The Reckoning drifted through the void, a leviathan of war and whispering spirits. It was more than a warship—more than mere steel and sorcery—it was a relic of dominion. The great dreadnought of House Draconis eclipsed the stars behind it, an omen of death that carried the weight of centuries. Its hull bore the scars of a hundred battles, and the sigils of vanquished foes had been carved into its plating like trophies on a hunter’s wall. The ship moved like an inevitability, its presence bending the fabric of space itself.

Drakonheimr Omega loomed ahead, its frozen expanse a stark contrast to the tropical bands that wreathed its equatorial belt. Magnetic storms flickered across the heavens, auroras casting an eerie glow upon the tundras below. To the uninitiated, the world was a desolation, cold and ruthless. But to those who knew its secrets, Drakonheimr Omega was a bastion of power. It was the crucible that had forged House Draconis into what it was today.

Drakon Vaelinor Draconis, the Baron of Black Pyres, stood at the bridge, hands clasped behind his back. His gaze was fixed upon his homeworld, his expression unreadable. At his command, the communications officer hailed the stardock.

“Of ash and bones,” the officer intoned.

The response was immediate. “Of ash and bones.”

Beyond the viewport, the great harvest had begun. Haulers drifted toward the surface, dragging carcasses of cosmic dragons through the void. Their massive forms—serpentine, ancient—were bound in luminous chains of etheric energy. Some still twitched, their death not yet absolute. It was a gruesome sight, but one that spoke of House Draconis’s true nature. They were not mere warlords. They were architects of death, bending the laws of life and oblivion to their will.

Drakon descended in his cosmoskiff, the sleek craft cutting through the atmosphere. Below, Drakenspire awaited.

The city defied expectation. It was no grim necropolis, no morbid den of undeath. It was vibrant, a metropolis where gothic spires stretched toward the heavens, where neon-lit boulevards thrummed with life and industry. House Draconis had mastered death, yes—but they had not forsaken civilization. Merchants haggled in the grand bazaars, scholars debated philosophy and war in towering academies, artisans plied their craft in forges that burned with alchemical flame. And among them moved the dead.

Not the mindless husks whispered about in fearful courts. The revenants of Drakenspire were elegant in their preservation. Their bodies, untouched by rot, were augmented with cybernetics and clad in fine raiment. Only their luminous blue eyes and the eerie precision of their movements betrayed their nature.

One such revenant awaited him at the docking platform. A woman, her beauty unmarred by time, her pale skin kissed only by the chill of death. She bowed with effortless grace.

“Welcome home, my lord,” she said. “Drakenspire has missed you.”

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Drakon studied her for a moment before nodding. “You serve Duke Dragan?”

“I do. I am Lady Selene, steward to the Duke in all matters of court.”

As they traversed the city, Selene spoke of history. Of Aldric Draconis, the first of their name, who had tamed the dragons of their world long before their house had mastered necromancy. Before the revenants, before the great dreadnoughts, they had been dragon riders. Warriors of flesh and fire. But then came the Celestial Empire. Then came House Solarius, with their golden banners and their promises of unity.

“Duty, honor, loyalty,” Selene mused. “That is what Aldric stood for.”

Drakon scoffed. “The first two, perhaps.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You doubt his loyalty?”

“To House Solarius? Always.”

Selene smiled, but said nothing more.

Drakenspire Keep loomed ahead, a fortress of impossible scale. Its gothic towers clawed at the sky, its walls adorned with luminite turrets that pulsed with arcane energy. Drakeguard mechs patrolled the ramparts, their armored forms gliding like specters of metal and wrath. Inside, the halls were vast, their ceilings cathedral-high, their stained-glass windows casting eerie patterns upon the marble floors. The air was thick with history, with ghosts of the past lingering in the periphery of memory.

Drakon moved through the corridors, his gaze lingering on the relics of his childhood. He could almost see it—Lyrius, his younger brother, laughing as they dashed through these halls, knocking over priceless heirlooms, evading tutors and guards alike. The bond they had shared had been strong once. And now? Now it was a wound that festered beneath armor and duty.

In the great hangar, the Black Duke awaited.

Dragan Velmuth Draconis was a figure carved from shadow and steel. His silver hair and cybernetic eyes lent him an aura of cold precision, his presence sharp enough to cut. He did not waste words.

“Leave us.”

The attendants withdrew, the doors sealing shut behind them.

Dragan’s gaze was measured, but there was weight in his silence. When he spoke, it was with the cadence of a man who expected to be heard.

“Your brother is a fool.”

Drakon said nothing.

Dragan turned to the window separating the room from the heart of the Starforge. The carcass of a cosmic dragon was being stripped of its celestial flesh by robotic lasers, its luminous bones conveyed along hovering platforms to the next stage of refinement. Alchemical vats churned, submerging the remains in eldritch solutions, hardening them for their ultimate purpose. Mithril spray coated the skeletal frame, layering it in a shell that gleamed under the cold, artificial light. Artisans and engineers worked in tandem, affixing mechanical limbs, arcane conduits, and neural matrices, birthing war-beasts of metal and undeath. As the conversation unfolded, one such monstrosity was completed, its ethereal eyes igniting, a new dragon-mech born.

Dragan’s voice was steady, unwavering. “Lyrius thinks himself cunning. He believes he moves unseen. He believes he can claim the Starforge for himself without consequence.”

A long pause. Then the Duke exhaled, his tone shifting, sharpening.

“Do you know what separates a king from a pretender, Drakon?”

Drakon met his gaze. The black duke continued.

“Control. Not through force, but through the quiet chains of perception. A true ruler does not demand fealty—he cultivates it. He shapes the desires of his people so that they crave his favor. A king does not merely command. He makes obedience seem inevitable.”

Silence stretched between them, tense and expectant. Then Drakon spoke.

“What would you have me do?”

Dragan clasped his hands behind his back. “Watch him. Let him believe he moves freely. Let him believe he is the master of his own fate.”

A pause.

“And when the time comes, when his delusions reach their peak…” His crimson eyes gleamed. “We will correct them.”