The cold of night had settled over the Eternal Citadel, a shroud that clung to the delicate stone carvings of Draegor's realm. In the silver glow of the pale moon, the citadel's towering spires were jagged teeth cutting through the heavens, their black silhouettes stark against the endless swirling clouds above.
In the still rooms of the envoy quarters, Selen Varris sat opposite a desk made of the finest obsidian, his fingers above an ancient scroll. The Chamber of Reflection—a chamber built for the contemplative silence—was quiet save for the momentary scent of ink on parchment, the scratch of his quill as he painstakingly wrote his report.
Each word he wrote weighed. Each idea he constructed deliberated. Days had gone by since his coming, and throughout that time, Draegor had been a mystery, as strange as he was stubborn.
Selen's hand hesitated for a moment as he stared out the window, watching the dark garden below. The Miregarden—its otherworldly atmosphere, which provoked within him an uncomfortable awe. It wasn't just the unnatural beauty of the bone flowers or the unholy vines crawling along the stone. It was the air itself, an unshakable presence that hung there like some ancient thing beneath it all stirring awake. Some thing that has waited millennia, patiently waiting its time to arrive now.
He exhaled slowly, pushing those thoughts aside, and focused again on the scroll in front of him.
The Report
Sire,
Too many words could be written to try to explain the phenomenon of Draegor, Lord of the Deathborn Throne, and they would all be inadequate. The land which he holds is unnatural and yet marvelously alien. The citadel itself is a masterpiece, the like of which no living world has ever seen. Its walls, its spires, its foundations themselves pulse with a dark power—a power that seems to emanate from the very marrow of the earth itself. I have not yet discovered the source of this power, but it seems to be the force that sustains the land and its overlord.
Draegor's subjects don't seem to be enslaved, nor do they live in terror. It is a quiet life—a quiet chosen. They obey their master willingly, and I have seen no trace of rebellion or discontent. In fact, the longer I remain here, the more I understand that this is not a land governed solely by fear, but by something more complex—a strange, nearly instinctual loyalty born of something. greater than mortal life.
Something unnatural and unavoidable.
Selen's Musings
As Selen lay to flex his fingers, the burden of his own sightings rested on his shoulders. He had witnessed much on his travels—steel and stone kingdoms, empires that stretched a thousand on the backs of their slaves. But nothing could have envisioned him for Draegor. The scale of power at play here was unimaginable. It was not merely the size of the citadel, or the unnerving calm of the country, but the very nature of the ruler himself.
Draegor was a being beyond the world—he was larger than a king, larger than an emperor. He was something that defied all Selen had ever known of power and dominion. The more he learned, the more he wondered what the world would be like when Draegor's power reached further.
His mind drifted again to the strange soulglass that shrouded the halls of Draegor. The dead—trapped in crystal, yet somehow content. Held in thrall by Draegor, but not the kind of power one might see in an oppressor. More like some ancient pact—a bond between master and servant that transcended life itself.
It disturbed him to think about it, but he could not help but believe that Draegor was building something greater. The earth, the people, the dead—all were pieces of something greater than any kingdom he had ever experienced.
A Letter to the Compact
At last, Selen focused once more on the report. He had to complete it before the break of dawn. But now the words came more slowly. His mind had shifted inward, struggling with the meaning of what he had witnessed.
Sire,
The manner in which Draegor rules his people is beyond our understanding. There is no oppression, no open cruelty. Instead, there is a quiet, serene obedience that pervades every aspect of this land. The inhabitants do not seem to fear their lord, nor do they worship him in the traditional sense. They serve him, and in turn, they are cared for.
Something—some force—drives them. They are, in a sense, bound to Draegor by something greater than his will alone. The land, the people, even the wind seems to pulsate with an unnatural loyalty, as if part of this kingdom of darkness. This is not so much a kingdom of the dead—it is a kingdom in which death and life blend together, in which time itself warps.
I have been permitted to visit Draegor many times. He speaks little, but listens intently, monitoring every word with an unsettling precision. There is a virtually limitless patience in him—a waiting, calculating silence. It is clear that he is no ordinary ruler. He is a master of something ancient, something that goes far beyond the mortal realm.
Selen's Growing Unease
As he wrote the final word, Selen set the quill down and leaned back in his chair, reading the words he had written.
He was not a man who ever thought in supernatural terms. His job, his profession—everything had always been founded on the logical, the physical. But what he had witnessed in Draegor's world. this was something entirely different.
The sense of waiting—of something larger waiting just over the horizon—had begun to gnaw at his mind.
Had the Aurelian Compact made a mistake in sending him there? Or had they seen something he had not yet fully grasped? He could not possibly know.
All he knew was that Draegor's dominion was spreading, slowly but inexorably. And whatever Draegor intended, whatever he built, it was inevitable.
Selen folded the report carefully, closing it in a black wax. He placed it in a leather pouch and stood up, standing away from the still room into the moonlit passages of the citadel. He walked, the stillness of the place bore down on him like a weight.
Each step echoed in the silence, reminding him that he was indeed a visitor here—a fleeting shadow in a world that existed far beyond his understanding.
A Gathering Storm
In the great hall, Draegor once more stood at the window, gazing out over the Miregarden. His expression was unreadable, but there was a faraway glint of something in his eyes—something that seemed to be akin to satisfaction.
His empire grew. The framework of his reign was being constructed, each element placed down separately, piece by piece. He sensed the world watching, waiting for the moment to join him or suffer under his rule.
And then, there was the envoy.
Selen Varris had complied. He had observed, recorded, and left without any hint of insurrection. Draegor was certain that his report would soon find its way to the Compact, and with it, the first true ripples of his authority would propagate across the continent.
But Draegor's schemes were never quite so simple. He did not simply want to conquer these lands—no, that was only the beginning.
The world would come to know his name soon enough.
And Selen… Selen would not be alone in being subjected to the full weight of Draegor's stare.