Maelor sat behind his grand desk, the soft glow of the lanterns casting long shadows across the stone walls of his office. His gaze was fixed on a pile of documents, his posture as still as a statue. The monocle perched on his sharp nose glimmered faintly as he read, scanning the dense words and figures with the precision of a man who had long since mastered his methods. Even with his advancing years and his silver-grey hair, there was an undeniable beauty to his form—a beauty that betrayed the power he commanded, a strength far beyond what his aging appearance would suggest.
Commander Maelor was not just any Fatewalker. He was one of the Disciple Rank—a sixth-tier master of essence, shaping the world around him with the authority he had been attuned to. His control over his power was second nature, a whisper of thought capable of manifesting his will. While there were many below him who still struggled to grasp the fundamentals of essence manipulation, Maelor had long since moved past such rudimentary concerns. He could mold the world itself to his liking.
But even in his position, he knew better than to grow complacent.
His rank as a Disciple, while impressive, was only one step along a much larger scale of power. Acolytes, such as the ambitious Elowen who had recently visited him, were only just beginning to understand the true extent of their capabilities. They held authority, yes, but in the grand scheme of things, they were mere children wielding blunt instruments. Their abilities allowed them to manipulate their immediate surroundings—to bend nature to their will in small, concentrated bursts. An Acolyte might call forth the earth to form a barrier or summon roots to ensnare an enemy, but their influence was limited to such rudimentary feats.
A Disciple, on the other hand, stood at a halfway point between mere Fatewalkers and the legends that towered above them. With six circles of power, Maelor could decimate an entire village with a single sweep of his hand. His authority allowed him to reshape the battlefield, to control the flow of life and death on a much grander scale. Disciples like him were rare and revered across the Tower's domains. But beyond the Disciples, the ranks only grew more terrifying.
The Paragons. Beings of such immense power that they were often regarded as demi-gods, shaping reality itself with their authority. The 10th Rank in the Fatewalker scale, they commanded forces so vast that entire regions could bend to their will. The leaders of the noble Houses were all paragons—entities that no known being in the Tower dared to challenge. Their influence and strength made them untouchable, and their power was not something mere mortals could truly comprehend. It was said that their rank allowed them to control the Tower itself in ways others could only dream of.
Beyond them, there were still three more ranks in the Fatewalker hierarchy—ranks thought to be lost to history, whispered about only in legends. The Eternals, the last Fatewalker rank, were considered divine legends in every sense, though no living Fatewalker had ever witnessed such power. But as far as the known world was concerned, the Paragons—the noble House leaders—were the apex, their presence undeniable and their rule unquestioned.
Yet, Maelor knew the truth. For all their power, Fatewalkers were not the only forces at play in the Tower. Beyond their domains, in the darker corners of the Tower's vast and mysterious structure, abominations roamed—creatures born of corruption and chaos, each rank mirroring the ascension of Fatewalkers. These creatures had their own hierarchy, starting from the lowliest Spawn, advancing through ranks like Devourer and Crawler, and all the way up to the terror-inducing Abyssals, creatures whose strength supposedly rivaled that of an Eternal-ranked Fatewalker, though nobody would know as they were only a part of myths and legends.
Abominations had their own path to ascension, gaining power in a much different way as to how Fatewalkers did, which was by feeding on the essence of other creatures . The Tower was filled with these dark counterparts, and for every Paragon, there was a Terrorfiend waiting in the shadows—a monster whose very presence could decimate entire domains, or so legends told.
Maelor's gaze shifted from the documents on his desk to a gleaming object that sat in the corner of the room: the oracle. Its surface, smooth and flawless, shimmered faintly with an otherworldly light. The orb had been brought to him by Elowen, the ambitious Acolyte who had ventured into the Netherdeep—a region so perilous that even a Disciple like him had to think twice before exploring it alone, so sending her and her squad was akin to suicide. The mission had been a calculated risk, but the rewards were proving to be worth the cost.
The Netherdeep, separated from Ironshard's Domain by the Obsidian Gate, was a vast and uncharted territory, full of danger and mystery. The Obsidian Gate, a mountain-sized arch of pure black stone, loomed over the land like a sentinel, marking the boundary between the known and the unknown. Beyond it lay the Netherdeep, a place inhabited by creatures whose origins were shrouded in legend—beings so old, they were said to predate the House Leaders themselves.
House of Ironshard, under the command of Magnus, The Verdant Bastion, had long sought to uncover the secrets hidden within that dark valley. General Dathor, a Harbinger Rank—two full ranks above Maelor—was a man driven by ambition and power, and tasked by Magnus with uncovering said secrets. His leader's goal was clear: to use the ancient knowledge hidden within the Netherdeep to elevate the House of Ironshard to a level beyond its rivals. In the political struggle between the noble Houses, any edge could mean the difference between dominance and extinction. The Royal House of Solaris, House to the current King of the Tower and long rumored to have secured its own rise through similar means, stood as a constant reminder of what was possible for those willing to take risks.
The oracle that now sat in Maelor's chamber was the key to unlocking that power. It was more than just a relic. It was an artifact of immense significance, one that could potentially lead Ironshard to the very thing they sought—proof of the existence of the ancient beings that once ruled over this part of the Tower, and remnants of their power. The beings whose strength rivaled even that of the gods.
Maelor reached out and gently ran his fingers over the oracle's surface. As he channeled a small pulse of his essence into the orb, it responded, glowing faintly as if recognizing his touch. It was a fascinating object, one that required careful study. But even as he probed its mysteries, Maelor knew that time was running short. General Dathor would not wait forever for answers.
Just as he was about to delve deeper into the oracle's essence, a knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. The sound was soft but firm, and Maelor knew immediately who it was.
"Enter," he called, his voice steady but with an edge of impatience.
The door creaked open, and a young soldier stepped inside, standing at attention before the commander. His uniform was crisp, and his face held the look of someone who understood the gravity of delivering a message to a man like Maelor.
"Commander Maelor," the soldier began, his voice unwavering.
"General Dathor requests your presence immediately. He has urgent matters to discuss regarding the Netherdeep expedition."
Maelor's eyes flicked briefly to the oracle, then back to the soldier. So, the time had come. He had expected this, of course. General Dathor would want to know about the findings—and Maelor had much to share, and equally much more to uncover.
"Very well," Maelor said, his voice calm as ever.
"Tell the General I shall be there shortly."
The soldier saluted, bowed, and quickly exited the room, leaving Maelor alone once more. The commander took a moment to gather his thoughts, casting one last glance at the oracle before returning it to its protective case. Whatever secrets it held would have to wait. For now, he had to deal with Dathor—and that required his full attention.
As Maelor stood, adjusting his robes, he allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction. The pieces were falling into place. The House of Ironshard's ambitions were greater than ever, and he was one of the key players in ensuring its rise to power. But the game was far from over. The politics of the noble Houses were as dangerous as any abomination that roamed the Tower, and only those who understood the balance of power could hope to survive.
With a final glance at his reflection in the polished surface of his desk, Maelor turned and made his way to the door. He moved with the grace of a man who knew his place in the world—one of power, authority, and purpose.
And soon, the rest of the Tower would know it as well.