The emperor’s audience hall was not a place of grandeur.
It was a place of weight.
Set deep within the stone belly of the imperial palace in Struttsburg, the chamber was carved in the old style—high vaulted ceilings, thick oak beams blackened by time, and heavy slabs of stone that ran from hearth to arch like the bones of some ancient beast.
At the center of the room blazed a massive hearth, its flame dancing along logs as thick as war spears. Smoke curled into the chimneys above, dragging with it the cold that otherwise seeped through the stone like memory. Scattered throughout the room were long oak tables, carved and scarred from decades of elbows, wine spills, and the occasional thrown goblet.
But tonight, the room was quiet.
Four men sat in solemn council.
At the head of the long table, a broad-shouldered man in his early forties leaned forward, one hand clasping the arm of his chair, the other stroking the neatly trimmed beard that framed his weathered face.
Emperor Gregor Willinghelm.
His steel-blue eyes, sharp and still, regarded the speaker at the far end of the table like a blade poised above a throat.
“Again,” Gregor said, voice like gravel beneath a boot. “Tell me again, Draumbean.”
The wizard nodded slowly.
He was robed in dark blue velvet trimmed with gold thread, his belt weighed down by scroll tubes, silver-banded tomes, and tiny glass vials that pulsed with faint light. His eyes were sunken, not from age, but sleeplessness, and his voice bore the cadence of a man who had long since grown tired of disbelief.
Draumbean drew breath and began.
“I dreamed of ash,” he said. “Not fire. Not ruin. But what comes after. I stood atop a spire that no longer exists, and I watched the cities of men flicker out one by one. I saw dwarven holds cracked open like eggs, and elven glades drowned in shadow. I heard the dead singing.”
Across the table, Archmage Stewart Spendal wheezed and coughed into a bloodstained cloth. He was gaunt, his skin nearly translucent, veins crawling beneath like ink. His eyes—still alert despite the decay of his body—narrowed.
“He dreams true,” the Archmage rasped. “They always were.”
Beside the Emperor sat a man in silver and green—a tall slender figure with a heavy cloak draped across his shoulders and a broadsword resting against the wall behind him.
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Lord Protector Ernesto Montclef.
His arms were crossed. His jaw was tight.
“You’ve both been reading old myths again,” he muttered. “Or you’ve been breathing mold from one of the lower vaults.”
“No,” Draumbean said quietly. “This is no myth.”
From the table, he unrolled a thick scroll—its surface cracked and yellowed, ink faded to near transparency. He gestured to the symbols carved into its margins.
“This is one of the final recordings from the Age of Division. It speaks of a being once called Malekith. An elven mage—perhaps the greatest of his kind—chosen by the gods themselves to bear the Heaven’s Crown.”
“The what?” Gregor asked.
“The Heavens Crown,” the Archmage repeated, coughing again. “A relic forged in the stars—by the gods. It was meant to bring unity. To wield it was to channel divine will.”
“But power,” Draumbean continued, “twists the hand that grasps it. And Malekith… he did not bend under the weight. He broke.”
He unfurled a second scroll—this one an illuminated tapestry, its colors still rich. It showed a golden-crowned figure, arms raised over a sea of the dead, while flames consumed the sky behind him.
“He became the Lich King,” Draumbean whispered. “Undying. Unmatched. A lord of death who ruled the Realms of Earth, Sea, and Sky. For a century, he reigned—unstoppable.”
“And yet he was defeated,” Ernesto said.
Draumbean nodded. “By the gods themselves—and the united armies of man, dwarf, and elf. The war took a generation. Cities fell. Mountains broke. And still, Malekith could not be killed. He was too powerful, too steeped in the Crown’s magic. The gods had no choice. They sealed him—beneath the sands, in the cradle of the world, bound by six divine chains.”
Gregor exhaled through his nose, leaning forward. “Seven centuries ago. And you’re saying… the chains are weakening.”
Draumbean met his gaze.
“Yes, Your Grace. The gods have grown silent in recent decades. Their shrines cold. Their priests plagued with confusion. Whatever held the seal together… is failing.”
The Archmage nodded, his voice thin. “We are vulnerable.”
“How vulnerable?” asked Ernesto.
“That depends on how many chains remain,” Draumbean said.
“Or whether someone is already down there breaking them,” added Spendal.
A long silence followed.
The fire crackled. Somewhere in the rafters, an old raven croaked.
The emperor’s fingers drummed on the table.
“You’re telling me a being we couldn’t kill is waking up. A being that ruled the known world. A being that could, in theory, do so again.”
“Yes,” Draumbean said.
“And you don’t know how long we have.”
“No.”
Gregor stood and walked toward the hearth. His boots echoed on the stone. The light cast his shadow against the wall—tall, flickering.
He turned to face them.
“Then we must convene a council. Summon the generals. The magi. The church. All of them. If we’re to face this threat—again—we do so prepared.”
Ernesto nodded in agreement. “I’ll begin reaching out to the noble houses.”
“Good,” Gregor said. “And discreetly. No panicking the court. Not until we know more.”
The conversation paused. The urgency remained.
But as the tension gave way to the final shuffling of scrolls and the closing of tomes, Draumbean cracked a faint smile.
“One last thing, Your Grace.”
Gregor raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“I believe your son’s name day approaches.”
The emperor chuckled softly, and some of the weight lifted from his shoulders.
“Aye. Three weeks’ time.”
“He remains unnamed, still?” the Archmage asked.
“Not for long,” Gregor replied. “But he’ll soon have it.”
Draumbean smirked. “You sound like your father.”
Gregor grunted and turned back toward the fire.
“I only hope the world lasts long enough for him to wield it.”
