Kael’Zarath sat upon a writhing throne, its grotesque form sculpted from dark tendrils that erupted violently from the ground, coiling and twisting into pillars of maddening proportion. The chamber's ceiling soared into infinity, vanishing into a swirling black void—a malevolent storm darker than the deepest abyss, an eldritch stain against reason itself.

His form was a monument to terror, towering over seven feet of sinew and malice. His flesh was a purplish-red, marred with the faint, pulsating glow of veins that seemed to pulse with infernal energy. Elongated ears tapered to dagger-like points, and from his skull jutted a crown of black, jagged onyx horns—a tangled, chaotic array like an ancient stag whose antlers had borne centuries of unchecked growth.

Beneath his hooved feet, the crystalline floor mirrored the scene in perfect detail, betraying the fear etched into the faces of the kneeling supplicants. They dared not lift their heads, each visage twisted in terror, their reflections shimmering in the glassy surface as if caught in a grotesque mockery of their humanity.

Kael’Zarath’s voice cut through the oppressive silence, a low, guttural snarl devoid of compassion, its resonance like the grinding of tectonic plates. “Lysara,” he intoned, her name a curse spat from his lips. “You have failed me.”

The words coiled through the chamber, each syllable heavy with malice. His eyes, two orbs of smoldering crimson, locked onto her trembling form. The weight of his gaze was a physical thing, bearing down on her like the threat of a blade at her throat.

“The girl Lirien is dead,” he continued, the words as sharp and cold as broken glass. “And yet Duskshade stands, defiant.” His voice darkened further, the simmering rage beneath it a storm barely held in check.

He paused, and in that terrible moment of silence, the very air seemed to quake. Flickers of shadow and flame played along the edges of his form, the promise of annihilation barely restrained. His rage was a living thing, licking hungrily at the edges of his control, threatening to consume Lysara in an instant.

“You have one chance to explain,” he hissed, his voice dropping into a deadly whisper that was somehow more menacing than his roar. “Before I let the flames of my wrath show you what true failure costs.”

Kael’Zarath’s towering presence loomed above her, a god of fury and judgment, his throne of writhing tendrils shifting and pulsing with the rhythm of his barely-contained power. Silence stretched like a blade, waiting to fall.

Lysara, once the proud captain of Rivermaw, knelt low before the writhing throne, her arms outstretched in a gesture of abject submission. The defiant fire that had once burned in her eyes was now smothered by fear, her voice trembling as she dared to speak.

“My lord,” she began, her words cracked and brittle. “Please, forgive my failure. I... I miscalculated. I could not have foreseen the strength this so-called Champion of Aetheros wields. He fought like a feral beast, unrelenting. He—” her voice wavered, shame curling at the edges of her tone, “he sacrificed his own arm to seal the rift.”

Kael’Zarath’s voice thundered through the chamber, a detonation of wrath that shook the very foundation of his throne. “Silence!” The word carried with it an oppressive weight, a command that reverberated through the crystalline walls like the toll of a doom-laden bell.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Rising from his grotesque seat, Kael’Zarath descended toward her, each step deliberate, the crystalline floor groaning under the weight of his towering form. His horns cast jagged shadows that danced like predators across the chamber walls.

“Stand,” he ordered, his voice sharp and unyielding. Lysara hesitated but complied, her movements stiff and tentative. She dared not meet his gaze until he demanded it.

“Look at me,” he growled, his tone a blade carving through her trembling obedience. “Look into my eyes.”

With visible effort, she obeyed, her gaze rising to meet the twin infernos of his crimson stare. They burned with a malice so intense it threatened to consume her where she stood.

“Lysara,” he said, his voice deceptively calm now, each word laced with venom. “I am granting you one more chance—one final chance to prove you are not as worthless as I begin to suspect. This Champion must die. His stain must be purged from this world, and that wretched Aetheros along with him.” His lip curled, his disgust palpable. “I will not allow that loathsome creature to claw its way back to power.”

He stepped closer, his towering form casting her in shadow, the oppressive aura of his wrath suffocating. “Do you understand what I ask of you?” His words were slow and deliberate, dripping with finality.

Lysara swallowed hard, her voice a strained whisper as she nodded. “Yes, my lord. I understand.”

“Good,” Kael’Zarath hissed, turning away from her as the room seemed to exhale with his retreat. “Pray you do not fail me again, Captain. The cost will be far greater than your life.”

Kael’Zarath shifted his withering gaze to another figure kneeling before his throne, a shadowed form cloaked in silence and deference. His crimson eyes burned with purpose, his tone a cold lash of command.

“You will go to our fortress in Morvalis,” he began, each word weighted with malice, “and there you will confer with a messenger of Sylthara. Deliver this message: Aetheros returns. The time has come to awaken Sylthara and Vorlath from their slumber.” His voice darkened, a venomous snarl echoing through the chamber. “The Sundering was not enough to rid us of that abomination. Aetheros must be erased—completely.”

The figure gave a single, solemn nod, the oppressive silence stretching between them like a blade. Yet before any words could be spoken, the form dissolved, vanishing into the ether.

A decrepit air swept through the room in their wake, as if the very fabric of the universe recoiled at the implications of what had been set in motion. The tendrils of Kael’Zarath’s throne shuddered, writhing like wounded serpents, their grotesque motion amplifying the sense of unease.

The chamber grew colder, the light dimmer, as if existence itself mourned the coming storm.

Far from the writhing throne, Asher’s gaze lingered on the horizon. The dying embers of twilight burned low, staining the heavens in hues of blood and fire. From the roof of Brynn’s home, Duskshade sprawled out beneath him, its familiar streets muted in the encroaching gloom. Beside him, Brynn sat in silence, the weight of the day pressing down on them both.

Then it came—a ripple, faint but undeniable.

The Aether stirred. At first, it was subtle, like the imperceptible shudder of leaves in a still forest. But it deepened swiftly, evolving into something darker, something alive. The air thickened, growing oppressive, as though unseen eyes pierced the fabric of the world and found him wanting. A chill coiled down his spine, sharp and unnatural. For the briefest moment, the Aether within him faltered, its flow corrupted, as if touched by something profane.

“Asher?” Brynn’s voice broke through the growing dread, steady yet edged with concern. She shifted closer, her sharp eyes scanning his face. “What is it?”

He shook his head, forcing himself to exhale, to bury the unease clawing at his thoughts. “Nothing,” he lied, though the words sounded hollow even to him.

Yet the feeling persisted. Something ancient and vile had shifted in the darkness, and as Asher gazed out into the descending night, he could not silence the grim certainty that whatever it was, it was coming.