ShadowBound: The Need For Power

In the shadow-veiled lands unknown to man, where Sylvathar's hidden stronghold lay buried beneath root and stone, the demon lord sat reclined upon a velvet-cushioned couch. He wore his flowing black robe, obsidian and silver-threaded, its folds cascading like dark water. In one hand rested a weathered tome inscribed with ancient glyphs; beside him, upon a low table carved of blackened oak, stood a half-full glass of blood, rich and dark as spilled garnet.

The chamber was silent, save for the rustle of pages turning—until footsteps whispered along the stone corridor. Morenelle entered, her presence as poised as ever, though Sylvathar did not lift his gaze.

"Greetings, my lord," she said with a graceful dip of her head.

"How fares the plan, Morenelle?" Sylvathar inquired, his voice smooth, calm, and cold as polished steel.

"All proceeds as you ordained," she answered, stepping forward with unhurried grace. "Morbuan has already been dispatched to the Tempest Kingdom. The princess shall pose no great challenge to retrieve."

"Good," Sylvathar murmured. "You ever align the threads as I wish them woven."

"Of course, my lord. My life was crafted for such purpose." She smiled, serene as ever.

"Your tongue remains as elegant as your mind," he replied, at last closing the tome with care. He placed it upon the table, then lifted the glass of blood. "However," he said after taking a measured sip, "a small wrinkle remains."

"If you wish it dealt with, I shall see it undone within the hour," Morenelle said without hesitation.

"No need," Sylvathar said, swirling the crimson liquid in his glass. "In truth, this development amuses me. Ember has betrayed us. I lost sight through her eyes but yesterday—an enchantment now clouds her entire being and severs my link."

Morenelle's expression remained unchanged. "Then she has likely reclaimed fragments of her selfhood and betrayed your will to the humans. She must be eliminated."

A dry chuckle escaped Sylvathar. "Ah, for one so clever, you can be delightfully short-sighted. What if I told you Ember's betrayal... was by design? That her rebellion is yet another part of my orchestration?"

"Do you still wield control over her?" Morenelle asked, her brow faintly raised.

"I do not," Sylvathar replied. "But I no longer need to. Every step she takes in defiance, every secret she spills… it all plays into my hands. Even in freedom, the desperate child dances to my tune."

Morenelle smiled, eyes filled with admiration. "Your foresight never ceases to amaze, my lord. Still, shall we assume that some secrets shall now be revealed?"

"Indeed," Sylvathar said, draining the last of his glass. "But it matters not. Once I seize the princess and draw from her divine blessing—when I devour that celestial light to restore my might and surpass what I once was—there shall be war. A war that will leave this realm trembling."

Morenelle's smile dimmed, her voice cautious. "But my lord, to rise against all three kingdoms of Amthar… would that not risk everything you've built across these fifteen years?"

Sylvathar stood, his form tall and shadowed beneath the hanging torches, the firelight catching the dark gleam of his robe. He was silent for a breath, then said:

"You are right. Even with divine strength, I cannot destroy all of Amthar. Not ever. But I need not. Before I return to the Demon Realm and fulfill the true mission that brought me here… one kingdom shall fall."

Morenelle bowed her head once more. "Then I shall hasten the capture of the princess."

"Do so," Sylvathar said, his voice laced with disdain as he turned toward the arched tunnel that led deeper into the lair. "This world of men... it sickens me more with each passing day."

"My lord," Morenelle called softly, halting his steps.

He paused, glancing over his shoulder, shadows clinging to his sharp features.

"If I may ask," she said, her tone delicate, "which kingdom shall you bring to ruin?"

Sylvathar's lips curled into a slow, cruel smile. Then he vanished down the tunnel, his voice trailing like a curse in the dark.

"The weakest of them all—Solara."

***

Back within the towering Summit Hall of the Tempest Kingdom, the alliance table—crafted in three curved segments forming a perfect circle—held the presence of all three great kingdoms, each occupying their designated arc.

At the Crescent Kingdom's side, familiar faces returned: King Valemir Granger, regal and unreadable; Queen Elanora Granger, serene in her elegance; Eliv Borges, the wise old mage; and Berg Thuden, ever composed with his curled mustache and sharp eyes. But alongside them now sat two new figures.

The first was a mountain of a man, exuding silent authority. His frame was forged by war, wrapped in a tailored navy-blue combat uniform lined with golden trims that spoke of prestige. A long black-and-white cape with quilted lining hung from his armored shoulders, the insignia of high rank unmistakable.

His face bore a sharp, golden gaze—only one eye unhindered, the other marked by a deep scar that slashed from brow to cheek, passing clean through the eye itself. Salt-and-pepper hair tousled with purpose, a short beard shadowed his jaw.

This was Caelum Virellan, the Crescent Kingdom's Grand Marshal.

At his side sat a figure colder in presence but no less commanding. Youthful yet composed, he carried the chill of winter in his demeanor. His long, silver-white hair flowed over his shoulders like frost spilling from the heavens, framing ice-blue eyes that watched with unsettling precision.

His armor was elegant—black with silver engravings across the chest and shoulders, every line speaking of noble heritage. Midnight-blue accents lined his attire, while a white fur mantle and flowing navy-blue cape draped around him like a blizzard kept in check.

This was Sylas Wynrow, sole student of the fabled Ice Fortress.

Across from them sat the Solara Kingdom's delegation—King Tharion Magna, stern and calculating; Queen Seralyne, graceful as always; Mois Ashton, their keen-eyed mage; and Donella Largh, the young advisor with streaks of red in her dark hair. And one new presence now completed their side.

A young man of striking appearance, with wild crimson hair and a stillness to his form that betrayed discipline. He wore a tailored black ensemble, gilded subtly with gold. A long, flowing red coat—deep and rich as spilled wine—trailed behind him, fastened by a jeweled belt. His vambraces shimmered with royal detail, hands gloved, expression unreadable.

This was Tharionson Magna, Prince of Solara and younger brother to Galen Magna.

At the Tempest Kingdom's curve, Queen Lucy presided at the head of her court, clad in a regal gown of deep green, her authority unmistakable. Beside her, aloof and quiet, sat King Omer Rature—a monarch more shadow than sovereign. Mystica and Dove flanked Lucy's throne-like seat, the mage and alchemist silent and watchful.

At the edge of their segment, one chair sat empty. Its occupant—Galen Magna, ever late and unpredictable—had yet to arrive.

As everyone sat in silence, Berg Thuden let out an audible groan, fingers drumming restlessly against the polished surface of the circular table. "By the gods, how long are we going to sit here like painted statues? What exactly are we waiting for?" he muttered, voice laced with sharp irritation. "If this is some kind of symbolic delay, I've had enough of symbolism to last a lifetime."

Queen Lucy folded her gloved hands atop the table, her expression patient but firm. "We cannot begin," she said, "because Galen Magna is not present. He is a member of the task force. His presence is mandatory."

A scoff followed, this one from King Valemir, his silver crown catching the hall's light. "And whose responsibility was it to ensure his presence? Was that not your duty, Queen Lucy?"

King Tharion joined in next, his gaze cutting sharp through the air. "If Galen cannot be managed, then perhaps he should not be part of the task force at all."

Lucy opened her mouth to respond—but Caelum Virellan leaned forward slightly, voice smooth and measured, yet lined with daring steel.

"King Tharion," Caelum began, "forgive my interruption, but I must ask—were you able to keep Galen in check years ago? Because if you had, I doubt the man would have ever pledged loyalty to another kingdom and abandoned his own homeland."

A tense silence settled like a shroud, the air heavy with unsaid truths.

Caelum didn't flinch as all eyes briefly turned to him. "Now," he continued, more calmly, "I do not pretend to like Galen. His arrogance is insufferable. His unpredictability, a risk. But if I must set aside my pride, my grudges, to stand beside a man that powerful… I would not hesitate."

His words hung there, weighted and unmoving. Then Lucy slowly nodded, her voice quiet but resolute.

"Thank you, Grand Marshal," she said. "And rest assured, all of you—Galen will come. That is a promise."

The tension lessened as the hall eased into silence once more. Whispers flickered like dying embers—until Lucy leaned slightly to her left, fingers pressed discreetly to her lips as she murmured the incantation of a Whisper Spell.

"Mystica," she whispered beneath her breath, her voice magically carried to her advisor's ears alone, "where is he?"

"I haven't the slightest idea," Mystica responded coolly, her lips unmoving as her gaze remained forward. "But he said he'd be here. Either we hope for the best, or we begin without him."

"He better make it," Lucy muttered under her breath, "or I swear—"

Her words stopped abruptly as the grand doors of the Summit Hall creaked open with a slow, groaning protest.

All heads turned.

And there he was.

Galen Magna strolled in without urgency, hands buried deep within the pockets of his long, red-dark trench coat. His black undershirt hugged his frame beneath it, but it was the look in his eyes—those familiar, tired, unbothered eyes—that drew everyone's attention.

He didn't glance at anyone. Didn't greet. Didn't explain.

He moved with deliberate calmness to his seat at the end of the Tempest Kingdom's arc. He sat down with the grace of a wolf in a den full of sheep, let out a bored sigh, and allowed the moment to breathe in silence.

Then he looked up, voice dry and detached.

"Are you all just gonna keep starin' like I'm some ghost," he said, "or are we actually gonna start this useless summit?"