Far beneath the crimson moon, at the heart of a realm built upon despair and fire, the Citadel of Varhos stirred. The fortress stretched endlessly into the void, its spires formed from the bones of fallen gods and its gates carved with the screams of forgotten souls. Inside that colossal structure, the air itself burned with power. Shadows bled through the walls, alive with whispers that carried across eternity.
Upon his obsidian throne sat the Demon King Varhos, the Lord of Ten Thousand Flames and the Master of Shadowfire. His form was vast, yet perfectly still, cloaked in darkness that rippled like a living ocean. His eyes glowed like dying stars—twin suns of corruption and brilliance, reflecting entire wars within their depths. Around him knelt the Archdemons, his chosen generals, each radiating enough power to crush kingdoms. But none dared to speak without his will.
For a long moment, the only sound was the low hum of the citadel itself—the deep, steady pulse of the realm's heart that beat in time with Varhos's own. Then, slowly, the Demon King rose. When he did, the ground trembled. The torches dimmed. Reality bent around him, unable to hold his presence.
"Draven," Varhos said at last, his voice rolling like thunder across the dark expanse. It was neither loud nor soft, but it carried through the void, through every shadow, through every soldier who had ever whispered that name. "He grows bolder."
The nearest general, a creature of molten bone and fire, bowed deeply. "My lord, the fortress of Fennmar has fallen. The shadows follow him. His army feeds on the dead. He has begun to harness the very essence of shadowfire."
Varhos turned his gaze toward the far wall, where a vast mirror of blood and glass reflected the mortal realm. Within its surface, scenes flickered—Draven's army marching, the banners of the Shadow Legion rising against crimson skies. Varhos's lips curved into something that might have been a smile, or perhaps a sneer. "He believes he understands my creation," he murmured. "He believes he can wield what was never meant for mortal hands."
The shadows coiled tighter around him, whispering secrets that no sane mind could bear. Varhos extended one clawed hand, and the mirror shifted. Now it showed Draven standing amid fire and ruin, his eyes glowing with the same black light that once belonged only to the Demon King.
For the first time in centuries, Varhos's expression changed. "Interesting."
The hall grew colder. Every demon in the chamber lowered their gaze. None dared meet the eyes of their king when that tone entered his voice—curiosity mixed with wrath.
"Let him come," Varhos said. "Let him walk through my veins and believe himself strong. In the end, he will see. Power is not taken. It is given... and I give nothing freely."
He raised his hand, and the mirror shattered. The shards hung in the air, floating like frozen tears, each one showing a different realm burning. With a thought, Varhos sent a fragment of his power through the cracks of the world. A wave of black flame swept outward, carrying his will to every corner of his dominion.
And far above, across battlefields soaked in blood and ash, Draven felt it.
The ground quaked beneath his feet. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of sulfur and death. The soldiers around him froze as the crimson sky darkened. The moon split for a heartbeat, revealing a void beneath it—something watching, vast and unblinking.
Draven clenched his jaw. "Varhos," he whispered. The name itself made the shadows around him ripple. It was not just a name. It was a force, a curse, a memory burned into the bones of creation.
The path before them was narrow and twisted, leading through the Valley of Echoes. The mountains groaned as if alive, faces forming and vanishing in the stone. Every step forward made the shadows thicken, every breath carried a whisper of those who had fallen before. His army marched silently, their torches flickering like stars in a dying sky.
Aris flew above the formation, her wings strained but strong. She descended beside Draven, her eyes scanning the darkness ahead. "The second fortress lies beyond the canyon. But something moves within the mist. I can feel it watching."
"It's him," Draven said. His voice was calm, but his heart pounded with an echo that wasn't his own. "Varhos has awakened."
Behind them, Valen growled softly, his fangs glinting. "Then let him watch us crush his servants."
Kael, ever silent, lifted his broken spear. The shards of its blade now burned with the same black fire that surrounded Draven. The weapon pulsed like a living thing, bound to the will of its master.
As they advanced, the mist thickened until it became almost solid. Shapes began to emerge—armored figures with hollow eyes and twisted bodies. They were not living. They were remnants, formed from shadowfire itself, bound by Varhos's will. Their armor burned without heat, and their swords dripped with black flame.
Draven raised his hand. The shadows behind him surged like a tidal wave. "No mercy," he said. "Break the chains that bind this world."
The battle erupted in an instant.
The sky itself seemed to split as fire and darkness collided. Aris swooped through the air, her blades cutting through ranks of shadowbound soldiers. Valen tore through them with savage fury, his claws glowing red-hot. Kael struck with precision, every thrust of his broken spear piercing through cursed armor.
But for every fallen foe, another rose from the ashes.
Varhos was testing them. His will poured through the battlefield like a storm.
Draven strode through the chaos, his power swelling with each fallen enemy. The ground cracked beneath him. The shadows rose, swirling into a vortex of living flame. When he struck, entire legions vanished in a single heartbeat.
And far away, in his throne room, Varhos watched the flames dance.
He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "So you would defy me, Draven," he said softly. "Then come. Come and show me what becomes of mortals who claim my crown."
His laughter rolled across the world like thunder, and the sky above Draven's army caught fire once more.
The second fortress awaited its gates closed, its towers bleeding darkness. But Draven did not stop. He could feel Varhos's gaze upon him, and he knew this was no longer a war of armies.
It was a war of wills.
And the fate of all realms would be decided in the shadow of the Demon King Varhos.