The council chamber of Eldralore was colder than it had ever been. Not because of the winter winds seeping through the ancient stone, but because of the man who stood at its center—Altharion, the newly crowned Magus King.
His golden crown caught the flickering torchlight, gleaming like a halo, but the eyes beneath it were anything but saintly. They were pools of steel and shadow, scanning the gathered nobles like a hunter evaluating prey.
Lord Veyric shifted in his seat, breaking the tense silence. "Your Majesty, the border garrisons report movement—large movement—from the east. If the rumors of the Dread Legion are true—"
"Rumors?" Altharion's voice cut through the chamber, low and sharp. "Rumors don't burn villages to ash. Rumors don't nail scouts to trees as warnings."
The lords fell silent.
Altharion began to pace slowly, the hem of his black-and-gold robe whispering over the marble. "The Dread Legion marches, and you cower in here, debating whether their existence is real. While you argue, they sharpen their blades on the bones of your people."
Lady Mirielle raised her chin. "Then what would you have us do? You hold the crown now, Altharion. Give the command."
His gaze shifted to her, and for a heartbeat, the air seemed to crackle. "We prepare for war. Not just defense—preemption."
Murmurs spread among the council, some alarmed, others intrigued.
"I will not wait for them to knock on our gates," Altharion continued. "We strike them in their own shadowed lands. We take the fight to their heart before they can pour their poison into ours."
Lord Veyric frowned. "That is a dangerous gamble. The eastern wastelands are cursed. Armies vanish there. Even the old kings—"
"—were cowards," Altharion finished, his tone ice. "And they paid for it with centuries of weakness."
The silence that followed was not disagreement, but grudging acknowledgment. The truth, as uncomfortable as it was, weighed on them all.
At that moment, a shadow slipped into the chamber—a figure clad in traveling leathers, hood drawn low. The guards moved to intercept, but Altharion lifted a hand. "Let her through."
The figure approached, kneeling before the throne. "Your Majesty, I bring word from the Gray Spire." Her voice was low, urgent. "The wards are failing. The eastern seals—"
Altharion's expression darkened. "The seals are breaking already?"
"Yes. The Legion's advance is not merely an army—it's a summoning. They seek to free something that should never walk this world again."
The lords exchanged fearful glances, but Altharion's face remained unreadable. Inside, however, a storm churned. He knew exactly what the messenger meant. There was only one prisoner powerful enough to justify such a campaign—the Wraith Sovereign.
"Summon the war mages," he commanded. "Rouse every banner, every blade, every spellcaster. If they think to awaken the Sovereign, they will find us waiting… with fire."
The council erupted in protests and questions, but Altharion had already turned away. The messenger followed him into the hall beyond, her voice hushed. "You intend to face them yourself?"
"Yes." His reply was as simple as it was final. "If I do not, this war will not end—it will simply consume us later."
For the first time, the messenger hesitated. "You walk a dangerous path, my king. One that may demand more than you're willing to give."
Altharion paused, glancing back toward the council chamber where the nobles still argued. "I have already given everything. All that remains… is victory."
Outside, the wind howled against the spires of Eldralore. It carried with it the scent of smoke—not from their own fires, but from far to the east. The first breath of a storm that would soon swallow kingdoms whole.
And somewhere beyond those burning horizons, the Dread Legion marched faster.