beyond the Miregarden, even beyond the borders of the Aurelian Compact.
Every foot he stepped, every motion he made sent shockwaves throughout the world. The continent's great powers—kingdoms, empires, secret societies—would hear of the ascension of Draegor in due time. But not yet, for now the world slumbered on in ignorance, blind and smug in their daily struggle.
The time was not yet ripe for outright battle. Draegor had other plans—plans that, when the time came, would break the roots of the earth.
But that time, for the time being at least, was not yet.