The torches in the heart of Struttsburg burned low, casting solemn light upon the Crescent Table—twelve feet of dark oak shaped like a broken moon. The chamber was windowless, veined with magic to smother sound, and older than the Empire itself. Here, no heralds cried, no guards stood proud, and no walls bore the sigils of the realm. Only power lived here—raw, unspoken, and terrible.

  At the head of the table stood Emperor Gregor Willinghelm, clad in deep crimson with silver lions curled upon his shoulders. His eyes were gray stone, unyielding, yet something ancient and wounded danced behind them tonight.

  He looked not to his generals, nor to his ministers first, but to the guests beyond his borders.

  “My lords and ladies,” he said, voice slow with sorrow, “first let me thank those of you who traveled far, and did not have to.”

  His eyes met Queen Arendiel of Silverwood Vale, her silver-blonde hair crowned with weeping branches, her emerald eyes unblinking. "To you Queen Arendiel, our kindred of the forests and stars."

  He bowed his head slightly toward King Zansabar of the Thunder Mountains, squat and steel-eyed, his pipe trailing smoke like a chimney in winter. "To king Zansabar of the Thunder Mountains, the hammer beneath our northern spine, who has never once failed to answer the call of man."

  And then he turned to the final of the foreign dignitaries.

  “And you, King Brambor Eglington, Lord of Wolves, Guardian of Everwatch. You have my respect—and my thanks.”

  The King of Wolves offered only a nod, pouring himself a glass of dark mountain wine.

  Gregor straightened. His voice grew heavier.

  “It is with a heart carved in stone that I must bring to you terrible news.”

  He let the silence stretch.

  “Blackreach Bastion has fallen. And with it, General Casamir Saumont, finest of my warlords, has been slain.”

  The chamber erupted.

  Chairs scraped. Hands clenched.

  A sharp cry escaped from Empress Cristina, seated beside the Emperor. Her gown of royal blue shimmered with unease as her fingers clutched Gregor’s forearm.

  High General Baraten slammed his massive fist against the table. “Impossible!” he roared. “He was the best of us!”

  Gregor bowed his head.

  “Yes, General. He was.”

  The words struck harder than any drum of war. Grief spread like cracks in old stone.

  He continued, “The green skin incursion at our southern border is not mere pillaging. It is the start of something greater. Something darker.”

  “Agreed,” said Duke Bournere, rising with a half-drunk goblet in hand. “If they took Blackreach and bested Saumont, then we face more than rabble. I will ride forth at once, cousin, and send those beasts back into the cursed swamplands where they belong.”

  But Lord Protector Ernesto Montclef stood and spoke before Gregor could answer. “Plans are already in motion, Duke. Orlach rides now to recall General Bhraime from the North.”

  Bournere turned redder than his wine. “Cousin,” he hissed, looking to Gregor, “why does your lackey speak of things already passed? I govern Lustrumburg—largest city of the South. This tragedy is mine to answer!”

  General Evangaline's chair scraped as she rose, elegant and dangerous in burnished armor. "Careful, Duke. We are not here to weigh our pride. We serve the emperor-and through him, the realm."

  “Do not mock me, General!” snapped Bournere. “I am the one disrespected here!”

  From the shadows, Prince Alucarde, Gregor’s son, spoke up. “Father, uncle is right. It should be he who breaks the green skin hold on the South.”

  Gregor’s eyes turned to ice.

  “Silence, boy.”

  Alucarde froze.

  “You are here to learn, not speak. Speak again, and I will have you thrown out. Do you understand?”

  The Prince nodded quickly. “Yes, Father.”

  He turned back to Bournere, eyes lowered. “If I offended you, cousin, I am sorry. That was not my intent. We will have need of your army before this ends. Trust me.”

  Bournere sniffed, unconvinced. “You speak to me of need. Yet I’m sure recalling Bhraime has nothing to do with him sharing the blood of your Protector. He is not me!" Bournere thundered, red-faced. "How have I failed you? What reason have I given you to deny me this?"

  “Enough,” said Gregor, his word final. “Bhraime is the best strategist we have. He’ll hold the roads. I have also sent a detachment to Deepstone Hold to meet with King Hramnor."

  Zansabar nodded his agreement.

  “But what could be more pressing,” asked Lord Commander Nigel Strongmore, “than a war at our doorstep?”

  “I would harbor a guess,” muttered King Zansabar, “that’s why we’ve been invited to this family squabble.”

  “The dwarf speaks gruffly—but true,” said King Brambor, his voice like gravel over frost. “You push away an invasion, Gregor. Why?”

  “Yes,” added Queen Arendiel, voice soft but firm, “what troubles you so that you ignore war to chase whispers?”

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  Gregor said nothing at first. Instead, he turned to the three robed figures seated quietly near the fire: Archmage Stewart Spendal, his eyes bright with focus, despite his frail frame; Nylla the Green, serene as stone and leaf; and lastly, Draumbean, his imperial wizard.

  “I will not speak further,” Gregor said. “Not because I cannot. But because he must.”

  He nodded toward Draumbean.

  “The floor is yours, old friend.”

  The Nightmare Unfolds:

  Draumbean rose, slow and steady. His fingers brushed over the two tomes he carried, each older than the Empire itself. He laid them upon the table.

  “Let me start,” he said, “by saying that what I bring will sound mad to some… and laughable to others.”

  “We are already bored, wizard,” sneered Bournere, sipping from a fresh goblet—his third.

  Xavert chuckled too loudly. Lord Chronos turned a cold gaze toward him, and Xavert gave a lazy shrug.

  “Yes, yes,” said Draumbean, “mock what you don’t yet fear.”

  He looked to each of them.

  “My dreams have darkened. They are not merely dreams—they are intrusions. I have seen the Empire as ash, its towers razed, its people dead or enslaved.”

  He pointed to Zansabar. “I have seen the dwarven keeps pried open like walnuts, their people butchered.”

  He turned to Queen Arendiel. “I have seen the forests of your kin aflame—no song, no refuge.”

  “What creature dares threaten such things?” asked Lord Lucien Greystone.

  Draumbean’s eyes flickered.

  “One long forgotten. One buried in myth. One who once ruled over all the realms in chains and silence.”

  He drew breath.

  “Malekith.”

  A sharp intake of breath came from Queen Arendiel.

  “You can’t be serious,” spat Xavert. “Surely this is theater. Some grim joke?”

  Gregor cut him off. “He does not jest.”

  Draumbean nodded. “Indeed not. Malekith—the Lich King, the Bringer of Chains—has returned. I have seen it. I have felt his breath on my soul.”

  Bournere laughed so hard his wine spilled. “Nightmares? Nightmares are why I am not fighting the green skins? Outrageous! You summon this council to speak of children's tales?"

  He flung his goblet. It clanged off the far wall, nearly striking Lord Chronos, who merely moved his head and brushed wine from his black steel.

  “You forget yourself, Bournere!” shouted Ernesto, rising and drawing his sword.

  Lyssa Dark, ever-loyal, drew hers in answer.

  “Enough!” shouted Empress Cristina, standing. “You shame yourself, Duke. Return to your seat.”

  Bournere looked about, saw the disgusted faces, and bowed stiffly.

  “Forgive me, Empress. But I will no longer entertain this madness.”

  He turned to leave. Lyssa gave a long stare to General Evangeline, their shared hatred passing in silence, and then slammed the door behind them.

  “Well,” said King Brambor, chuckling, “I am inclined to agree. Malekith? Really?”

  “You are mistaken,” said Queen Arendiel, her voice grave.

  Arendiel rose, her voice quiet, reverent. "My people remember. He was... once one of us. A mage of unparalleled strength. Eldriach the World-Bender. The gods gave him the Heaven’s Crown, but it changed him. Twisted him.”

  She paused. His curiosity unraveled his soul. He became… the Lich. And the world suffered. Something that cannot die," Arendiel finished, and her gaze swept the room. "He has worn many faces over the millennia. Woken in times of great strife. You dismiss this warning because you do not remember. But we remember."

  "I remember the tales," grunted King Zansabar, puffing his pipe. "Old stone-lore passed from runesinger to runesinger. The White Doom, they called him. In the Age of Cinders, he rose in the east and turned ten dwarf-holds into ash and bone. The last one, Hrolden Deep, collapsed after our runesmiths melted their own gate rather than let him in."

  "That was ten thousand years ago," Xavert muttered, with great sarcasm in his voice.

  "Time means little to those who conquer death," murmured Nylla.

  Lord Chronos Chessire shifted his eyes still as river ice. "It may be.... unwise," he said slowly, "to dismiss these warnings entirely. Whether you believe in gods or not, we are beset by storms. The green skin invasion is no mere coincidence, and the omens seem to be gathering."

  Draumbean nodded. "And in the end, it took the gods themselves to end his reign of terror. But they could not kill him." So, they shattered the Heaven’s Crown—six gems, sundered. Three given to the kings of men, dwarves, and elves. The other three—and the crown itself—entrusted to the Vestige, warrior-angels who hid them in ancient temples, each guarded by a divine sentinel.”

  He pointed to the tomes.

  “I have studied the old texts,' Draumbean continued, "those few remaining since the fires of the Sanctum War. But the truth is scattered. Hidden. The Order of the Last Battle-monks older than the current empire-were said to have stood witness the day the gods imprisoned Malekith beyond the Veil. They watched as the Crown was broken and each of its six shards hidden in secret."

  Xavert smirked. "How convenient."

  "There are scrolls," Draumbean pressed on, ignoring him. "Records. Lost to most-but not all. I believe there is a tome in Grimmhaven.... It speaks of the crown's destruction, and possibly.... how to reforge it."

  The murmurs grew louder.

  "Reforging the crown?' asked Anya Mikinkoff, skeptical but intrigued. "To what end?"

  "To undo what Malekith seeks to become," Draumbean said. "The crown, whole was a gift of the gods. Each gem infused with a different divine aspect-light, shadow, flame, storm, time, and life. Only by gathering them again can we hope to withstand what is coming."

  Xavert's brow furrowed once more. "You would commit resources-men-to seek fragments of myth, when we have real cities burning?"

  “The witch city?” asked Lord Lucien. changing the subject back.

  “Yes,” said Draumbean. “I travel there after this.”

  Helena Stormbringer scoffed. “You speak of the Followers of the Last Battle? A myth.”

  “No,” said Nylla, finally speaking. “Not a myth. Draumbean’s words ring true. We must listen.”

  Arguments erupted. Gregor reached for Cristina’s hand, squeezing it. She looked into his eyes.

  “We knew this would happen,” he whispered.

  She nodded.

  Then, Archmage Stewart Spendal rose.

  “Draumbean speaks true,” he said. “His visions have never been wrong. The chains that bind Malekith have broken. The gods are silent. His return is inevitable.”

  He coughed violently, blood splattering into a white handkerchief.

  Nylla caught him, lowering him gently.

  King Zansabar stood. “The Dwarves of Thunderer’s Keep will help.”

  Queen Arendiel followed. “So too the Elves of Silver Vale.”

  King Brambor sighed. “The Everwatch will not be left out.”

  Gregor rose last, the torchlight in his eyes.

  “Then we are agreed. Draumbean will travel to Grimmhaven and seek the first scroll. When it is found, we reconvene.”

  His voice dropped low.

  “And may Vrorn forgive us if we are too late.”

  Chairs scraped stone. Goblets were drained. One by one, members of the council stood from the great table and dispersed into the shadows from which they'd come, taking with them secrets, anger, and ill intentions.

  The torchlight dimmed as if exhausted by what had been said.

  But not all left so quickly.

  A short distance away, Xavert stood in a dark alcove, sipping deep from a silver flask shaped like a serpent. Helena Stormbringer approached him, her arms folded.

  "You laid it on a little thick in there, don't you think?'

  "Those fools they chase shadows. The emperor has always followed Draumbean blindly."

  Helena's eyes shifted briefly toward the great table where Draumbean still stood, speaking quietly with Nylla and Ernesto. "Everyone knows of your hatred of him, they will attribute anything you say against him to that."

  "I care not. Soon they will all see how fragile the empire is. Soon they will all be brought to their knees."

  At the base of the stairs, Queen Areindel and King Zansabar exchanged a quiet word.

  "Your kind lives longer than the rest of us," Zansabar muttered. "You've seen more than most. Do you believe this Malekith truly is free upon the realms once more?'

  "I believe he never truly died," she said, eyes haunted. "He is our destruction given form."

  Zansabar grunted. "Then the realms truly are in danger. And uniting the realms will prove difficult with all the internal conflicts taking place. It would be easy for him to divide us in this state."

  "Yes, it would. But the wheels are already turning, I fear. We must put aside any grudges and work together, or we will return to a world of slavery and death."

  They bowed to one another in solemn respect before departing.