Zarphinion's Status Update
Name: Zarphinion Soient
Title: Lord of Blackthorn and Ashenhold, Heir to House Soient
Level: 47
Troop Numbers: 18,500 soldiers (divided between Blackthorn and Ashenhold), 2,300 cavalry, 600 mages, 4,000 auxiliary forces
Tamed Creatures:
Nightfang, the Abyssal Direwolf – A towering black-furred beast with crimson eyes, able to meld into shadows and rip through armored foes.Velmira, the Crimson Serpent – A venomous, winged serpent capable of suffocating foes with mist-like toxins.Sableclaw, the Onyx Griffin – A battle-hardened beast of sky and talon, able to shred enemies from above.
Abilities:
Dark Dominion: Enhances command over the battlefield, instilling terror in foes.Blood Pact: Allows the absorption of enemy life force to rejuvenate himself or his troops.Voidstep: Grants him brief teleportation through the darkness.Necrotic Resistance: Lessens the effects of curses, poisons, and decay magic.A Lurking Threat
The air within the dimly lit study of Blackthorn Fortress was thick with the scent of aged parchment and candle smoke. Scrolls detailing forbidden necromantic rites lay strewn across the wooden table, maps marked with the sigils of fallen houses pinned to the walls. Zarphinion stood over a heavy tome bound in obsidian leather, his fingers tracing over the name that had surfaced time and again in his research—Malrik Vaelor.
"Uncle…" Zarphinion muttered under his breath, his amber eyes narrowing.
Malrik had been a phantom in the records, a name that lurked in the shadows but never left proof of his hand in House Soient's downfall. Until now.
From the assembled documents, one truth became clear: Malrik had been orchestrating events from the darkness for decades. Not just a necromancer, but a manipulator of bloodlines, curses, and war. He was not a simple enemy to be crushed—he was a force of nature, a lich whose patience outlasted generations.
"He's been sending his undead against us for months," Selene said, standing beside him, arms crossed. "Testing our strength."
"And he will continue to," Zarphinion said. "His goal isn't just me. He wants to see Elyndra suffer for betraying her bloodline."
Asira, seated nearby with a goblet of wine in hand, scoffed. "Then we should let him come. Let his puppets break against our walls."
But Zarphinion knew better. Malrik was not a foe who fought battles conventionally. He eroded, he corrupted. If left unchecked, he would plant seeds of decay within Zarphinion's growing kingdom.
"We need more than just defenses," Zarphinion said. "We need to hunt him."
The Undead Assault
As if summoned by their words, the first warning bell rang from the southern gates.
Zarphinion surged to his feet, eyes darkening. The fortress guards were shouting, their voices frantic. He strode onto the battlements, Asira and Lilith at his side, Elyndra trailing behind.
The plains beyond Blackthorn Fortress had turned into a shifting sea of rotting flesh and spectral horrors. Malrik's horde had come.
At its head was a towering wight-lord, clad in tarnished plate armor, wielding a greatsword dripping with necrotic energy. Shadows wreathed its form as it raised a skeletal hand, commanding an army of restless dead—pale-faced revenants, bone-clad wraiths, and stitched abominations.
"Defensive positions!" Zarphinion roared, his voice cutting through the frigid night air.
The archers loosed their arrows, bolts of silver-tipped death piercing the first ranks of shambling undead. Spells erupted from the walls, flames swallowing ghouls whole while lightning crackled across the battlefield. Yet the enemy did not falter. Each fallen corpse only rose again.
Zarphinion gritted his teeth and leaped from the battlements, Voidstepping mid-air to appear at the vanguard of his forces. His scythe "Ebon Requiem" sang as he spun it in a deadly arc, cleaving through wraiths like smoke caught in a storm.
Lilith cracked her enchanted whip, the coils wrapping around an abomination's throat before she tore its head from its shoulders. Asira, her shapeshifting armor shifting into a bladed form, carved through the front lines like a dancer of death.
Elyndra, though still under punishment, stepped forward. Magic surged through her veins. With a whisper, she unleashed a blast of arcane fire, incinerating a dozen skeletons in an instant.
Zarphinion's forces pressed the attack. The undead faltered.
The wight-lord snarled and lunged for Zarphinion.
Steel met cursed iron. Sparks flew as the two clashed in a battle of raw power. But Zarphinion was no longer the heir of a fallen house—he was a warlord, a conqueror.
With a final flourish, he severed the wight's head from its shoulders. Its body crumbled into dust.
The undead army shuddered—then collapsed. Whatever dark magic had bound them unraveled.
As the battlefield fell silent, Zarphinion exhaled. This was only the beginning.
A Promise Sealed in Fire
Later that evening, as the fires of the funeral pyres burned high, Zarphinion stood within the fortress walls, arms wrapped around Asira as she leaned against him. Lilith lounged nearby, sipping wine, her lips curling in amusement as she watched.
"That was quite the battle," Asira murmured. "And quite the victory."
"But the war is far from over," Zarphinion said. His thoughts were still on Malrik, the phantom who would not die.
Asira turned in his arms, her violet eyes searching his face. "You will win," she said simply. "You always do."
Her certainty, her unwavering faith, stirred something deep within him. For all the bloodshed, all the burdens upon his shoulders, she remained.
He cupped her face. "Then I suppose I should ensure you remain by my side."
Asira's breath hitched. "What are you saying?"
Zarphinion smirked. "I'm saying I would be a fool to fight this war without my most trusted companion." He reached into his armor, pulling forth a ring forged from the remains of his family's old sigil, reforged into a new promise.
Lilith nearly choked on her wine. "Is that what I think it is?"
Zarphinion went down to one knee. "Asira, will you stand as my queen?"
For the first time in her life, Asira was speechless.
Then, without hesitation, she grabbed him, pulling him into a deep kiss.
The fortress erupted into cheers. Even Lilith, usually the composed one, let out a laugh.
Zarphinion rose, Asira in his arms, the fires of Blackthorn glowing behind them.
This was not just an engagement.
This was a declaration of war.
And Malrik Vaelor would soon know the wrath of House Soient.