The primitives fled the Silent Abyss,
their stolen blood thrumming with terror and awe.
They stumbled back into the multiverse,
crossing the ragged wound in space,
carrying a fear they could neither name nor deny.
And as they fell back into their scattered worlds,
something within them — something ancient and true —
changed.
The six clans — proud Kozurai, cold Xavora, patient Myraku, desperate Zorak, dreaming Selvane, brutal Ravael —
had entered the Plane thinking themselves gods.
They left it kneeling, trembling, remade.
For in the presence of the Silent Abyss,
in the presence of Seraphis and Caelora,
they had felt it:
A Will beyond comprehension.
A King they could not look upon.
A Sovereignty written into the core of their being.
They had seen nothing but a throne and its guardians.
They had not even glimpsed the Cocooned King asleep atop the Black Throne.
And yet…
Their loyalty was absolute.
Across the scattered stars,
across forgotten worlds,
the primitive clans began to change.
Temples were raised —
not to gods they knew,
but to the memory of a King unseen.
Colossal black monoliths were carved,
bearing only the symbol of an empty throne and a sleeping figure.
Laws were spoken:
Honor the Silent Throne.
Never seek to rule what is not yours.
Prepare the multiverse for the Day of Waking.
Children were taught from birth to kneel before the invisible King.
Songs were sung around fires of cold starlight.
Wars were stopped in mid-battle at the whisper of His legend.
None dared speak His true name —
because none knew it.
Yet every soul trembled in reverence.
The six clans grew fierce in their loyalty.
The Kozurai forged brutal warriors who swore to guard the Throne even from afar.
The Xavora created secret orders, silently manipulating worlds to prepare the way.
The Myraku became wandering sages, spreading the story of the Sleeping King like seeds upon the winds.
The Zorak bent their cleverness to recording prophecies they barely understood.
The Selvane drifted between dimensions, dreaming of the day their King would rise.
The Ravael trained generation after generation of soldiers who lived only for a war that had not yet come.
Each clan acted differently.
Each clan remembered differently.
But in every heart, across every world,
there burned one undeniable truth:
He sleeps.
And when He rises,
we must be ready.
Back within the Silent Abyss,
Seraphis knelt before the Black Throne.
She watched the ripples spreading outward into the multiverse,
the myths taking root,
the loyalty deepening without a single command issued.
She smiled — slow and solemn.
"Even asleep," she whispered,
"your will bends the blood of creation itself."
Beside her, Caelora stood silent, sword gleaming in the eternal dark.
"They remember because they must," Caelora said, voice low and fierce.
"Their blood calls them back to the Throne they have never seen."
Seraphis rose slowly, her silver hair cascading like a river of night.
"When you wake, my King," she said,
"you will find the multiverse already on its knees."
"As it should be," Caelora added, bowing her head in reverence.
And above them,
the Black Throne pulsed once more —
a heartbeat vast enough to stir the bones of galaxies.
Veyrath stirred.
Still silent.
Still sleeping.
But soon…
soon the dream would end.
And all who had waited,
all who had bowed in fear and love,
would kneel in the fullness of truth.