Nyxeria entered the main hall with an aura of grim authority, her Nightmares trailing behind her like shadows given form. The great chamber, recently purged of its former occupants by her obedient creatures, was now filled with a sea of anxious faces—frontier folk, weathered and hardened by a harsh life, now rendered helpless before the unholy presence that commanded their town. The Nightmares, conjured from the deepest recesses of her father’s realm, moved with an unsettling grace, each step a whisper of malice on the stone floor.

As she made her entrance, the townsfolk's whispers died away, their eyes widening at the sight of the dark figure who now claimed their lord's seat. Nyxeria’s favored Nightmare, a serpentine horror draped in shadow and feathered wings, loomed behind her like an omen, its many eyes gleaming with a wicked intelligence. This one had a personality, something Nyxeria found amusing and useful—a controlled terror rather than the mindless rage of its kin.

Taking the Lord's chair as if it were her throne, she leaned back, surveying the assembly with cold, calculating eyes. Her raven-black hair fell like a curtain of night over her shoulders, her pale skin stark against the darkness of her attire. The room seemed to shrink under her gaze, and the tension thickened as the villagers exchanged fearful glances.

Murmurs broke into a cacophony of voices, the townspeople too shocked to mask their outrage:

“What is this madness? Where is Lord Garet?”

“Lady Amelia, what have you done?”

“By Orria's grace, what is going on?”

Amelia, standing behind the seat, maintained a stoic expression, betraying nothing. Nyxeria allowed the chaos to simmer for a moment before gesturing for Amelia to speak.

With a bowed head, Amelia stepped forward, her voice unwavering. “People of Hemsberg, my husband, Lord Garet, was bested in combat by Lady Nyxeria. Out of her magnanimity, she has allowed my family to retain our roles. I urge you all to listen before casting judgment.”

The announcement sent ripples of dread through the crowd, but Amelia’s attempt at diplomacy was not lost on Nyxeria. The subtle defiance in Amelia's tone was noted, a small rebellion that would require correction in due time. For now, Nyxeria let it slide, a twisted smile playing on her lips.

She rose with a fluid grace, the hall falling into a tense silence. Her voice, though soft, cut through the air like a blade. “I see before me the pillars of Hemsberg’s community. You were called here because you are the most influential voices among your people. Know this: as of this moment, your allegiance has shifted.”

Nyxeria began pacing slowly, her eyes sweeping across the assembly like a predator scanning for prey. “Your devotion to Orria is admirable,” she continued, her voice dripping with mockery. “But your goddess has no power here. A new era has dawned. My father, the Lord of Ravens—known to some as Sitar—has claimed this place. You will abandon the worship of Orria, for his blessing now governs your fates.”

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A murmur of disbelief rippled through the crowd. Faces turned pale, and eyes darted toward each other for silent reassurance. Then, a bold voice rose above the uneasy silence.

“Blasphemy!” A gaunt man, draped in the robes of Orria’s clergy, pushed his way to the front, his eyes wild with zeal. “You dare to profane this sacred hall with your lies? We are devoted to Orria! We shall never bow to a dark god or his spawn!” His voice cracked with righteous fury as he raised a trembling finger at Nyxeria.

She regarded him with a cold, detached interest, like a cat toying with a mouse. “Spawn, am I?” she murmured, a cruel smile curling her lips. “How quaint.”

In a flash, she moved. One moment she was standing several feet away; the next, her hand was around the priest’s throat, lifting him off the ground as if he weighed no more than a rag doll. Gasps of horror filled the room as she brought him eye level, her grip unyielding despite his frantic attempts to break free.

“You speak of darkness, priest, but you know nothing of it,” she hissed, her voice a venomous whisper that only he could hear. “Let me show you a glimpse.”

As she spoke, inky tendrils began to seep from her fingers, snaking into the priest’s mouth and eyes. His screams turned to garbled chokes as the blackness filled him, his veins turning a sickly obsidian hue. The crowd watched in horrified fascination as the priest’s body began to convulse violently, his limbs jerking in unnatural spasms.

Then, with a sickening crack, his spine twisted, contorting his body into an impossible arch. The blackness that had consumed him now poured from his eyes, ears, and mouth like a viscous tar, pooling on the floor in a writhing mass.

Nyxeria let go, allowing the priest’s body to collapse like a marionette with its strings cut. But the horror did not end there. The tar-like substance that had spilled from him began to shift and bubble, forming a grotesque figure that slowly rose from the pool. It was a nightmare given flesh—a creature with elongated limbs, its skin a mass of feathers and scales, its eyes glowing a sickly green.

The creature let out a bone-chilling screech, the sound reverberating through the hall like the wails of the damned. It skittered forward on all fours, its movements unnervingly fluid, before latching onto one of the stone pillars with a series of sickening clicks.

Nyxeria watched the terror spread through the crowd, their faces twisted in revulsion and fear. The acrid scent of bile filled the air as more than one villager retched at the sight.

“The priest was right about one thing,” Nyxeria said, her voice a silken whisper that cut through the stunned silence. “My father is indeed a god of horrors. And I am his chosen daughter.”

She gestured to the creature, which had begun to blend into the shadows, its glowing eyes the only trace of its presence. “This is the fate that awaits those who defy me. Those who submit will find favor under the Lord of Ravens. Those who resist…” She let the implication hang, her smile widening as the first of the villagers fell to their knees.

One by one, they began to kneel, voices trembling as they chanted, “Hail Sitar, hail the Dark Lady Nyxeria.”

Satisfied, Nyxeria returned to her seat, her Nightmares shifting restlessly around her, feeding off the lingering terror. “Now,” she said, settling back into the Lord’s chair as if it were a throne, “let us discuss your new roles in service to the Lord of Ravens.”

The hall remained in a state of horrified awe, the echoes of their submission still hanging in the air like the aftertaste of a nightmare.