And so, the storms of war churned over the seven demon nations, but far beneath the reach of mortal struggles, deeper forces stirred, whispering across the very bones of the world.
Beneath the obsidian monolith of Xhorgath, the ground trembled once more. The chanting figures, their voices woven into a dark symphony, felt the shift in the air, an almost imperceptible disturbance that sent shivers down their spines. The crimson-robed leader, eyes brimming with abyssal light, pressed his palm against the monolith's surface.
A voice not his own echoed in his mind.
"The hour nears. The chains loosen."
He drew a sharp breath, his lips curling into a smile. "And so, the blind kings above march to their slaughter, never knowing the true battlefield lies beneath their feet."
Behind him, his disciples continued their chant, unaware of the unseen eyes watching from beyond the veil.
In the scorched lands of Malzorith, where rivers of fire carved deep scars into the ashen earth, the war drums of Zaromir thundered across the wastelands. The Sovereign of Zaromir, Lord Veldros, stood atop the great obsidian walls of his fortress-city, overlooking the battlefield below.
Before him, the armies of Lorendith had gathered, their war machines gleaming under the crimson sky. Towering siege engines were hauled forward, their dark iron frames wreathed in arcane fire. At their head, King Morvael of Lorendith rode forth, his armor a midnight sheen, his banner emblazoned with a sigil of twin serpents coiled around a broken crown.
Veldros turned to his warlord, a towering brute clad in jagged plate. "He seeks to claim what is ours."
The warlord nodded. "Then let him try."
With a gesture, Veldros signaled his archers. The sky darkened as arrows, tipped with infernal fire, rained upon the advancing Lorendith ranks. Yet as the first wave fell, the earth beneath them trembled—not from the engines of war, but from something deeper, something ancient.
Veldros frowned, a flicker of unease creeping into his gaze.
Far from the battlefield, in the shrouded halls of the Sorcerers' Conclave in Eldrithar, a council of robed figures gathered. Their leader, the Grand Magister Velka, stood before an ancient tome bound in shadows, her fingers tracing the forbidden script inscribed upon its pages.
A sorcerer to her left, his voice laced with unease, spoke. "The rituals at Xhorgath are nearing completion. If the seal weakens any further—"
Velka silenced him with a glance. "We have spent centuries unraveling these bindings, seeking knowledge buried in time itself. We will not falter now."
A second voice, cautious yet firm, broke the silence. "But should we not first understand what it is we awaken?"
Velka's lips curled into a knowing smile. "It is not for us to awaken. It is for us to listen."
The torches dimmed as the air itself seemed to thicken, a silent whisper creeping through the chamber. The council members shuddered. Something was listening.
And so, war raged, but the battles of kings and conquerors were but fleeting echoes of a deeper struggle. The demons believed themselves the masters of their fate, the architects of their own destiny.
They had yet to learn that there were forces far older, watching, waiting.
And their time was coming.
-
And it came to pass that the world of demons churned in ceaseless conflict, the seven nations locked in their eternal struggle, blind to the forces that stirred beneath their very feet. In the wake of the shifting tides of war, whispers of ancient powers, long thought buried beneath the dust of forgotten ages, began to surface.
In the southern reaches of Zaromir Sovereignty, where the great obsidian spires of the capital loomed over the bloodied sands of the battlefield, the war council convened. Within the towering citadel of Velmora, King Rathos sat upon his throne of iron and bone, his gaze dark and unyielding as he listened to the reports of his generals.
"The Eldrithar Dominion has pressed into our eastern borders. Their legions do not waver, and their war machines strike with relentless precision," spoke General Vaelgor, his voice a steady growl. "We cannot hold the line without reinforcement."
King Rathos's gauntleted fingers tapped against the armrest of his throne. "Then we shall not hold. We shall advance."
Murmurs filled the chamber, uncertain and wary.
"We cannot march upon them blindly," another general objected. "Their sorcery is unlike any we have encountered before."
Rathos's gaze remained cold. "Then we must understand it."
At the king's command, a delegation of scholars and warlocks was dispatched to the ruined libraries of Malzareth, a city long forsaken, its archives buried beneath the sands of time. If the Dominion wielded unnatural power, then Zaromir would unearth knowledge lost to even the oldest of their kind.
Far to the west, within the deep jungles of Lorendith, where the great blackened roots of the elder trees reached beyond the heavens, the Circle of Blood convened in the twilight hours.
A great pyre burned at the center of their sacred ground, the flames casting flickering shadows upon the gathered druids and warlords. Before them stood the Arch-Druid Keralis, his robes adorned with woven sigils of blood and bone, his hands outstretched as he spoke to the gathering.
"The war consumes us all," he intoned, "but it is the earth that suffers most. The balance shifts, and the land cries out in pain."
A warrior stepped forward, his body scarred from countless battles. "What do the old ways tell us? How do we fight when the land itself grows restless?"
Keralis turned his gaze to the sky, where the great canopy swayed without wind. "There is more at play than mortal war. The spirits murmur of an awakening."
The gathered warriors listened, their weapons heavy at their sides. The old ways spoke of cycles—of balance shifting and returning. But what if this time, the shift would not end? What if something darker stirred beneath the soil?
In the forsaken wastes of Xhorgath, the monolith pulsed once more.
The robed figure knelt before its obsidian form, his voice but a whisper against the wailing winds. "The world above stirs. They dig, they seek, they pry open doors that should remain sealed."
The earth beneath him trembled. A voice, deep and ancient, rumbled through the void.
"Then let them come."
And in the silence that followed, the shadows deepened, and the monolith's glow became a beacon to the darkness beneath the world.