The sun rose blood-red over Emberhold Fortress, casting long, trembling shadows across the fields. The air was thick with the scent of steel, sweat, and burning oil.
Beneath the towering black banners of the Drakthar Dominion, millions of soldiers stood in perfect formation. Their armor glimmered like dark silver scales, each piece engraved with runes that pulsed faintly with infernal light. Spears pointed toward the heavens, swords rested at their sides, and their eyes—cold and disciplined—gleamed with unwavering loyalty.
From mounted cavalry to heavy shield-bearers, archers, and mages cloaked in scarlet robes, the army stretched far beyond the horizon—a living tide of conquest ready to move at the tyrant's command.
At the front, standing tall upon the obsidian steps of the fortress, was King Kaelen Veynar, the Tyrant of Drakthar.
His armor was unlike any other—forged from blackened dragonsteel, etched with gold veins that shimmered under the sun. The pauldrons curved like fangs, the chestplate bore the sigil of a burning crown, and his long red cloak fluttered behind him, dust swirling at his boots. A cold smile played on his lips, his crimson eyes glinting with the fire of ambition.
When he spoke, his voice carried like thunder. "Men of Drakthar! Sons of fire and steel!"
The soldiers raised their spears, their shouts shaking the ground.
"For years, we have watched the Osric kingdom grow soft under its weak rulers. They whisper of peace while we forge our might in flame!"
He drew his sword—a massive, black-edged greatsword engraved with blood runes—and raised it high.
"Today, we march not for land, nor for wealth—but for Dominion! For Immortality! The gods have turned their backs on us, but we will rise above them! This world shall kneel before the Banner of Drakthar!"
The army roared as one, their voices echoing through the mountains, shaking the skies. "LONG LIVE KING KAELEN! LONG LIVE DRAKTHAR!"
Kaelen's grin widened. "Forward," he commanded, his voice sharp as a blade. "Let the world tremble."
---
Meanwhile, back in Osric Court, the atmosphere shifted like a storm. The golden throne room fell silent as the heavy doors burst open. Morvain strode in, his face pale but his composure intact. His cloak swayed violently with each step as his boots echoed across the marble floor.
Lucifer sat upon his golden throne, one leg crossed over the other, his sharp gaze fixed on his personal guard.
Morvain knelt, lowering his head. "My Lord… the Dominion has moved. Kaelen has declared war."
Lucifer leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing, a cruel smirk forming at the corner of his lips.
"So the young tyrant has grown restless."
He stood, his aura spreading across the hall like smoke. The air trembled; torches flickered wildly. Ministers bowed lower, struggling to breathe.
"Then let him come," Lucifer said, voice calm yet filled with venom. "Prepare for battle."
---
Days Later
The sky above Osric Fortress was painted with the gray of gathering storm clouds. Dust swirled across the barren plains where the army of Drakthar had assembled, stretching in all directions like an endless sea of steel.
At their head stood Kaelen, mounted upon a massive black steed, its mane braided with chains of gold. His soldiers were restless, their weapons ready, their eyes fixed on the great gates of Osric.
Then, at last, the ancient gates creaked open.
But instead of an army, only one figure stepped out.
He was cloaked in a long dark robe, the hood drawn low, hiding his face in shadow. The hem of his cloak brushed against the dusty ground as if it floated. Beneath the hood, faint embers glowed where eyes should be. The wind carried a chill that made even seasoned soldiers flinch.
It was Lucifer.
Kaelen's smirk faltered. He leaned forward in his saddle, voice booming across the field.
"Gerald! Where are your soldiers—or do you plan to die alone?"
Lucifer's hood tilted slightly. A faint, cold chuckle escaped his lips.
"My hands feel… itchy," he said, flexing his fingers. "It has been far too long."
Then his tone shifted, dark and teasing. "Who wants to die first?"
The soldiers murmured in disbelief, some exchanging anxious glances.
Kaelen's expression hardened. He turned his head slightly. "Valen," he said coldly. "Kill him."
From the line of elite guards, Valen stepped forward.
He was dressed in dark, layered robes that shimmered like liquid shadow. His movements were silent—too silent—as if the ground itself feared to echo him. His skin was pale as moonlight, his eyes empty of emotion. A pair of twin daggers hung from his belt, each humming with dark power.
Valen knelt briefly before Kaelen, then vanished into the air like smoke.
---
Lucifer tilted his head, watching the faint ripples in the dust. "Someone from the shadows?" he said, his tone amused. "Interesting."
Without warning, Valen emerged behind him, blade aimed straight for his heart. But Lucifer turned slightly, his hand catching the dagger in midair. The force of it shattered the steel like glass.
A whisper of black fire ignited around Lucifer's fingers.
Valen blinked, disappearing again, only to reappear at Lucifer's flank. He struck again—this time faster, sharper—but every move met with a parry that came almost before the attack began.
Lucifer moved like a predator—calm, precise, and merciless. His dark aura flared, consuming the battlefield in tendrils of shadow.
"You're skilled," Lucifer said, voice low, eyes gleaming. "But you lack conviction."
Valen lunged one final time—his form splitting into multiple shadow clones, each striking from a different angle. Lucifer smiled, raising one hand.
In an instant, the clones froze midair. Their shadows peeled away from their bodies, drawn into Lucifer's palm like smoke.
A sound like tearing silk filled the air. Valen gasped, clutching his chest as his own shadow rebelled against him, tearing away from his body.
Lucifer's eyes blazed crimson. "Let me show you what true darkness looks like."
With a sharp motion, he clenched his fist.
Valen's body shattered into dust, leaving behind a faint, glowing crystal core, pulsing weakly on the ground. Lucifer bent down, the edges of his cloak brushing the dirt.
Lucifer bent down, the edges of his cloak brushing the dirt.
He picked up the core, its glow reflecting in his crimson eyes.
"A fine core," he murmured. "Power wasted on the unworthy."
He absorbed it effortlessly, and for a moment, his aura flared violently—dark lightning crackling through the air, shaking the ground beneath him.
Kaelen and his soldiers looked on in disbelief.
Then Lucifer looked up, his eyes piercing through the ranks. His voice rang clear and cold across the field:
"Kaelen," he said. "If it's power you seek… you'll find it in your grave."
Kaelen's jaw tightened, his pride wounded. He yanked the reins of his horse sharply. "Retreat!" he commanded, his voice cutting through the silence.
The great army of Drakthar turned back, the once-mighty rhythm of their march faltering as fear spread like wildfire among them.
As they vanished into the haze of dust, Lucifer stood alone in the open field, his cloak fluttering in the wind, the world eerily quiet around him.
A faint smile crossed his lips as he whispered to himself—soft, dark, and certain:
"The game has finally begun."