Azarious sat in the commanding room, his golden eyes scanning the steady stream of reports. The chamber, carved from shimmering aquamarine crystal, pulsed faintly with the energy of the Weave, casting a cool, ethereal glow over the operatives moving within. The faint hum of the Weave resonated through the room, a constant reminder of its lifeblood connection to the kingdom. Scrolls exchanged hands, parchment rough and slightly damp from the ocean's ever-present humidity. Whispers carried over the subdued murmur of water currents, mingling with the faint clinking of tools and equipment.
Theros had returned alive—but not without chaos. Despite the care taken to shield him, his mission veered far from plan. Vaelora and Cualen had been sent to guide him, yet her decision to leave Theros to fight alone in favor of escaping with the intel gnawed at Azarious. The taste of brine filled his mouth as he pressed his lips into a tight line. Perhaps it had been Theros's choice—rash and reckless as ever—but the outcome still left a bitter taste. For all his efforts, his brother remained an unsolvable riddle, a source of endless disruption.
"Your Highness," a confidant's voice cut through the haze, drawing his attention. The operative, a middle-aged dragon of lean build with streaks of silver in his scales, approached with measured steps, his clawed hands clutching a scroll. His expression was grim, his dark eyes betraying a mix of tension and fatigue. "Reports from above indicate increased warship activity near our coves. They seem to be passing by, but we suspect they are testing our patience. Additionally, the Iron Fang orcs are gathering en masse—over 20,000 shamans spotted. Intel suggests human factions are inciting them to attack the oceans."
Azarious's frown deepened, his stoic mask unbroken. The smooth surface of the armrest beneath his palm was cold and slick, grounding him in the present as his thoughts churned. "Any skirmishes near our waters?"
"None yet, sir, only the sighting of increasing ships," the confidant replied. His tail flicked nervously, betraying the tension he tried to suppress.
"And the Shadowborne? Any signs of their movement?" Azarious asked, his voice low and steady, carrying the weight of unspoken fears.
"They appear to have retreated into the Abyss, almost as if returning to slumber," the man said hesitantly. "But it's too quiet, Your Highness. It feels like the calm before a storm."
Azarious leaned back, the polished crystal chair cool against his spine. The faint scent of algae mingled with the briny air, a constant reminder of the ocean's vastness. "Brother," he muttered under his breath, "what chaos have you brought with your birth? Everyone wants a piece of you." Straightening, he issued his orders. "Prepare for confrontation. If we are attacked, leave nothing alive."
The room stirred into action. Operatives moved swiftly, relaying commands and reinforcing defenses. The shuffling of papers, the scratching of quills, and the occasional clang of weaponry punctuated the air. Azarious rose from his seat, his towering presence commanding respect and focus. Leaving the command room, he swam out into the vast expanse of the ocean, his golden eyes cutting through the dark waters with an intensity that seemed to pierce the very depths.
He reached a hilly undersea reef, a vantage point overlooking the camp at the borders. The reef was alive with faint bioluminescent glows from anemones and coral, their soft light casting shifting patterns across the seabed. The water was cooler here, and Azarious could feel the slight resistance of the current against his scales as he stopped, steadying himself on a rocky outcrop. He spoke into the empty space, his voice firm but carrying an undercurrent of exhaustion. "What do you think?"
The waters shifted subtly, the lights dimming as shadows coalesced. A sudden chill seemed to permeate the area, the once-gentle current now carrying an almost oppressive weight. Figures began to emerge, their forms cloaked in ancient armor etched with intricate patterns resembling the threads of the Weave. The metal gleamed faintly, a testament to its otherworldly craftsmanship. Their bearings were dark and grim, yet their presence radiated an undeniable authority. Though tens of thousands lingered in the periphery, like whispers just beyond sight, only five materialized fully. Their eyes burned with an inextinguishable fire for duty, loyalty, and reverence. They stood tall, silent sentinels of the deep.
"Your Highness," the voices spoke as one, their tones resonant and layered, reverberating through the waters with a chilling resolve. "War is inevitable. Our creed endures still. We shall fight for our kingdom, we shall vanguard. We should be the ones attacking, not them. We have granted them peace for too long."
Azarious's gaze remained steady, unflinching as the voices continued. His claws pressed into the rocky surface beneath him, feeling its rough texture as if grounding himself against their weighty words. "We, the Seekers, are the kingdom's hidden blades. We cut where you point. By order of His Majesty, we are under your command to fend off any attacks before they happen. We now have intel on who our enemies are. We await your orders."
The Seekers' presence was overwhelming, their dark aura a stark contrast to Azarious's golden light. Even the water around them seemed heavier, colder, as if responding to their grim resolve. He nodded, his voice calm yet firm. "Stand ready. The time to strike may come sooner than we think. But for now, we will wait."
The figures bowed slightly, their forms dissolving back into the currents like ink dispersing in water. The oppressive weight lifted, and the waters brightened again as they disappeared, leaving Azarious alone. His gaze lingered on the camp below, the flicker of torchlight visible even at this distance, his thoughts heavy with the weight of impending war.
The kingdom's peace had lasted long enough. The tides of conflict were rising, and Azarious would be ready.