Back in time before the Frost Lord incident.Somewhere in this ice cold world The castle loomed in the dead of night, its obsidian spires clawing at a starless sky. Torches flickered along the cavernous halls, their orange glow licking at the ancient tapestries that depicted forgotten wars. The air smelled of smoke and old stone, of power and secrets buried deep in the foundations.
Ignatius strode down the grand hallway, his boots sinking into the plush crimson carpet that muffled even his hurried steps. The ceiling arched high above him, lost in shadow, the weight of centuries pressing down. His molten veins pulsed beneath his armor—his master had summoned him after ten years of silence. At this hour. Something was wrong.
The massive oak doors of the throne room groaned as he pushed them open.
And there—perched on the obsidian throne like a king of carrion—sat Veylin.
The intruder lounged with one leg draped over the other, lazily plucking grapes from a silver platter beside him. His violet eyes gleamed in the firelight as he admired the view beyond the stained-glass windows—the sprawling dark of the empire his master had built.
"Your master has... exquisite taste," Veylin mused, swirling a grape between his fingers.
Ignatius moved before the sentence finished.
In a blur of heat and fury, he crossed the chamber, claws outstretched—only to freeze a hair's breadth from Veylin's throat.
The man didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. He just tilted his head, that infuriating, knowing smile curling his lips.
"Now, now," Veylin chided, voice smooth as poisoned honey. "Your master wouldn't want me dead. Neither would his master." A pause, deliberate. "And you? Do you really want to explain to your lord why his favorite pawn slit the wrong throat?"
Ignatius' claws trembled with the urge to strike. But the truth in those words was a shackle. He stepped back, teeth grinding.
Veylin sighed, as if disappointed by the lack of drama, and rose from the throne. His boots clicked against the onyx steps as he descended, the hem of his cobalt coat whispering against stone.
"I assume you've heard the rumors," he said, pausing to trace a finger along the armrest of the throne. "The Emperor of Ashes has returned. Woken from his little stone nap."
Ignatius stiffened. That name hadn't been spoken in centuries.
Veylin didn't miss his reaction. "Ah. So you haven't been keeping up. Pity." He flicked a grape into his mouth. "My agents tell me he's making his way to Frostford. That pathetic little village you've ignored for years."
"Why would—"
"Because," Veylin interrupted, "he's the one the prophet warned your master about. The one he's been hunting." A slow, serpentine smile. "Imagine the look on your lord's face if you brought him Kael Dromen's head before he even knew the man was alive."
Ignatius' pulse roared in his ears. Favor. Power. A reward beyond measure—
Veylin was already at the doors, his silhouette framed by torchlight. He tossed something backward without looking. A single gold coin arced through the air, landing at Ignatius' feet with a ping.
"Think about it," Veylin called over his shoulder. "You know where to go." A pause. A glance back, eyes glinting. "Destroy everything he loves."
Then he was gone, leaving only the echo of his footsteps—and the scent of grapes and gunpowder—behind.
Ignatius stared at the coin. At the throne. At the path ahead.
Frostford would burn.
And the Emperor would watch.