There was a stillness over the Ashen Dominion, a sickly pale amber light above as if a silken fabric had been thrown over the world. The evening had broken slowly, as if the world itself was unwilling to breathe out. In the highest of the black citadel's towers, the Everlasting Sovereign Regis Vortigern alone stood, looking out to the distance over his great crystal walls of glassy panels. The distant hills sparkled with fading light, their rough edges smoothed by the approaching night.
The wind breathed gently out there, and within, quietness claimed its own.
Regis remained silent. There was no necessity. His head was a finely tuned machine, each cog working with purpose, each thought set along deliberate lines. The latest intelligence lay neatly on a round table near the center of the room, still sealed for the time being. He had already surmised what they would tell him.
Whispers became louder.
Not on the roads. Not in the taverns and bazaars and among the commoners. But within Nazarick itself.
Ainz Ooal Gown, Supreme Overlord, undead god-king, lord of the Great Tomb of Nazarick—he wasn't invincible. Not quite. Because Regis had discovered the secret that few others dared to confess: it was not power that kept empires intact. It was loyalty. Perception. Harmony.
And those things, even in a place like Nazarick, could break.
He walked over to the table and unfolded the most recent parchment received by Thalras' agents.
"Minor lapses observed. Protectors are still loyal, but dissatisfaction arises in coded patterns—increased pauses at meeting times, discordant glances exchanged. Cocytus has been hedging of late on conquests, and Demiurge has allegedly questioned Ainz's latest judgments in private council. We're checking the reliability of this info."
A gentle smile creased Regis' face. "So, even demon architect becomes uncertain.".
It was not treason. Not yet. But doubt, once planted, could grow into something far more corrosive.
He turned as footsteps approached—soft, padded, and respectful. Lady Seraphine entered the chamber, draped in deep crimson silks embroidered with sigils of binding and truth. She bowed lightly before speaking, her voice low and silken.
"We've received a response from the Silent Accord."
Regis raised a brow. "Already?"
She handed him an open letter, its wax seal cracked. "They have made a shadow treaty. No formal alliance. But they will provide us with information. and clandestine assistance, if we move in ways that benefit them."
Regis read over the message, then set it aside. "Good. We don't need loyalty. We need convenience. Opportunists are just as useful as allies, if they believe they'll benefit from their assistance."
Seraphine folded her arms. "However, they are dangerous to work with. The Silent Accord has a history of switching sides."
And yet," said Regis, "they turn after sensing the tide turn. So they're excellent barometers of change. If they're leaning in our favor, then the cracks in Nazarick must be worse than I thought.".
He walked to a great globe that showed the known world. Several dozen pins indicated important territories—neutral territories, known friends, foes, possible informants. Gradually, he rotated the globe so the Re-Estize Kingdom was before him. His gold eyes rested upon it.
"Ainz has overextended himself. He's too focused on conquest, on expanding power like a conqueror—forgetting the nature of mortals. Terror rule cannot last. It must be maintained. And that requires care he cannot spare.
Seraphine did not reply, looking at her monarch with respect and interest.
"You plan to attack his roots," she said deliberately, "instead of his stronghold."
"Naturally," Regis replied. "For a fortress is as secure as the earth upon which it is built. If that base begins to weaken. the whole tomb may collapse."
That night, in a different corner of the citadel, Commander Kael addressed, in a burned-out hall, a small, special squad cloaked in gray and bearing no immediately visible arms. They were phantoms—trained to blend, to watch, to disappear.
"You are not to act," Kael commanded, his voice firm. "You are to gather intel. Penetrate the merchant tunnels of E-Rantel. Locate voices of discontent. Locate disillusioned diplomats, smaller guilds who grumble against the taxation or militarization of Nazarick. Bring back reports—nothing more."
The agents agreed in silent unity.
Kael's expression did not soften. "If a single word of your mission is uttered, if a single whisper of Regis' interest is heard, I will track you down myself. Do you comprehend?"
Again, the agents bowed and melted into shadows, one after another, until the hall was empty once more.
Kael stood a moment longer, eyes sharp. He suspected few—but he trusted his Sovereign implicitly.
The next day, Regis sat alone again, this time in his own study, surrounded by incense smoke and flickering candlelight. The air was quiet, save for the crackle of fire in the hearth. A half-finished letter sat in front of him, quill to paper, but he hadn't written for some time. His thoughts drifted.
Not to war. Not to battles.
But to Ainz.
To what kind of mind to conjure up such devotion. What kind of control would one have to forge creatures like Albedo, Demiurge, Shalltear… What terror, or what love, had established such unshakeable loyalty?
Or had once been unshakeable.
He looked again at the report. At the whispers. The doubts. The questions.
"Devotion," he growled, "does not last. Not even in the Tomb of Nazarick."
Three days later, a messenger arrived at the citadel—panting, sweating, and clearly in terror.
Thalras himself met him on the lower level, then strode—without hesitation—to Regis' throne room. When he arrived, Regis was already seated, awaiting him.
Thalras bowed and handed over the note. " Intercepted message between Shalltear Bloodfallen and a neutral party in western trade routes."
Regis opened it with the tip of his fingernail.
"He is not the same anymore. We all feel it. Something in Lord Ainz is. changing. No longer speaks as he used to. Hides more. Thinks more. But for what, he does not say. I do not suspect him. Not yet. But I am worried. I fear the path ahead is hidden even to him."
Silence did descend after the reading of the words.
Then—Regis laughed.
Softly. Not in derision, but in comprehension.
"She fears," he said. "She, the vampire of blood slaughter. Fearing what her master is become—or has not stayed. Interesting."
Thalras nodded, wary. "What do we do?"
Regis sat back in his chair, eyes sparkling in the light of torches.
We wait," he said. "We wait and we watch. We do not prod. Not yet. We let the pressure build. Let them see their doubts. Let them start to wonder who else perceives the same. Let them think that they are alone. Until the moment comes when they speak—not to Ainz, but to us."
He smiled again.
"The game is not yet about force. It is about cracks. And those, my friend, are already appearing."
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