The atmosphere in the secluded dungeon outside the city's walls was suffocating. Fear hung heavily in the air, fed by the desperate gasps of over two hundred nobles. Families that once held immense sway over vast territories were now stripped of their pride, tied with rough chains, their aristocratic clothes now sullied by grime and tears. The grandeur of their lineage mocked them now, offering no solace in their darkest hour.
Centered in this expansive chamber was a large arcane sigil, pulsing darkly on the ground. The design seemed unnatural, and its very presence evoked an instinctual fear in all who gazed upon it. To the captured elite, it represented an unknown but certain doom.
Suddenly, the hushed whispers of the nobles reached a fever pitch. "You can't do this! My family will have your head!" shouted a defiant lord.
A lady, draped in torn silks, sobbed, "Please, spare my children. Take me, but let them go."
Before any more pleas could be uttered, armored guards shoved the trembling nobles into the center of the sigil. Their dread was so palpable that even the stoic guards, as if sensing the impending doom, hastily retreated, leaving the nobles to their dark fate.
After dozens of minutes Lucius materialized, his dark robes billowing. When he moved, time seemed to stretch, each second heavy with anticipation. The moment his eyes blazed red, tendrils of primordial chaos danced around him, painting him as a creature of old, a being of unimaginable power.
Gazing upon the trapped nobles, his voice, deep and dripping with scorn, rumbled forth, "Your lives, bathed in luxury and complacency, have fortuitously made your souls ripe for this ritual." With but a thought, he tapped into their souls, altering their very fabric. Their inherited status, coupled with their nurtured potential, magnified their soul's value exponentially. Many were elevated to the caliber of an Adept, while a select few touched the realm of the quasi Mages.
Their transformation was not without cost. Their bodies writhed, screams echoing as the red mist – the essence of their very being – was drawn from them. This thick, sanguine fog was greedily sucked into the massive arcane crystal, which pulsed with growing intensity.
Lucius's chant echoed with power, reaching beyond the confines of the room. "From the abyss, birthed before stars and time, I summon thee, sentinel of the void." As the energies intensified, the Hellguard began to materialize. It was an abomination—Standing at an imposing height, its pale skin was stretched tight over a grotesquely muscular frame. It had no face, only a smooth expanse of flesh interrupted by protruding, twisted horns. Its hands were lethal blade-like claws, reflecting the torchlight menacingly.
As Lucius looked upon this fiend, a semblance of his former grandeur flickered in his eyes. "Eons ago, you would have been but a mere whisper in the void to me," he declared with a mixture of nostalgia and disdain. It was clear that this Hellguard, despite its terror-inspiring visage, was intended not as an ally, but as sustenance. Lucius intended to consume it, reclaiming a fraction of the power he once wielded.