Beyond the scorched reaches of the Hollow Spire, where the Veil bled into the world like ink into water, the forces of the Black Host gathered.
Their encampment sprawled like a cancer across the Shardlands — tents of flayed hide, towers forged from bone and rusted steel, banners stitched with living veins fluttering in unnatural wind. The very ground pulsed beneath their boots, as if the land itself writhed in protest.
Within the heart of this horror stood Malrik, Warlord of the Black Host, his one good eye burning with fury. Black lightning danced around his armored gauntlet, and his mouth curled into a snarl as he stared into the shimmer of the Veil mirror — a dark, obsidian surface that pulsed with images of Kael's victory at the Spire.
The Warlord crushed the neck of a kneeling beast-scout with one hand, snarling, "He beheaded Varnak… that mark-blooded whelp."
A voice slithered beside him.
"You underestimated him again, Malrik."
The speaker was Vorrak, a shadow-mage draped in smoke-woven robes, face hidden beneath a veil of silver thorns. "The Crimson Mark grows stronger. If he ascends, even the Veil will tremble."
Malrik turned on him. "Then I'll drown his fire in shadows. No more pawns. No more delay."
He stepped into the war hall — a ring of basalt and bone, where the Dread Generals of the Black Host awaited. Each was a nightmare carved into form:
Gharn the Butcher, towering and blood-drenched, wielding twin bone-cleavers known as The Severance.
Sythriel, the Whisperblade, silent and veiled, her hair alive with tendrils that bled whispers.
The Helmasked, a knight in twisted obsidian armor, whose soul had been replaced with a shard of the Veil itself.
Malrik slammed his fist onto the war-table.
"The Crimson boy leads mortals like a king. We tear his crown from his skull."
He pointed to a map scarred with scorch marks.
"We march on Cindermoor. Burn the villages. Bait him. We make the fire prince come to us."
Gharn laughed, the sound like bones breaking.
"I'll take his head myself."
Vorrak's eyes gleamed. "The Veil cults are already at work in the towns. The people will turn on him when the time is right."
Malrik nodded. "Let the boy become their hero. Then make them watch as he dies screaming."
From the edge of the chamber, a cloaked figure emerged — her presence drawing silence from even the generals. She knelt.
"My eyes are yours, Malrik. The Voice-Eaters move on your command."
"Good," Malrik growled. "Then speak this to the dark: The next time Kael draws that cursed blade—he will find it buried in his own chest."
The Black Host roared, a cry that shook the corrupted skies.
And far beyond their camp, the Veil shivered — not in fear, but in anticipation.