Part 1: The Stirring Depths
Beneath the surface of the world, where no mortal eyes had gazed for millennia, the deep caverns of Xhorgath pulsed with a life of their own. Stalactites hung like the fangs of some great beast, and rivers of molten rock flowed sluggishly through the abyss, casting long shadows that danced like wraiths against the walls. The oppressive weight of the underground bore down upon all who dared enter, and in the silent halls of this forgotten domain, something began to stir.
The sigils left behind by the Nameless One had begun to glow faintly, their intricate patterns pulsating in time with an unseen heartbeat. The slumbering presence, once bound by the weight of ages, stirred ever so slightly. Faint whispers, unintelligible yet powerful, echoed through the tunnels, brushing against the walls like skeletal fingers. They carried secrets older than the nations of men, promises and warnings uttered in a tongue no living being could understand.
A single ripple spread across the cavern floor, where the blackened veins of the earth converged. The ancient chains that had held something at bay for centuries had begun to fracture, the sigils acting as both a barrier and a beacon. Above, in the world of men, the sky darkened. The winds howled through distant valleys, a herald of what was to come.
Far from Xhorgath, seers and mystics across the demon lands awoke in a start, their visions consumed by a single, unrelenting darkness. In the heart of Eldrithar, a priestess collapsed at her altar, overcome by a force beyond mortal comprehension. And in the royal palace of Valkarath, the queen stood motionless at her chamber's balcony, staring at the stars as they flickered—vanishing one by one.
Part 2: The Omen in the North
The Kynthorath war camp lay in uneasy silence. Though their fires burned, the air remained unnaturally cold. The usual sounds of warriors at rest—clanking armor, sharpening blades, murmured war songs—had faded into an oppressive hush. Even the horses, beasts bred for war and hardened to conflict, stood restless in their pens, shifting uneasily and snorting into the night.
The forward scouts had not returned.
General Vareth stood before the central command, his eyes scanning the horizon. Something gnawed at his senses—a feeling he could not name, but could not ignore. His adjutants spoke of Druunval's defenses, of supply routes and strategic placements, but their voices faded into the background as his focus remained on the distant treeline.
Then, it came.
A sound, low and resonant, not unlike the groan of the earth itself. The war banners trembled as a great weight settled upon the land, an invisible pressure that sent shivers through even the most hardened warriors. Vareth's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword as his mind raced to comprehend the sensation. It was not fear—not in the way mortals understood it—but a primal recognition of something beyond his understanding.
The sentries on the outer perimeter began to call out, their voices edged with uncertainty. A shadow, vast and shifting, moved beyond the torchlight, just beyond what the eye could see. The wind carried no scent, no sound beyond the heartbeat of the abyss itself.
Vareth turned to his men, his voice steady despite the growing unease. "Ready the scouts. We move at dawn."
But dawn did not come.
The sky, which should have begun to lighten, remained cloaked in a deep, unnatural gloom. The stars above flickered erratically, as if something vast and unseen had passed before them. The campfires sputtered, their light swallowed by the oppressive darkness. Warriors who had spent decades in the field, who had faced battle and bloodshed without hesitation, found their hands shaking upon their blades.
And then, the first scream came.
It was cut short before it could fully form, a strangled sound of agony that came from the westernmost watch post. By the time the sentries reached the source, they found only empty armor, its occupant vanished as if plucked from existence.
Vareth's face hardened. "Form ranks. No one is to wander alone."
Whatever had arrived in the night had yet to reveal itself fully. But he knew one thing with certainty—war with Druunval was no longer their greatest concern.
Part 3: The Gathering of Shadows
In the hidden halls of Zaromir, the High Oracle stood before the great mirror of obsidian, her breath misting against its surface. The visions had grown stronger—an expanse of void swallowing the stars, a tide of shadows creeping ever closer. Her hands trembled slightly as she traced a single rune upon the mirror's surface. The obsidian darkened, swallowing the torchlight around it. Then, for the briefest of moments, she saw it.
A figure, standing at the threshold of the abyss. Its form was wreathed in shifting mist, its eyes like twin suns extinguished.
Her voice, when it came, was barely a whisper.
"It has begun."
The gathered nobles murmured, their faces pale. They were hardened rulers, accustomed to warfare and intrigue, yet what they had witnessed in the Oracle's vision was beyond mortal schemes. The queen of Zaromir, a woman of sharp mind and unshakable resolve, spoke first.
"If the shadows rise, then we must prepare."
The Oracle's gaze remained fixed upon the mirror. "No army will stand against this."
Silence settled over the chamber.
From the great city of Zaromir, messages were dispatched under seal and secrecy. Across the demon lands, ancient orders long thought forgotten were summoned once more. The great libraries were searched for knowledge buried beneath centuries of dust. The rulers of the seven nations, each embroiled in their own struggles, would soon receive the same warning.
Yet, for some, the warning would come too late.
Part 4: The Unraveling
In the mountains of Eldrithar, deep beneath the earth, something clawed at the fabric of reality. The sigils in Xhorgath had weakened further, their glow now a steady pulse that matched the rhythm of an unseen force. The ancient chains groaned, the runes that once bound them beginning to crack.
The first breach was small—almost imperceptible.
A single wisp of darkness slithered through, curling along the cavern walls, seeking, tasting, whispering.
Then, the second breach.
The pulse quickened. The air within the cavern became thick, suffocating. In the mortal realm, storm clouds gathered, swirling unnaturally over the seven nations. Lightning forked across the sky, striking in patterns no human could decipher, yet the seers understood. The heavens themselves recoiled at what was stirring below.
On the borders of Thaldris, a caravan of merchants stopped in their tracks as the road beneath them trembled. From the cracks in the earth, a faint mist began to rise. One of the merchants, an older man who had spent his life traveling the trade routes, stared at the mist with wide eyes.
"We should leave this place."
His companions laughed at his unease, but the laughter did not last long.
By nightfall, the caravan was never seen again.
The veil between worlds had begun to thin. The Gathering Storm was no longer merely coming.
It had arrived.