The Throne of the Eternal loomed like a mountain of bone and obsidian, carved with the runes of dead gods and inlaid with the soul-gold of fallen kings. It was not merely a seat, but a monument to the inevitable victory of death over all things. From that high perch, Malekith sat in silence, his hands like talons resting on the arms of his throne, his hollow eyes fixed on the endless chamber before him.

  The chamber pulsed with dark energy—green light bled from cracks in the stone floor, and the walls throbbed with ancient spells carved during the Age of Sundering. Deathless guards lined the room in symmetrical rows, unmoving, blank-faced, some still clad in the armor they’d died in centuries past. At the far end, twin black dragon-lions dozed beneath the carved archways, their breath rumbling like subterranean drums.

  Beside Malekith, chained to a circular platform carved into the dais, the guardian beast stirred. A draconic monstrosity bred in the Nine Abysses, its skin shimmered with scale and shadow, its wings tucked tight against its back. It growled as Malekith moved, sensing his intention.

  Malekith ignored it.

  He reached to his right and opened a concealed panel in the throne’s flank—a silent mechanism revealing a scepter nestled in velvet-lined stone. He drew it forth.

  The scepter was long and black, forged of pure obsidian harvested from the Depth-Fires of Galthar Varn. At its tip was an oval head—six emeralds embedded around a black opal, pulsing with latent energy. The scepter vibrated in his hand as if aware of the spell about to be spoken.

  Malekith raised it slowly, pointing it at the far wall.

  He whispered the words, each syllable a wound in the air.

  “Vurthael… Namarien… Theraxon.”

  Waves of green magical energy burst forth in concentric rings. They struck the wall with no impact, vanishing into the stone like water down a drain. For several long moments, the air thrummed with power. Sparks danced like fireflies. The very room seemed to groan.

  Then the spell faded.

  Silence returned.

  Most of the gathered guards didn’t stir, though a few turned their heads—curious at the display, before lapsing again into their stillness.

  Malekith leaned back, returning the scepter to its cradle.

  The throne room doors creaked open.

  A figure emerged—hooded, cloaked, robes heavy with sand and ash, the scent of brimstone trailing behind like rot. Each footstep echoed louder than it should have, as though the stone beneath feared what walked upon it.

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  He came to the base of the three thrones. Asterok remained sitting, showing little concern—a colossus in bone-plate armor, his skull-face helm always fixed forward. The flames in his eye sockets flared at the scent.

  “I know that stench,” he said, voice low as grinding stone. “Oblivion.”

  The figure threw back his hood.

  His face was a ruin of old war—burnt flesh, dark red as volcanic stone, with veins of glowing magma pulsing beneath it. Steel was fused into his face—plates bolted to cheekbone, a jaw reinforced with iron rivets. One eye was solid obsidian. The other burned gold like a sun through smoke.

  “Greetings, Asterok,” he said, voice like broken glass.

  Then he knelt before Malekith and bowed his head.

  “Master.”

  Malekith did not rise. He regarded the war hound with a quiet, knowing satisfaction.

  “My general,” the Lich King said. “You return from beyond the veil.”

  Oblivion stood. “As commanded.”

  Malekith’s eyes narrowed. “How have you fared these last centuries?”

  Oblivion’s tone was casual, but his presence filled the hall. “Since my banishment to the Nine Hells, I have carved a kingdom in the Azure Plains. I waged endless war against demon princes. I shattered the magical walls of Groth-Mal. I drank the blood of fire born titans and broke their champions beneath my feet.”

  “Where is this army you built?”

  “Waiting,” Oblivion replied. “At the Great Gates of the Eternal Abyss. They stand ready, starved for battle, awaiting your word.”

  Malekith nodded, as if that was simply how things should be.

  “We will commence the ritual soon,” he said. “The final sacrifices have already been selected.

  Oblivion’s molten eye flared. “Say the word, and I will be there.”

  Malekith waved a skeletal hand. “There is another task first.”

  Oblivion inclined his head.

  “You are to travel into the Deep,” Malekith said. “To the drowned city of the damned. To Ureathos.”

  Oblivion’s expression darkened. “That traitorous specter?”

  “I summoned him,” Malekith said. “He did not answer. He hides.”

  Oblivion scoffed. “He always did crawl in the dark.”

  “Find him,” said Malekith. “Speak with him. Remind him who he once knelt to. And if he will not listen—”

  “He will,” Oblivion said. “Or he’ll die again.”

  “Take two legions of Asterok’s dead with you. Just in case. I have reopened the ancient gateways. Use them. Time is precious.”

  Oblivion offered no bow. He simply turned and strode back toward the doors.

  But another voice rose from the edge of the room.

  “Your hound is impressive,” said Neera.

  She had been silent until now, seated in a shadowed corner near a broken obelisk, thumbing through a tome of old elven script.

  Neera, Sorceress of Shadows, former Princess of Duskspire, was darkly radiant. Her eyes, almond-shaped and sea-green, held the calm of deep waters and the promise of hidden knives. Her long black hair fell in waves over one shoulder, and the dark silk she wore clung like smoke.

  Oblivion paused near the door.

  “Still watching from the dark, Neera?” he asked without turning.

  “Better to observe the game,” she said, rising, “than to be a piece upon the board.”

  Oblivion glanced back, one eye blazing. “Let's see how long you enjoy playing both sides.”

  Neera approached Malekith’s throne slowly, her hips swaying like a spell being cast.

  “Why send him?” she asked the Lich King. “There are others. Quieter ones. Less… explosive.”

  Malekith looked down at her.

  “Because Oblivion speaks only one language. The Deep listens best when it hears war at its gates.”

  Neera smiled faintly. “And if Ureathos flees?”

  “Then he flees into Oblivion’s jaws,” Malekith said. “I care not where he runs. I care only that he returns—or his skull does.”

  She bowed her head just enough to show obedience—but her smile lingered.

  “Very well,” she whispered, turning back toward her tomes. “Then the world trembles… and I shall take notes.”

  Malekith leaned back into his throne once more.

  “Let it tremble,” he whispered.

  And the green flames that lit the chamber pulsed in answer.