he throne hall did not disperse after the Sovereign's decree. No one dared leave, not with the storm lingering in their ruler's eyes. The braziers guttered, shadows stretching long and sharp as the Sovereign raised one hand.
"Bring them."
At once, the great doors groaned open. What entered was not soldiers, but shadows given form. A dozen figures clad in ragged armor, their helms wrought to resemble screaming faces, strode into the chamber. Their steps echoed like war drums. Behind them came towering beasts of bone and chain, bound and muzzled, eyes glowing with soulfire.
The court shrank back.
The Sovereign's lips curled into a smile.
"The Black Host."
From the front ranks, one commander stepped forth, his frame impossibly broad, clad in spiked plate blacker than midnight. His helmet bore a crown of jagged steel, his voice a rumble like stone splitting.
"Your Majesty. The Host answers your call."
The Sovereign descended once again, circling the massive figure like a predator appraising its hound.
"Tell me, Malphor… do your legions hunger?"
The commander's gauntlet clenched, metal groaning.
"They have starved since the last culling. We march, they feast."
A ripple of unease passed through the courtiers. None spoke, for none wished to name the truth: the Black Host did not feed on food or drink. They fed on blood and terror, on the marrow of the fallen. They were not merely soldiers—they were carrion given purpose.
From another shadow stepped a different figure: lean, draped in crimson silks that hid weapons beneath their folds. Their mask was porcelain, painted with a permanent smile. A voice rang out, mocking, amused.
"Ah, so the Marked child rises. How poetic. How foolish. Shall I carve his name into my blades before I cut it from his throat?"
The Sovereign's gaze narrowed.
"Not yet, Serath. He is not prey to be toyed with. He is fire to be smothered. Do you understand?"
The masked assassin bowed low, laughter like glass breaking.
"As you command, Majesty. But every fire leaves ash."
The Sovereign returned to the throne, cloak settling like a stormcloud.
"Malphor will command the front. Serath, you will slip among his camp. Test his bonds. Break his trust if you can. And if you cannot…"
Their voice lowered, colder than ice.
"…then bleed them until he stands alone."
The court dared not breathe.
At the farthest end of the hall, the veiled seer spoke again, their words trembling yet filled with weight.
"And if he awakens further, Majesty? If the Crimson Spark burns brighter?"
The Sovereign's hands tightened on the arms of the throne. For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then, with venom, they answered:
"Then I will face him myself. And the world will remember that no flame burns brighter than the Sovereign's shadow."
The Black Host roared as one, the sound shaking stone, a tide of hate and hunger rising.
The war had begun to stir.