Stronghold in the East – The Keep of Lord Rhyden
The stone halls of Rhyden Keep were dark, lit only by torches that flickered against the cold stone walls. The air smelled of aged parchment, damp stone, and the sharp bite of ink—a place of politics, of whispered betrayals.
Galborn sat at the head of the war table, a map of Varfaún spread before him. His fingers traced over the Ember Peaks, where the rebellion was gathering.
Across from him, Lord Rhyden, a hardened noble in finely embroidered armor, watched him with thinly veiled caution.
"You ask much of me, Galborn," Rhyden said, his voice careful. "You want my banners, my knights, my allegiance. And yet, I have not seen proof that you can hold Varfaún."
Galborn smiled. "You doubt my reach?"
Rhyden folded his arms. "I doubt that even you can stand against the rebellion alone. And now I hear rumours. Rifts opening where they should not. Creatures walking where men once stood. Tell me, Galborn—what exactly are you unleashing upon this land?"
Galborn leaned forward, his shadow stretching unnaturally across the table. "You fear what you do not understand, Lord Rhyden."
Rhyden's expression did not change. "I fear a ruler who cannot control his own forces."
A soft chuckle came from the far side of the room.
Elandros.
The elven spymaster, his servant stepped from the shadows, his silver hair catching the torchlight, his sharp violet eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. Dressed in dark robes lined with silver thread, he moved with an effortless grace, his presence a whisper against the tension in the room.
"Control, Lord Rhyden," Elandros murmured, his voice smooth as silk, "is merely the illusion of men who do not yet grasp their place in the grand design."
Rhyden's gaze snapped to him. "And what would you know of control, elf?"
Elandros only smiled. "I know that you sit here pretending you have a choice."
Rhyden's fingers tensed on the table.
Galborn exhaled. "You have served me well, Elandros. But let Lord Rhyden decide for himself. I do not need to force him."
Elandros tilted his head. "Of course. Though, perhaps he simply needs… a demonstration."
Galborn snapped his fingers.
The doors at the end of the hall groaned open.
And something stepped inside.
The creature was once a man.
Its flesh had darkened, veins pulsing with unnatural energy, its eyes hollow but burning with a golden fire.
Rhyden's men at the table recoiled, hands moving to their swords.
But Rhyden did not move.
His face had gone pale, but his grip remained firm on the arms of his chair.
"This," Galborn said smoothly, "is what comes next."
Rhyden's breath was slow, controlled. "You turned one of your own knights into this thing?"
Galborn exhaled. "Do not call it a thing. He still hears me. He still obeys."
The creature lowered its head, as if awaiting orders.
The room was deathly silent.
Then, Rhyden leaned forward. "Does he still remember who he was?"
Elandros smirked. "That is the beauty of it, my lord. They remember everything."
Rhyden's fingers tapped against the wood of the table. "Because I do not fight for a man who cannot control his own army. If your little abominations break free, if they begin killing on their own… what use are they?"
Galborn chuckled. "Lord Rhyden, you misunderstand."
He stood, moving to the creature's side. "They do not forget. They do not lose themselves. They only become… more."
With a flick of his fingers, he motioned toward one of Rhyden's knights standing guard at the door.
The creature moved fast—too fast for something its size.
Before the knight could react, it lunged forward, gripping his throat.
The knight gasped, blade clattering to the floor. His body trembled as a faint golden light flickered from his skin—energy being pulled from him.
And then, just as quickly, the creature released him.
The knight collapsed, gasping, alive—but visibly weaker.
Rhyden and his men stiffened.
Galborn smiled. "They do not consume. They harvest. They weaken your enemies, leaving them ripe for conquest."
Elandros stepped closer to Rhyden, his tone ever smooth, ever persuasive. "Imagine what happens when I send ten of them into a battlefield. Or a hundred."
Silence.
Then, Rhyden exhaled slowly. "You want my armies."
Galborn shook his head. "I want your allegiance. And in return, I offer you power beyond your wildest imagining."
Rhyden was no fool.
He was not a man to trust blindly. But he was a man who knew an opportunity when he saw one.
Finally, he nodded. "Show me more."
Galborn's smile darkened. "Oh, Lord Rhyden. I thought you'd never ask."