And it came to pass, in the centuries following the Great Sundering, when the world lay shattered and divided, the demons, untouched by the lands beyond, remained within the confines of their own cursed realm.
Their domain, shrouded in shadow and veiled by unrelenting fire, stretched from horizon to horizon, a land forgotten by time and separated from the rest of creation. It was a place of stark contrasts—where mountains bled molten rivers into the ashen plains, and valleys howled with the wails of the damned. The skies above were thick with darkened clouds, ever pregnant with the threat of ember-laced storms, while the ground trembled beneath the weight of centuries-old conflicts.
In this place, the demons knew not of the gods, nor of the world that lay beyond the jagged mountains and desolate deserts. For the land in which they existed was theirs alone, a land that had never been visited by the foot of an outlander. The Great Sundering had left them in isolation, with only their own kind to know their existence. Their ancestors had long since abandoned notions of peace or unity, and the stories of a world beyond their own were dismissed as idle myths.
The demons, a people of war and flame, lived in a constant state of internal strife. Nations, empires, and clans had risen from the ashes of ancient conflicts, each battling not for divine favor nor celestial glory, but for dominion over the land, for control over the scarce resources that lay within their grasp. Their societies were built on the iron law of strength, where the weak perished, and the mighty reigned supreme.
Seven great nations stood amidst this chaos, each a reflection of its ruler's will and ambition. Their banners flew high above their bastions, each marked by the scars of a thousand wars. The bloodlines of their leaders ran deep with pride and strength, though their hearts were as shadowed as the land itself.
In the Empire of Xal'gor, a land of towering obsidian fortresses and burning citadels, the war drums thundered once more. The scent of charred flesh lingered in the air, a testament to the sacrifices demanded by their ruthless conquest.
Upon a dais of blackened steel, Emperor Vornak surveyed his war council, his expression one of controlled hunger. His crimson eyes burned with the fire of conquest, his jagged horns casting long shadows across the chamber. His voice, like the grinding of stone, echoed through the hall.
"The time has come to strike the first blow." He ran his gauntleted fingers along the edge of his great war axe. "The Varkthar have grown complacent in their pride. We shall take the north and make it ours."
General Zorith, draped in a cloak of flayed enemy banners, inclined his head. His voice was measured, his mind ever calculating. "The northern tribes will not surrender easily, Your Majesty. They will fight to the last."
Vornak's lips curled into something between a smirk and a snarl. "Then we shall make them regret their defiance. War is not won by those who hesitate, but by those who are bold enough to take what is theirs."
Beyond the citadel walls, the legions of Xal'gor prepared for war, their weapons gleaming under the ominous glow of their city's eternal flames. Their war cries, guttural and raw, reverberated through the ashen sky as they marched northward, an unstoppable tide of destruction.
To the east, in Drelthor, the ancient mountain kingdom, the winds of war whispered through the frostbitten spires. The peaks of Drelthor rose like the broken teeth of a slumbering beast, and within its halls of darkened iron, King Drakar paced restlessly. His throne, carved from the skull of a fallen warlord, seemed almost to loom over him as his advisors spoke in hushed voices.
"We must act swiftly." Drakar's deep voice carried through the chamber. "Xal'gor is already moving. If we do not seize the north, we risk being crushed beneath their heel. We shall not wait for our doom."
Lord Takar, ever the cautious voice, stepped forward. His armor bore the weight of many campaigns, his face lined with the knowledge of war. "But, my King, the Varkthar are no easy prey. They have fought in these lands for generations, and they will not yield without a fight. The Ghorath Dominion to the south also stirs."
Drakar's grip tightened around the hilt of his blade, his eyes narrowing. "Then we shall crush them both. The north will belong to Drelthor. We will have it, or we will burn the land until nothing remains."
And thus, the horns of Drelthor sounded, their warriors descending from the mountains like an avalanche of steel and fury.
In the dark lands of Ghorath, a realm of sorcery and secrets, Lord Khoras of House Ghoras convened with his most trusted sorcerers in the dim glow of their arcane chamber. The air shimmered with latent magic, the scent of burning incense thick in the shadows.
"The time for subtlety has passed," Khoras murmured, his voice laced with something akin to amusement. "We will not stand idle while these fools bicker for dominion. We will strike at the heart of their power."
Sorceress Althea, her robes a cascade of twilight hues, hesitated. "We will awaken the ancient forces that slumber beneath the land. But we must be careful. The earth is a powerful ally, but it is also a dangerous one."
Khoras' lips curled into a knowing smile. "Then we shall awaken it. Let the very ground quake with our fury. There is no greater weapon than the earth itself. And we will use it to crush those who stand against us."
In the depths of Ghorath, the ground trembled as forgotten powers stirred, their slumber disturbed by the ambitions of mortals.
To the west, in the snow-swept halls of the Varkthar clan, High Chief Ralthor addressed his war council. His people, hardened by generations of conflict, stood unmoved by the growing threats.
"The time to fight is now." Ralthor's voice rang out like the tolling of a war bell. "Xal'gor and Drelthor both move against us. We will stand our ground, or we will be buried beneath their advance."
Lieutenant Tharak, ever the pragmatic one, stepped forward. "We cannot stand alone, High Chief. The Ghorath Dominion moves against us from the south. We need allies, or we will fall."
Ralthor's gaze was unwavering. "We need no allies. We are the Varkthar, and we will not bow to anyone."
And so, the clans of the Varkthar sharpened their blades, their warriors preparing for the storm to come.
And thus, it was that the land of the demons was consumed by the fire of war, a fire that could not be quenched and would not be extinguished. The struggle for power, for dominion, and for survival would continue for eons to come, and in the midst of it all, none among them could foresee the shadows that loomed beyond their fractured world.