Thick clouds rolled across the moonlit sky, casting distorted shapes on the crumbling walls of an ancient stronghold. This was no ordinary ruin. Stark towers and jagged ramparts jutted upward like broken teeth, half-swallowed by creeping ivy and skeletal trees. Once a symbol of absolute power, this fortress had belonged to Caledria's most infamous ruler—the Tyrant. Though the man himself had perished decades ago, the aura of dread that surrounded his domain lingered like a stubborn stain.
In a cavernous hall open to the elements, only one chamber remained intact—its arched ceiling blackened from centuries of burning torches and illicit rituals. The wide stone floor bore symbols chiseled long ago, half-filled with rotting leaves and damp debris. Now those symbols glowed faintly with an unnatural luminescence.
A single figure stood at the center of that haunting mosaic: hooded in tattered black robes that fell to the ankles, arms raised high above a circle of flickering candles. Were it not for a faint rasp of breath echoing in the silence, one could mistake this figure for a statue—a sentinel of the past, waiting for the right moment to awaken.
But awaken it did, the moment the clouds parted. A pale shaft of moonlight knifed through the broken roof, illuminating the swirling dust motes. The hooded figure spoke a hushed incantation in a language that seemed older than the fortress itself—a language of jagged consonants and whispered vowels, each syllable loaded with forbidden weight.
Beneath the chanting, an undercurrent of dread pervaded the place. Ancient walls hummed with memory. A faint tremor ran through the very stones as if the fortress recognized that something sinister was being summoned once again.
The figure paused, lowering its arms, then knelt on the cold floor. A gloved hand dipped into a leather pouch hidden beneath the robes and retrieved a small black shard—opaque, with edges so sharp they could slice flesh on contact. Even in the gloom, the shard's surface seemed to pulse with faint, rhythmic light, as though it had its own heartbeat.
A sharper wind gusted through the broken hall. Candles sputtered but did not die, their flames dancing as if celebrating the presence of the artifact. Slowly, deliberately, the hooded figure placed the shard upon a carved rune etched into the floor. With trembling care, the figure began to speak anew:
"By the name of the one dethroned and yet unforgotten, I awaken the old power. By blood and will, I call upon the echoes of the Tyrant."
As the invocation rang out, the rest of the hall came alive. Shadows seemed to peel off the walls, stretching in unnatural ways. A coil of darkness wreathed the figure's feet, slithered across the circle, then wrapped around the shard.
The robed individual pulled back the hood, revealing a face partly hidden by a half-mask forged from dark metal. Only a single eye and a lock of silver hair could be seen clearly. The eye glowed with an unearthly fervor, underscored by a triumphant sneer. This was the Hidden Regent—a name whispered in taverns and back alleys by those who sensed a resurgence of evil in Caledria. Few believed the stories, but here in the ruins, legend and truth converged in one malignant presence.
The Regent cupped both hands around the shard, ignoring the arcs of black electricity dancing along its edges. Sweat beaded on the masked brow as the chanting grew more insistent. The carved runes on the floor flared with sullen red light, flaring in synchrony with the Regent's voice. A swirl of dust and leaves circled overhead, forming a funnel that threatened to tear the roof clean off.
Yet the Regent remained steady, unwavering. Carefully, gently, the robed figure pressed a finger against the shard's surface. A sharp hiss of pain—blood welled up from the fingertip, only to be absorbed by the artifact. The once-dull surface flickered with renewed brightness, as though the shard awakened from centuries of slumber and thirsted for more.
"Hear me," the Regent intoned. "It is not your time to be silent. We have fed you. We will feed you again. The Tyrant's reign does not end—his legacy endures in flesh and bone and magic. Let your power course through these stones once more."
A violent shudder ran through the entire stronghold. Loose rocks tumbled from the collapsed ceiling, and a crack zigzagged across the ancient floor. Despite the potential for destruction, the Hidden Regent simply closed that single visible eye, as if in rapture.
In the corners of the hall, shapes began to coalesce—humanoid outlines of swirling black mist, half-formed wraiths with eyes that glowed a faint, poisonous green. They reached out with transparent fingers toward the circle, transfixed by the shard and the ritual. Some hissed in what might have been longing, others let out keening sounds that echoed painfully against the stone.
The wind shrieked, rattling the battered doors and extinguishing all but the circle of candles around the Regent. The swirling funnel overhead seemed to intensify, drawing the clouds into a spiral, revealing the full moon's pale face. An ear-splitting crack of thunder shook the fortress, though no lightning split the sky.
Still, the Regent chanted, voice low and determined:
"In our hands, you will be whole again… The pieces scattered, lost, but never truly destroyed… Let every fragment call out to its siblings."
As though hearing that call from across vast distances, the shard's pulse began to quicken. Dull black gave way to a flicker of swirling deep purple, marbled with veins of red. The wraithlike shadows around the perimeter shrank back, unable to approach the circle's center. The shard's raw power glimmered at the edge of the Regent's trembling hands, hungry and eager.
Ever so slowly, the Regent rose. A sense of grim satisfaction emanated from behind the half-mask. If there was ever any doubt about the truth of those old legends—about the Tyrant's relics and the possibility of harnessing them—that doubt had now vanished. Here it was, undeniable, resonating with the call for conquest that had once nearly devoured the entire kingdom.
"Soon," the Regent whispered, a cold vow. "Soon you shall have your siblings, and soon we shall all bend to the will of the rightful lord… or shape it anew."
The final words lingered in the stale air, tinged with hubris. Outside, the wind bellowed like a wounded beast. The Regent carefully picked up the shard, slid it back into the pouch, and covered it with layers of protective cloth. Even then, faint pulses of energy radiated from it, enough to make the Regent's muscles tense in response.
Those swirling black wraiths receded deeper into the shadows, no longer needed for the moment. The ritual's main objective had been accomplished: the shard had awakened.
But the Regent was not finished. Striding across the rubble-strewn floor, the figure approached a dilapidated altar. Once lavishly adorned with precious metals and carved icons of twisted serpents, only fragments of that opulence remained—a tarnished gold plaque here, a toppled statue of a monstrous winged creature there. Lifting a dusty cloth from the altar's surface, the Regent revealed a relic: a large metal disk inlaid with swirling runes.
Despite being heavily oxidized and corroded, the runes glowed faintly, responding to the presence of the shard. The Regent carefully set the disk upright, then pressed a hand against its center.
A low hum, almost imperceptible at first, became a steady drone. The Regent's single visible eye widened as if in wonder or greed. Tiny arcs of black lightning skittered across the disk's circumference.
"Show me," the Regent commanded, voice resonating with supernatural power. "Show me where the rest lie hidden."
The runes flickered—one after another—forming a ring of light around the disk's edge. Then, a swirl of purple and black erupted in the center, conjuring images that shifted too quickly to make sense of: glimpses of haunted catacombs, a shimmering coastline at dusk, a grand library with spires of white marble, and at times, only swirling smoke.
A hush fell. The Regent stared intently, lips forming silent words as each image blinked across the disk. It was as if the entire realm of Caledria had opened up for inspection. Snippets of knowledge—locations, maps, hidden corners—flashed and vanished in rapid succession.
Then, abruptly, a particular vision stabilized. A mountainous region, crowned with evergreens under a chilly sky, took shape in that swirling haze. At the base of a rocky ravine, an object shimmered with the same dark-luster as the shard. Even distorted by the magical display, the Regent recognized it. Another fragment.
"Northwood," the Regent hissed. "Then that is where we shall begin."
The swirling image vanished, leaving behind only the ring of runes. The drone faded into silence, replaced by the wind moaning through the fortress. Slowly, the Regent lifted the half-mask just enough to reveal a taut mouth set in a smirk.
One fragment was already secured. Another lay in the cold Northwood. Others might be scattered throughout Caledria, hidden in the Academy's restricted vaults or lost in dusty tombs. No matter. The Regent had begun the hunt, and a hunt was not over until its quarry was in hand.
"I will not fail," the Regent murmured, voice trembling with equal parts fervor and obsession. "I have come too far to let the Tyrant's name fade into oblivion. Let them whisper it in fear again—let them kneel. They know nothing of what true power means."
With deliberate steps, the Hidden Regent returned to the center of the hall. The circle of extinguished candles still smoldered, thin trails of smoke curling upward like the ghosts of the flames. Bending, the Regent traced a finger through the ash, drawing a symbol on the floor—an angular glyph reminiscent of a serpent's head.
Dark energy crackled along the Regent's arm. The wraiths looming in the shadows hissed like starved animals, drawn to that final sign. Then, with a flash of purple light, the glyph flared, momentarily illuminating the entire hall in harsh, violet brilliance.
When the light subsided, the final step of the ritual was done. The fortress, once asleep in its ruin, felt alive again with malignant purpose. The Regent stared at the newly carved sigil, etched in glowing lines of red. It resembled the shape of a leering, crowned skull—the Tyrant's emblem.
A resonant voice, deeper than the Regent's own, seemed to echo through the hall:
"He is not gone. He awaits the call."
It might have been an illusion. An echo of old magic. Or perhaps it was something else, something real, stirred from centuries of dormancy. The Regent released a measured breath.
The plan was in motion. Soon, the Regent would depart the old stronghold, traveling under guise or shadow to gather the missing shards. Along the way, the Regent's influence would expand—spies planted in unsuspecting courts, alliances forged with exiled nobles, gold exchanged in secret. Every step would be a step closer to the ultimate aim: to see Caledria brought under the Tyrant's brand of dominion. Whether by resurrecting the dread king himself, or by installing a new vessel for that power, mattered little. Only victory mattered.
Rising to stand, the Hidden Regent pulled the hood back over the silver hair, concealing the half-mask in darkness once more. A final glance around the ruined hall—those fallen columns, the gaping holes in the ceiling letting moonlight spill onto broken shards of marble—affirmed that this place was no longer needed.
Spreading gloved hands, the Regent invoked one last incantation. A faint swirling of black mist curled at the figure's feet, gathering intensity. The wraiths in the corners howled, drawn into the vortex. Their shrieks of frustration diminished as they were banished into nothingness. One by one, they vanished, returning to the shadows from whence they came.
With a low, murmured word, the Regent stepped into the swirling mist, sinking into it as if it were a pool of ink. The column of darkness engulfed the robed body entirely—then it vanished, leaving only a ripple in the cold air. The leftover wisp of darkness drifted apart, revealing an empty circle of charred candle wicks and the smoldering symbol on the floor.
Silence settled once more. The fortress, abused by time and the elements, groaned in its old age. Timbers cracked. An owl hooted somewhere outside. Slowly, the swirling clouds overhead began to disperse, as though the moon itself exhaled in relief at the ritual's conclusion.
Yet the remains of that final mark lingered—a line of scarlet etched into the stone, still faintly glowing, still pregnant with promise. Even in the absence of the Regent, the residue of dark power clung to the air like a miasma. The entire kingdom, if it had ears to hear, would have felt the echo of that incantation.
Within moments, the whistling wind gained a sharper bite, as if nature itself recoiled from the fortress. Rats and bats that once thrived in the gloom scurried to find new hiding places. A sense of dread, intangible yet unmistakable, clung to every corridor and collapsed chamber.
In the distance, a pack of wolves howled in broken harmony, as though lamenting some cosmic shift. The wind carried their call across the rolling plains, toward the quiet villages and towns of Caledria. Most of its people slept unaware of the new threat rising from the Tyrant's cradle. A handful might have stirred in their beds, troubled by nightmares they could not name.
For those who lived in the capital, in the Academy, or in the far reaches of the Northwood, life would continue as usual—at least for now. But the first pebble of the avalanche had been cast. The old fortress, witness to unspeakable cruelty in the Tyrant's day, had once again become the crucible of dark ambition.
And at the fortress's heart—on that cold stone floor—glowed the promise of an ancient evil. The Ebon Shard, dormant no longer, pulsed in response to the Regent's call. Though hidden in a pouch and carried away, its echo lingered on the sigil. In some deep, metaphysical sense, the Shard had awakened its siblings. If any were out there—scattered in tombs, libraries, or buried in the corners of lost kingdoms—they would stir, responding to the clarion call of the Tyrant's legacy.
One day soon, the entire realm of Caledria would tremble under that call. Some would rise to oppose it, others would seek to harness it, but the hidden truth remained: no one could ignore the shard's power forever. It was only a matter of time.
High above, the moon finally slipped behind a thin veil of clouds, casting the ruined fortress into deeper darkness. Only the faint red glow of the Tyrant's symbol refused to dim, a stubborn flicker of malevolence in an otherwise silent ruin.