Lysander's grief-stricken paralysis shattered like brittle ice under a sudden, scorching heat, replaced by a white-hot fury that coursed through his veins, banishing the lingering chill of the Crimson Night. The agonizing image of his father's selfless sacrifice, the echoing screams of the dying in that blood-soaked cityscape, the crushing weight of his own helplessness – all of it coalesced into a burning resolve, a fierce and unwavering determination. He would not stand idly by, a powerless observer, and watch another innocent suffer the ravages of this encroaching darkness, especially not one who had pledged their loyalty to him, a concept now imbued with a profound and brutal significance.
His hand shot out with surprising speed and strength, the movements honed by lifetimes of subtle control and now amplified by the raw power surging within him. His long fingers clamped around the tattered edge of Xyl'gotha's cloak, the aged fabric surprisingly resilient beneath his grip, right where a neck of withered bone and desiccated flesh might have been. He hauled the ancient Lich closer, the suddenness of the movement causing the skeletal being to rattle slightly, his glacial eyes burning with an intensity that seemed to pierce the very essence of the undead entity, delving into the cold abyss of its unholy existence.
"You swore fealty," Lysander growled, his voice low and dangerously resonant, each syllable imbued with the weight of his newfound authority, the full force of his nascent domineering aura crashing down upon Xyl'gotha like a physical blow. It was a raw, untamed power, still finding its form, fueled by the potent cocktail of grief, incandescent rage, and the brutal, visceral understanding of the value of loyalty etched onto his soul during the horrors of the Crimson Night. The aura was a palpable force, a wave of icy command that seemed to chill the very air around them, the strange luminescence of the corrupted glade momentarily dimming in its wake, laced with an undercurrent of twilight energy that hinted at the immense power now stirring within the newly ascended Lord, a power that even he was only beginning to comprehend.
Xyl'gotha, an entity whose existence spanned eons, a being steeped in the cold indifference of death and the chaotic cruelty of the infernal realms, recoiled visibly. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, a flicker of genuine, primal fear sparked within its unholy gaze, a fleeting vulnerability in the depths of its ancient, knowing eyes. The sheer force of Lysander's aura was unexpected, a primal command that resonated even with its corrupted soul, a stark and unwelcome reminder of the inherent power that lay within a true Lord, a power that even an Elder Arch Lich, steeped in the dark arts and millennia of unlife, could not entirely dismiss. The casual arrogance that usually cloaked the Lich momentarily dissipated, replaced by a wary respect.
Instinctively, its bony fingers tightened around the pulsating phylactery it still held, the obsidian artifact radiating a palpable darkness. The dark crystal began to thrum with a malevolent energy, a low, resonant vibration that seemed to emanate from the very heart of corruption, as Xyl'gotha attempted to draw the encroaching blight away from Titania and into itself, a desperate act of self-preservation mingled with a sliver of self-interest in preserving its newfound master's favor. The black tendrils that had been suffocating the Fairy Queen began to dissipate, writhing and retracting like disturbed serpents, their shadowy forms flowing towards the Lich and the obsidian artifact, drawn by its insatiable hunger for corruption.
"My Lord…" Xyl'gotha rasped, its voice losing some of its earlier sardonic arrogance, replaced by a note of genuine urgency, a subtle shift in its ancient cadence. "You must… establish your territory now. The corruption… it is deeply entrenched in this world, a pervasive malignancy that permeates the very soil and air. It would be far easier to contain it within a limited area, to carve out a sanctuary, a small domain free from its insidious taint."
The Lich continued to siphon the receding corruption into its phylactery, the dark crystal glowing with an increasingly malevolent intensity, its polished surface now swirling with shadowy patterns. "If I were… stronger… in my prime… I could cleanse a wider area, push back the encroaching darkness with greater efficacy. But in my current… diminished… state…" It trailed off, a rare hint of what might have been regret, or perhaps merely a calculated observation of its limitations, coloring its chilling tone.
"However," Xyl'gotha continued, its burning gaze flicking back to Lysander, assessing the Lord's reaction with an unnerving intensity, "I know a ritual… an ancient rite, steeped in forgotten lore, to absorb the corruption within a localized area, to bind it and control its spread. If you would permit me, my Lord, I could establish this protected zone around your initial territory, this glade. It will serve as a bulwark, a first line of defense against the encroaching blight, a beacon of your nascent dominion."
The Lich's bony hand gestured towards the dissipating tendrils around Titania, the skeletal fingers surprisingly expressive. "And do not fret, Master. Any corruption that may have seeped into the… fairy queen… the delicate fabric of her being… I will remove. You seem… opposed… to a corrupted or undead version of your subordinate. A… wise… preference, in my estimation." A fleeting hint of its former sardonic amusement flickered in its eyes, quickly suppressed by the lingering effect of Lysander's potent aura.
"This ritual…" Xyl'gotha elaborated, its attention still focused on drawing in the last vestiges of the corruption, the phylactery now pulsing with a palpable darkness, radiating a cold, malevolent energy, "it will culminate in the creation of a Crystal of Pure Corruption. This crystal will act as a focal point, a nexus of dark energy, absorbing and storing any further corruption that attempts to breach the borders of your territory, a dark sentinel guarding your domain."
Lysander released his grip on Xyl'gotha's cloak, his gaze still intense, unwavering in its scrutiny. The Lich's words, though undoubtedly self-serving and delivered with its characteristic macabre flair, held a pragmatic logic that resonated with his sharp, analytical mind. Establishing a defensible, untainted territory was paramount for survival in this hostile world. And the Lich's offer, despite its unsettling nature, seemed to be the most immediate and viable solution to the pressing threat.
He looked at Titania, who lay still and weakened on the mossy ground, her once vibrant emerald light dimmed to a faint, flickering glow, like a dying star. The lingering traces of black corruption around her shimmered and then vanished completely as Xyl'gotha greedily absorbed them into the pulsating phylactery. A wave of protectiveness, an unexpected and surprisingly potent echo of the grief he still felt for his father's sacrifice, washed over him. He would not allow this loyal being, this fragile spark of light in this corrupted world, to be twisted into something monstrous, something akin to the horrors he had witnessed.
"Do it, Lich," Lysander commanded, his voice firm, brooking no argument. "Establish this… protected territory. Focus it around this glade, this place where I first awoke in this cursed realm. And ensure," he emphasized, his glacial gaze hardening, "that the Fairy Queen is cleansed of all corruption, every last tendril. Her loyalty is to me, and I value it. Her well-being is now my concern."
Xyl'gotha inclined its skeletal head, the movement stiff and deliberate, a gesture that bordered on a bow, a rare display of deference from the ancient Lich. "As you command, my Lord. The ritual will require some time and focused concentration. And the placement of your Territory Core, the anchor of your dominion, will be crucial in establishing and maintaining the protective field." The Lich rose, its movements fluid despite its aged form, the pulsating phylactery clutched tightly in its bony hand, its burning gaze already assessing the glade, calculating the optimal placement for the intricate ritual and the anchoring of the Lord's nascent dominion, its undead mind already weaving the complex threads of dark magic. The immediate threat to Titania had been averted, the encroaching corruption temporarily contained, but the true battle for survival in this nightmarish, corrupted world had only just begun, and Lysander knew that this fragile sanctuary was but the first step in a long and perilous journey.