The storm hit the forest long before dawn.
Rain hammered the black canopy like a war drum, rattling leaves, bending branches, flooding the ground in seconds. But the three hunters running for their lives barely noticed the downpour—because the thing chasing them wasn't slowed by weather, or trees, or fear.
It moved like a shadow that had learned how to kill.
"Keep moving!" Rokan shouted, his boots sliding through mud as he dragged his younger brother by the collar. "Don't look back, just run!"
His brother looked back anyway.
What he saw almost ended his life right there.
A shifting mass of smoke gliding over the forest floor—silent, predatory, impossible. No footsteps. No breath. Just a drifting darkness that bled into the trees as if it were ink spilling over water.
He almost tripped. Rokan shoved him forward.
"Don't stare at it! GO!"
Behind them, the third hunter—Mella—wasn't running anymore. She had stopped between two twisted oaks, panting, frozen, staring at the drifting shape with wide, tear-filled eyes.
Rokan glanced back.
"Mella! MOVE!"
She whispered, "It's looking at me."
Rokan didn't see eyes, or a face, or anything that resembled a person. Just the living shadow, sliding closer, rippling across the mud, parting the rain like it refused to touch it.
But he heard it speak.
A voice, low and cold, slipping through the trees like a blade sliding against bone.
"You trespassed."
Rokan's blood turned to ice.
Then the shadow lunged.
---
The thing crashed through Mella like a wave of smoke and knives. There was no scream—only a throaty gasp and a sickening crack. Her body folded backwards, limp, collapsing into the mud with her eyes still open, as if death hadn't bothered to warn her.
Rokan didn't breathe for three whole seconds.
Then he grabbed his brother's arm and sprinted through the trees.
The shadow didn't chase this time. It simply drifted over Mella's corpse, studying it, the forest going silent around it as though sound itself was bowing.
Rain hit the creature but never touched it, sliding off an invisible veil. As it glided, it whispered one sentence that froze the hunters' fleeing hearts:
"Follow them."
And from the darkness of the roots, three smaller smoke-shapes rose like infants born of shadow.
The hunt continued.
---
Far above the forest, Rhaziel watched through the eyes of the smoke-kin he had created, standing on a narrow, jagged cliff with rain sheeting around him but never touching his armor.
Nyxara sat behind him on a stone outcrop, legs crossed, dress clinging to her pale skin, soaked hair framing a grin far too wide for comfort.
"You made new pets," she said, licking raindrops off her fingers. "They're adorable."
"They're necessary," Rhaziel replied, voice calm, distant.
Nyxara tilted her head. "The hunters saw one of your scouts. That ruins our quiet entrance."
"They won't live long enough to speak about it."
Nyxara laughed—a soft, chilling sound that seemed to warp the air.
"Oh, you always say the sweetest things."
Rhaziel didn't react. His gaze remained on the forest, on the running humans below, on the smoke-kin chasing them like shadows on leashes made of silence.
Down there, the two brothers slid beneath fallen trunks, stumbled across roots, scrambled up wet hillsides, their breath ragged. Their fear made them predictable. Predictable made them useful.
Nyxara leaned close to Rhaziel's ear and whispered:
"Are we recruiting these ones?"
"No."
"Oh? Why not? The little one looks like he screams nicely."
"They don't have the potential we need."
Nyxara pouted. "Boring."
Rhaziel finally turned to her, crimson eyes glowing faintly.
"They will serve in another way."
Nyxara's grin returned, razor-sharp.
"Ah. Bait."
Rhaziel said nothing. He didn't need to.
Below, the hunters burst into a clearing—and froze.
Because the forest ahead of them was gone.
Completely gone.
Just an open field where the trees had been moments earlier, as if they had never existed. No stumps. No roots. No shadows. Nothing.
"Where… where are we?" Rokan whispered.
His brother pointed shakily at the ground.
The grass was wrong. Too perfect. Too even. Too still.
Like a painting pretending to be alive.
The younger brother took a step forward.
The world flickered like a broken lantern.
And the grass vanished.
So did the clearing.
So did the sky.
The two hunters were standing not in a field, but in front of a shimmering curtain of silver-black light stretching upward into infinity.
Rokan stumbled backward.
"What the— what IS THIS?!"
Above them, the rain stopped midair—frozen droplets suspended like a thousand glass beads.
Then the curtain peeled open.
A doorway.
A portal.
A wound.
And beyond the slit of silver light, they saw it:
The unseen fortress.
Dark spires rising through an endless void.
Bridges made of shadow.
Runes burning crimson on stone that shouldn't exist.
A sprawling citadel floating in a black abyss, the size of a mountain, wrapped in silence so absolute it felt like their heartbeat was too loud to exist there.
The younger hunter fell to his knees.
"What… is this place?"
Rhokan didn't answer.
He couldn't.
From the doorway, the smoke-kin slithered out like starving hounds.
And then a voice came from above, smooth and cold and final:
"The Shrouded Citadel does not permit witnesses."
The hunters' heads snapped upward.
Rhaziel descended through the frozen rain like a falling star, cloak billowing behind him, crimson gaze locked on them both. Nyxara floated down beside him, barefoot, laughing softly as the suspended raindrops parted around her like she was the center of gravity itself.
Rokan grabbed his brother's hand.
"Get up. Please—"
But the younger one was frozen in terror, staring at the two beings descending like gods who had decided to visit their grave.
Nyxara landed first.
She stepped toward the younger brother, crouched, and lifted his chin with one sharp nail.
"Pretty eyes," she whispered. "Shame you won't get to keep them."
Rokan raised his hunting spear.
"Stay away from him!"
Nyxara didn't even look at him.
She just smiled.
Rhaziel landed with a metallic thud behind her.
He spoke without raising his voice.
"Drop the weapon."
Rokan swallowed hard.
"Why… why are you doing this?"
Rhaziel's eyes held no hatred.
No cruelty.
Just inevitability.
"Because we are not here to be found."
The smoke-kin closed in.
Nyxara's grin widened.
"Oh, I do love this part."
Rhaziel raised one hand.
Everything around them darkened.
The suspended raindrops fell upward.
The trees bent away.
Reality thinned.
And the hunters finally understood:
They were not in a forest.
They were not even in their world anymore.
They had stepped into a place that should not exist.
A moment later, the clearing went silent again.
The rain resumed falling.
The forest restored itself.
And there was no trace of the hunters left.
Not even footprints.
---
From the cliff above, Rhaziel looked toward the distant horizon.
"More will come."
Nyxara looped her arm around his.
"Let them. Every lost wanderer is a chance to grow our reach."
Rhaziel closed his hand, shadow rippling around his gauntlet.
"The world searches for answers. We will give them smoke."
Nyxara giggled softly, pressing against him.
"And from smoke… comes fear."
Rhaziel's eyes narrowed at the lands below.
"Fear," he whispered,
"is the first step toward control."
The forest had not fully settled.
Animals stayed hidden.
Wind refused to move.
Even the clouds seemed unsure if they should resume their shape.
Rhaziel and Nyxara remained on the cliff, watching the world breathe as if testing whether it was still safe to exist. Nyxara leaned back on her palms, bare feet tapping the stone in a slow rhythm.
"You know what I miss?" she said lazily.
Rhaziel didn't look at her. "No."
Nyxara giggled. "The faces people made when they saw us take our first kingdom."
Rhaziel finally turned. "This is not that world."
"Exactly," she purred. "New faces. Fresh screams. A whole world of expressions we've never seen."
Rhaziel let the comment dissolve into the rain.
Below them, another tremor rippled through the forest — subtle, almost like the ground exhaling. Rhaziel's gaze sharpened.
"They're converging."
"Who?" Nyxara asked, stretching her back like a satisfied cat.
"The ones watching from afar."
Nyxara stopped stretching.
Her grin sharpened.
"Oh. The little hidden factions?"
Rhaziel nodded once.
"They felt the forest distort. They felt the portal breach. They felt… me."
Nyxara stood, eyes glowing faintly violet.
"Should we greet them?" she asked, voice low, sultry, hungry.
"Not yet."
Nyxara pouted. "Rhaziel, keeping me restrained is cruel."
He started walking along the cliff edge. She followed closely, her steps light and soundless.
"They're scouting," Rhaziel continued. "Not acting. They fear this land as much as they fear us."
Nyxara bit her lip.
"Ooh… fear on both sides. How balanced."
She leaned in.
"I can fix that."
Rhaziel stopped.
The smoke-kin drifted out from the tree line below, rising like mist given a heartbeat. Rhaziel watched them gather near the forest's edge, curling and unrolling like serpents awaiting direction.
He raised his hand.
The shadows swayed in response.
"Follow the watchers," he commanded.
"Find their paths. Map their routines. Do not engage."
Nyxara scoffed. "No fun."
"They're testing us. Let them. We observe first, strike later."
Nyxara walked in front of him, placing herself in his path.
Her voice lowered.
"Rhaziel… you're planning something. Something bigger than smoke."
He didn't deny it.
"This world doesn't understand what arrived in its waters. They see an anomaly. A tremor. A threat. They should be preparing for a war."
He paused.
"But they're not."
Nyxara's pupils narrowed like a serpent hearing its prey.
"Then we make them."
Rhaziel looked out over the land—rivers bending through forests, distant mountains half-hidden in fog, villages tucked into rolling hills. A peaceful world pretending history wasn't sharpening its teeth.
"This land has never known the taste of a real monarch," he said quietly.
"And it never will," Nyxara added, sliding her arm beneath his, "not until we rip the old power structure apart."
Rhaziel's voice cut through the rain:
"We will not take this world.
We will reshape it."
---
Night fell with unnatural speed.
The air thickened.
The forest dimmed.
The sky trembled with the faintest red pulse—barely noticeable unless one was already watching.
And someone was.
Three cloaked figures crept through the trees on the western ridge, moving with trained stealth. Their symbols—a spiral of broken lines—glimmered faintly on their wrists.
The Rune-Sight Watchers.
A minor faction.
Not dangerous.
But observant.
The shortest of them whispered, "The distortion was here."
Another nodded, pressing a hand to the ground.
"Something immense passed through this soil."
The third, the tallest, scanned the forest with glowing amber eyes.
"Be cautious. The Elder notified us that the anomaly likely—"
He stopped.
The trees ahead shuddered.
Not from wind.
From something sliding between them.
The figures froze.
Weapons drawn.
Breath held.
Then it stepped into view.
Not the smoke-kin.
Not Rhaziel.
Something else.
A creature shaped like a wolf, but built entirely of dark runes stitched together like fractured bone. Its body flickered with crimson script, its eyes two circular glyphs swirling like a storm trapped behind symbols.
One of the watchers exhaled sharply.
"A rune-beast… but this design… I've never—"
The creature breathed in.
The runes along its spine ignited.
The smallest watcher stepped back, panic flashing across her face.
"We should retreat. This isn't natural."
"It's not supposed to be," the tallest said, voice tightening.
The beast tilted its head.
Then the forest behind the watchers twisted—branches bending downward like claws.
Nyxara stepped out from the shadows, smiling as if greeting old friends.
"Well, well… you found one of my toys."
The watchers snapped around, weapons raised.
Nyxara's grin widened as she walked closer, rain sliding off her skin in rivulets.
Her eyes glowed with a hunger that didn't belong in any living creature.
"Let me guess… you felt the little tear in your world?"
The tallest watcher forced his voice steady.
"Identify yourself."
"Oh, darling," she laughed, "I did."
The rune-beast growled.
Nyxara snapped her fingers.
It pounced.
The watchers dove aside, rolling through mud as the beast slammed into a tree, splitting it open like rotted wood. Runes flared wildly along its legs.
The smallest watcher choked, "What IS that thing?!"
Nyxara spread her arms.
"A prototype."
The tallest watcher slashed at the creature's flank, carving through three glowing symbols. The beast recoiled, crackling, half its body flickering.
Nyxara clapped softly.
"Oooh. You can hurt it. Impressive."
The watchers regrouped.
The tallest narrowed his eyes at her.
"You're not from any faction we know."
Nyxara leaned forward.
"Oh, sweetheart… you don't know any faction that matters."
She took a step.
The air distorted.
The rain froze mid-fall.
The watchers realized too late—
she wasn't the threat.
The forest behind them… fell silent.
And Rhaziel walked out.
The watchers' knees nearly buckled.
They didn't know who he was.
But they knew power when they felt it.
Rhaziel's voice cut through the freezing air:
"You approached our entry point. That is a mistake."
The tallest watcher swallowed.
"W-We don't seek conflict."
"Then why are your blades drawn?" Nyxara teased.
Rhaziel raised his hand.
The runes on the beast rearranged themselves into a new pattern—circles overlapping circles, lines dissolving into an unfamiliar script.
Nyxara's smile brightened. "He's going to test something."
The beast lunged again, faster than before—blurring through the rain.
The watchers had no time to scream.
But before it struck—
Rhaziel snapped his fingers.
The beast collapsed into smoke and runes, scattering like ash.
The watchers froze, panting, stunned.
Rhaziel walked closer.
"The next time you trespass," he said, "I won't call off the test."
The tallest watcher forced out, "W-We will report nothing. We swear it—"
"You won't be able to," Nyxara whispered.
She appeared behind them without moving her feet, fingers brushing the smallest watcher's throat.
Rhaziel glanced at Nyxara.
"Let them live."
She pouted. "Why?"
"They're running back to their faction."
He turned away.
"They will carry our message."
Nyxara's grin returned—slow and cruel.
"Ah… a warning."
Rhaziel nodded.
"Fear spreads faster than fire."
The watchers didn't need to be told again.
They fled—limping, bleeding, drenched in terror.
Nyxara watched them go, licking rain from her lips.
"Mmm. I love when the weak do our marketing."
Rhaziel looked at the horizon again.
"They are the first of many."
Nyxara hooked her arm in his.
"And when the others come?"
Rhaziel's answer was quiet.
Sharp.
Final.
"The world will learn what a shrouded war truly is."
The Rune-Sight Watchers didn't stop running until the trees thinned into a steep ravine. Their boots skidded on wet stone, hands grabbing branches, lungs burning with panic and cold air.
Only when they collapsed behind a fallen log did they finally dare speak.
The smallest watcher pressed a shaking hand to her mouth.
"He… he looked at me like he already knew how I'd die."
The tallest grabbed her shoulder.
"Quiet. Their presence could still be near."
The middle watcher—the one with the sensing glyphs—closed his eyes and extended his awareness into the forest. Runes glowed faintly along his temples, mapping vibrations, echoes, shifts in the air.
After a long, tense silence, his eyes opened.
"They're gone."
The tallest watcher exhaled—but it was not relief.
"Gone means nothing. Beings like that choose when they're seen."
The sensing watcher's gaze drifted to the broken runes scattered across the ground from the collapsed beast.
"I've never felt power like that," he whispered. "Not from High Mages… not from rune-lords… not even from the Immortal Syndicate."
The smallest watcher trembled.
"Then who are they?"
The tallest did not answer.
He pulled his hood lower, eyes shadowed with dread.
"We return to the Elder. Immediately. Every step we take from now on is a race against something far greater than us."
They began their careful retreat.
But none of them noticed the thin trail of smoke drifting above their footprints—following silently, patiently… carrying their fear back to the Citadel.
---
Back atop the cliff, Rhaziel and Nyxara walked through a curtain of silver light, stepping into their unseen base.
The Shrouded Citadel greeted them with a whisper of shifting stone.
Towers spiraled like twisting obsidian bones.
Bridges of shadow stitched themselves from one spire to another.
Massive chains, thick as tree trunks, anchored the entire fortress to nothing—hanging in a void that resembled a night sky stripped of stars.
The ground beneath their feet rippled like hardened smoke.
Nyxara stretched her arms out, breathing deeply.
"Home is starting to smell like us."
Rhaziel didn't respond; he was already scanning the flow of spatial threads along the citadel walls. The structure responded—black runes glowing, walls reshaping, doors opening and closing of their own accord.
The Citadel was alive.
And Rhaziel was the heartbeat.
As he walked deeper, Nyxara danced behind him, dragging her fingers along a wall, leaving streaks of violet light. The structure shivered in response, as though it both feared and adored her touch.
She smirked.
"I want a new wing built tonight. One with a pit. A deep one. Something fun."
Rhaziel continued forward.
"You will have your pit."
"Ooh," she purred, "say it again."
Rhaziel stopped.
The corridor before them split into three paths, each lined with floating runestones. He lifted his hand, and the stones vibrated, shifting into new patterns.
The citadel rearranged itself, opening a fourth path—one that hadn't existed moments before.
Nyxara giggled. "You're spoiling me."
"We need more space for recruits," Rhaziel said calmly.
Nyxara's brows raised.
"So we're recruiting again."
"Yes."
Her smile darkened.
"How many?"
"As many as we can find without drawing the attention of the greater factions."
She twirled her hair thoughtfully.
"And the little watchers?"
"They'll tell their leaders," Rhaziel said. "Which means leaders will send scouts. Scouts lead to soldiers. Soldiers lead to confrontation."
Nyxara's grin widened like a crack in the dark.
"A conflict? Already? But we haven't even unpacked."
Rhaziel's eyes glowed faint crimson.
"This world is slower than the one we came from. Its factions have no unity. No shared purpose. No centralized strength."
He paused.
"Conflict is inevitable."
Nyxara stepped in front of him, lifting his chin with a single finger.
"It's adorable how you pretend you don't enjoy it."
Rhaziel didn't deny or confirm it.
He simply walked past her.
"Prepare the Ritual Hall."
Nyxara's eyes lit with hunger.
"New victims or new members?"
"Both. The ritual grows stronger with numbers."
Nyxara clapped lightly, delighted.
"I'll get the altar warm."
She drifted away, humming a tune that sounded like a lullaby sung to a dying god.
Rhaziel watched her go, then turned his attention to the heart of the citadel—the central throne chamber.
He entered.
It was vast.
A cavern of shifting shadow and stone, lit by a floating sphere of red-black flame. The throne itself was carved from a single block of dark matter that seemed to absorb the surrounding light, an empty seat waiting for a ruler the world didn't know existed.
Rhaziel approached it but did not sit.
Instead, he placed a hand on the armrest.
The throne pulsed once.
And visions flooded into the chamber.
Maps—hundreds of them.
Hidden faction territories.
Locations of rune-clusters.
Pulses of magical influence buried deep underground.
Movements of armies that hadn't even left their camps yet.
The entire world projected before him like a fragile construct—one he could crush with time.
Something new appeared in the projection.
A bright spark.
Then another.
Then six more.
Rhaziel leaned closer.
"Scouts," he murmured.
Not from the small Rune-Sight group.
These signatures were larger. More trained. More organized.
He recognized the pattern.
"The Veiled Accord," he said quietly.
Nyxara's voice echoed down the hall from somewhere unseen.
"Oh? The polite ones? The ones who pretend neutrality while spying on everyone?"
"Yes."
Nyxara laughed.
"Let's see how neutral they stay when their scouts never come home."
Rhaziel raised his hand above the map projection.
He closed his fingers slowly.
The projection shifted.
Smoke trails curled around the scout signatures, marking them.
Tracking them.
Claiming them.
"They will come searching," Rhaziel said.
Nyxara appeared beside the throne like a nightmare slipping into reality, smiling, eyes wild.
"Good," she whispered.
"They'll finally learn the rule of this world."
Rhaziel looked at her.
"What rule?"
Nyxara leaned in, her lips almost against his ear.
"If you see the smoke… you've already lost."
Rhaziel's expression didn't change, but the map flickered violently—lands shaking, symbols distorting, shadows stretching like claws.
The war beneath the surface had begun.
Not openly.
Not loudly.
Not with armies.
But with whispers.
With hunts.
With smoke.
And the world, blissfully unaware, continued to sleep under the weight of a storm it didn't know was already breaking.
Night descended like a hood being pulled over the world—slow, deliberate, smothering.
And in its depths, the unseen empire of Rhaziel and Nyxara began to pulse for the first time.
Far beneath the mountain where their Shrouded Citadel lay hidden, the world's surface bustled with life, unaware that two foreign monarchs were arranging the quiet ruin of every power that held sway.
The day's events had finally begun moving in their favor.
The New Recruits
Six individuals—the strongest Rhaziel and Nyxara had identified—now walked in a silent line toward the main ritual chamber. The hall pulsed with breathing runes, veins of red-black light crawling across walls like living shadows.
These six represented factions that did not yet know their losses:
A disgraced Knight-Captain with ambition sharper than her blade.
A rune-scarred wanderer trying to escape the price etched into his skin.
A young woman with unstable flame magic, abandoned by her own guild.
A runaway noble with a power that made his family fear him.
A twin-soul mage, both spirits trapped in one body.
And a child prodigy, barely fifteen, whose raw potential made every established Order nervous.
They each believed themselves chosen for their strength.
They were not wrong.
But they had no idea what the ritual would truly demand of them.
Inside the Shrouded Citadel
Hidden from the world by a dimensional fold, the citadel breathed like a colossal beast.
No eye could perceive it.
No spell could trace it.
No god—if such things existed—could find it.
Walls of obsidian flesh, architecture carved from shadow-ore, red runes drifting like dust motes—everything in this place served a single purpose:
To amplify Rhaziel and Nyxara.
To devour the weak.
To bind the willing into their rising dominion.
Nyxara sat upon her throne—twisted, elegant, wickedly beautiful—her fingers lazily tapping the armrest. Those same fingers could peel skin from bone with affection.
Her smile curled as the recruits entered.
"Look at them, my love," she murmured. "Fresh talent. Sharpened hunger. The world really is offering itself to us."
Rhaziel stood beside her, arms crossed. His presence radiated cold that felt almost physical. He didn't need to speak to command fear—the mere tilt of his head could turn a man's heart to ice.
"You will know soon enough," he said quietly. "Whether they deserve the mark… or the grave."
The line of recruits trembled—not from his words, but from the honesty in them.
He meant every syllable.
The Ritual of Scarlet Reins
The chamber darkened as the entrance sealed behind the recruits.
The runes on the walls stretched upward, forming a massive circular mandala in the air—red and black lines weaving like a spider spinning a cosmic trap.
The air thickened, vibrating.
Nyxara rose slowly, hips swaying like a predator stalking prey. She approached the recruits with a smile that made even the shadows shiver.
"Tonight," she whispered, "you shed the chains of the world."
Rhaziel stepped beside her.
"And you bind your souls to the Shrouded Monarchs," he finished. "Offer nothing less than everything."
The mandala snapped open—revealing the giant rune-eye at its center. The same one that stared from the abyssal ocean during Rhaziel and Nyxara's arrival. It blinked slowly, as if waking.
A ripple of dread rolled through the chamber.
The recruits fell to their knees.
The rune-eye regarded them not as people—but as resources.
Nyxara extended her arms.
Rhaziel raised his hand.
The ritual began.
Step I — The Breath of Suspension
A red-black fog erupted from the rune-eye, wrapping around the recruits like ghostly shackles. It lifted them off the ground, suspending them into the air.
Their breathing hitched.
Their eyes rolled back.
One whispered, "W-why can't I move…?"
Nyxara leaned close, her voice smooth as poison.
"Because your will does not matter here."
Step II — The Veins of Choice
Red lines branched from the fog, crawling beneath the recruits' skin like glowing worms. Their veins lit up crimson, their bodies shaking violently.
Rhaziel's voice cut through the chamber:
"Strength isn't given. Strength is carved."
He closed his fist.
The veins constricted.
Screams filled the room—raw, primal, unfiltered agony.
Yet none were allowed to escape their suspended prison.
Step III — The Monarch's Judgment
The rune-eye shined brighter. A low growl—almost a heartbeat—echoed through the chamber.
Nyxara approached each recruit, placing her hand on their forehead. With each touch, her eyes glowed with ecstatic hunger.
"Do you submit?" she whispered.
Each recruit screamed a different answer.
Some begged.
Some choked out "yes."
One cursed her name.
Rhaziel simply watched, emotionless.
The one who cursed was dissolved instantly—body breaking into dust as the rune-eye consumed him.
Nyxara wiped a speck of his ashes off her cheek and smiled.
"Unworthy."
Step IV — The Binding of Reins
The glowing veins converged toward the recruits' hearts, forming intricate black-red sigils—each one unique, each one alive.
Chains of light shot from the rune-eye into the sigils, connecting them directly to Rhaziel and Nyxara.
The remaining five recruits gasped as the marks seared into their flesh.
Rhaziel lowered his hand.
Nyxara exhaled with pleasure.
The ritual ended.
The fog vanished.
The five recruits dropped to the floor, panting and trembling—and yet stronger than they had ever been.
The Aftermath
The chamber brightened.
The runes calmed.
The oppressive atmosphere loosened.
The recruits looked up at their new rulers.
They didn't fear them now.
They worshipped them.
Nyxara stepped forward, crouching to lift the chin of the flame-mage girl.
"You belong to us now," she whispered. "And darling… we take care of what is ours."
Rhaziel's boots echoed as he approached the group.
"Rise."
They obeyed instantly.
"You are the first string in a web that will swallow continents. Your old loyalties are dead. Your old names mean nothing.
From this moment on—
you move in the shadows,
you speak only truth to us,
and you kill only when the world isn't looking."
He turned away.
"But you will kill."
The flame-mage bowed. "My lord… my lady… What is your will?"
Nyxara tilted her head, delighted.
Rhaziel gave a cold almost-smile.
"The world is blind," he said. "We will guide its first steps."
Outside the Hidden Base
The Shrouded Citadel's barrier shifted as their mounts returned—two massive abyss-wrought beasts:
Nyxxon and Vorynth, twin leviathan-reapers born from void tides:
Twelve-foot feline frames
Glowing runic eyes
Black fur like liquefied night
Bone-like horned crests
Tails ending in blade-shaped shadows
When the beasts approached, the dimensional fold opened like a silent curtain, letting them in.
The recruits stared in awe.
Nyxara scratched Nyxxon's chin, giggling softly as the monster melted into affectionate purring.
"Fear the world," she said, "but never fear us."
Rhaziel mounted Vorynth, the beast bowing respectfully under his weight.
He looked at the recruits.
"Prepare yourselves. Tonight, we strike our first target."
The First Silent Conquest
A floating carriage rose from the citadel floor—black metal, runic wheels, silent as sleep. It was their transport into the world.
Their target: The Obsidian Ledger, a minor faction whose leader controlled smuggling routes used by bigger powers.
Take him quietly,
enslave his network,
leave no trace.
And so the recruits boarded.
Rhaziel spoke a final one-liner before the carriage departed:
"War doesn't start with a roar.
It starts when no one notices."
Nyxara smirked.
"And by the time they look our way… the world will already belong to us."
The carriage shot into the night sky—silent, invisible, inevitable.
A storm had begun.
One the world would never see coming.