Beneath the kingdom of Cindralis, where the veins of the old mountains twisted through stone and ash, a cavernous hall lay hidden — a place of ancient rites and forgotten oaths. Cracked pillars and faded murals told of gods long dead and powers sealed in blood. The air reeked of old iron and smothered flame.
Torches lined the walls, their pale blue flames casting ghostly light over a chamber thick with dread.
In its center, a ritual circle carved from dark stone pulsed faintly, the intricate runes filled with fresh crimson. At least two dozen people — merchants, guards, laborers, and beggars — lay bound within its borders, their mouths gagged, their eyes wide with terror. Some had already lost the will to scream.
Figures in tattered, deep gray robes surrounded the circle, their faces hidden beneath bone-white masks. Their voices murmured in unison, the words of an ancient incantation older than any written tongue still spoken on the surface.
And above them, near the altar of volcanic glass, stood their leader.
Ravon.
A tall figure, cloaked in midnight cloth streaked with ancient blood. His mask bore the symbol of a waning crescent, a single crimson gemstone set into its brow. His presence seemed to warp the very air, thickening it like syrup around him.
"It begins," Ravon intoned, his voice a deep rasp that echoed against the chamber walls. "The old blood stirs. The pact reborn."
The cultists raised their hands, voices rising in a manic crescendo. The runes blazed to life, the sacrificial victims writhing as streams of blood drew from their veins, pulled toward the altar.
Above the mountain kingdom, the moon — already heavy in the night sky — began to shift.
First to crimson.
Then to black-streaked scarlet.
A blood moon.
In the streets of Cindralis, people paused. Conversations stilled. The glow in the sky turned the world an eerie, unnatural red.
And in the cavern, the ritual reached its peak.
The victims screamed — a chorus of agony and death that rattled through the stones of the kingdom. Their bodies spasmed as the magic consumed them, their blood feeding the ancient glyphs.
Ravon threw his arms wide, laughing — a long, maddened sound that echoed through the tunnels.
"Arise, servants of the Drowned Moon! Let this cursed kingdom feel the wrath of the forgotten gods!"
He thrust his staff toward the ceiling.
A pulse of black-red energy burst forth, a wave of unholy magic surging through the city's underbelly.
* * * * *
In the upper city, people awoke in droves.
The guards at the gates staggered to their feet, weapons trembling in hand as the red light bathed the streets.
The Ember Hearth Inn's windows rattled.
Leon bolted upright in bed, his katana's crimson glow blazing in the dark.
Sylva gasped as a surge of dark energy lanced through her senses.
Darius was already up, sword in hand.
Iris stumbled from her room, pale and wide-eyed.
Kieran shot up in his bed, cold sweat plastering his hair to his face.
Even Velis stirred, her crimson eyes narrowing with eerie calm as the dark magic rippled through the stones.
The entire kingdom felt it.
A storm had broken.
And at its heart, the Drowned Moon laughed.
* * * * *
A storm of noise tore through the kingdom of Cindralis.
The ancient bronze bells atop the watchtowers screamed their alarm, the clang of metal against metal sending ripples of panic through the streets. Citizens poured into the roads half-dressed, clutching whatever weapons or tools they could grab. Cries of fear echoed against stone walls as soldiers scrambled to muster at the main thoroughfares, shouting orders lost in the rising chaos.
Adventurers armed themselves hastily, their faces pale under the crimson glow of the blood moon that hung like a monstrous eye over the mountain-locked kingdom.
And then it came.
A roar.
Not of a man, nor any beast known to the mortal world — but something ancient and monstrous. The sound shook the very stones of Cindralis, rattling windows and sending waves rippling through the bloodied pools beneath the city streets.
Every face turned skyward.
And there it was.
A dragon.
Not a creature of flesh and scale as told in fairytales, but a monstrous, warped abomination.
Its wings stretched impossibly wide, membranes black as obsidian shot through with veins of molten crimson. Each beat of its wings churned the clouds and left streaks of fire in the air. Its body was twisted, its hide covered in jagged scales like shattered glass, glimmering dully in the moonlight.
Eyes like pits of seething magma stared down upon the kingdom — twin furnaces of hatred and hunger.
Its tail lashed, the end tipped with a scythe-like blade, and a second, guttural roar split the night.
Then the ground trembled again — but this time from below.
From the alleyways, the abandoned forge-halls, and the Blackstone tunnels, monsters poured into the streets. Aberrations of twisted flesh and bone, malformed wolves with too many eyes, serpent-things made of living smoke, and hunched humanoid horrors whose claws dripped black ichor.
The streets filled with the screams of the dying.
* * * * *
Darius burst through the front doors of the inn, sword already drawn, golden eyes sharp beneath the flickering lamplight.
"Everyone, out now!" he barked.
The others followed close behind — Gaius with his greatsword, Iris clutching her staff, Selene's eyes blazing violet as elemental magic coiled around her hands.
Lyra moved with dagger in hand, golden brown eyes narrowed, dark hair catching the eerie red light. Sylva was at her side, silver-bladed daggers at the ready, her expression cold and composed.
Leon gripped his katana, its crimson glow reflecting in his golden eyes.
Velis emerged last, eerily calm as always, silver eyes unblinking, her dark hair a curtain against the strange red wash of the moonlight.
Kieran slid to a stop beside them, a long dagger in each hand. "Tell me we're not fighting a dragon tonight."
"No promises," Darius growled.
The group gathered outside, the world around them a maelstrom of chaos — and then a shadow passed overhead.
The dragon circled once, and upon its back, a figure stood tall, robed in tattered black, a bone-white mask split with crimson lines.
Ravon.
A shiver ran through the gathered crowd as recognition set in. The wanted cultist whose name had stained the bounty boards of every kingdom for years.
And now he stood above them all.
Ravon's voice rose, unnaturally loud, carried by dark magic as he addressed the terrified kingdom.
"People of Cindralis!" he boomed, voice both ecstatic and cruel. "I thank you for your faithful service — though you did not know it. For you see, you have all served your true purpose this night!"
The dragon let out a snarl as Ravon raised his arms.
"The blood of your kind flows freely now, a tide of crimson tribute to herald the revival of our long-forgotten god! The true Demon Lord who even now stirs beneath these mountains!"
His laughter was manic, echoing across rooftops and through the terrified masses.
"Your walls will crumble! Your gods will fall! And your children's bones will pave the path of his return! Cindralis shall burn — and from its ashes, the age of man shall end!"
The dragon roared again.
And with a flick of Ravon's hand, the monsters surged into the streets — a tide of claws, fangs, and shadows.
The Crimson Vow readied themselves, weapons raised, hearts pounding.
"Positions!" Darius barked. "Defend the square — no one falls tonight!"
The blood moon watched in silence.
And the kingdom of Cindralis descended into war.