The Kingdom of Zhalver did not breathe; it suffocated. Built into the jagged, obsidian heart of the Black Mountains, the city was a monument to despair. The soil beneath was not earth, but a thick, oily black soot that stained the boots of any traveler. Above, the sky was permanently choked by volcanic ash, turning the sun into a pale, ghostly coin that provided no warmth.
In the center of this darkness stood the Obsidian Citadel—the palace of Draeven Zareth. Its towers were like serrated blades piercing the grey clouds, and every stone seemed to pulse with a cold, malevolent energy.
At the North Gate, the elite guards of Zhalver stood like statues. These were not mere soldiers; they were Draeven's "Iron Shadows"—warriors trained from childhood to feel no pain and show no mercy. Their black plate armor was etched with runes of protection, and their faces were hidden behind skull-shaped visors.
"The wind is howling differently today," one guard muttered, his voice muffled by his helm.
"Silence," the Captain snapped, his hand tightening on the hilt of his claymore. "In Zhalver, even the wind reports to the King. Look at the horizon. Something moves in the soot-mist."
Through the swirling black dust, a silhouette appeared. It was dragging its feet, swaying like a drunken ghost. As it drew closer, the guards raised their crossbows, the silver tips gleaming in the dim light.
"Halt! You are at the gates of the Zarethian Empire!" the Captain bellowed. "Identify yourself, or your soul will feed the abyss!"
The figure stopped. Slowly, painfully, it raised its head. The helmet was gone, and the face revealed was a mask of scars, dried blood, and stardust burns.
The Captain's breath hitched. He dropped his sword, the heavy metal clattering against the black stone. "Prince... Prince Malakor?"
"Open the gate," Malakor rasped. His voice was no longer that of a royal prince; it was a hollow sound, like a dying man's last breath.
The guards rushed forward, but as they reached him, they looked behind him, searching the mist.
"My Lord... where is Prince Vane?" the Captain asked, his eyes wide with a growing dread. "You both entered the Shadow Abyss together. The King... the King has been waiting for both his sons."
Malakor's eyes flickered with a brief, agonizing flash of memory. He remembered Vane's screams as the shadows tore him apart. He remembered how he hadn't looked back.
"Vane is gone," Malakor whispered, his grip tightening on his broken shield. "The Abyss took him. But it did not take the son of Aetheron. I have come to tell my father... that his greatest nightmare is still alive."
The guards fell silent. The death of a Prince was a tragedy, but the survival of the True Heir was a declaration of war. As the massive iron gates groaned open, Malakor stepped into the dark streets of his home.
He didn't look like a hero returning from a trial. He looked like a warning. And as he walked toward the high palace, he knew that the news of Vane's death and Azeal's survival would turn Draeven's grief into a rage that would burn the Seven Kingdoms to ashes.