The Aelthwyn Borderlands had grown quiet under the morning haze. Mist curled between the jagged ridges and sharp slopes, the kind of terrain that had tested every soldier and mage in Elyndral's army over the past ten days. Yet the Crimson Dominion's forces marched with unbroken precision, their dark cloaks fluttering like banners of shadow across the misted valleys. Every footfall, every spell prepared, every subtle formation adjustment was executed with ruthless efficiency.
Princess Seliora walked among her generals, her boots crunching against the frost-hardened soil, her eyes glinting with a cruel light. She did not need to shout. Her soldiers moved because they wanted to, not out of fear, but because the thrill of victory, the calculation of power, had already taken root in their hearts. Every glance from her, every tilt of her chin, was a silent command—and obedience was instinct. The vector swarms, prepared meticulously by the Dominion's entomancers, were finally ready. Velzarith, the Bonegnawer Mist, would soon creep unseen into Elyndral's ranks. Invisible, undetectable, and perfect in its timing.
From the northern ridges, the first signs of the swarm began. Soldiers faltered subtly at first, their movements losing coherence. Mages who had been practicing defensive formations blinked, momentarily uncertain. Seliora's lips curved in a quiet, dark smile. "Patience," she whispered. Her voice carried no warmth—only the cold delight of predation. The battlefield was no longer a place of honor; it was a laboratory for power, a chessboard, and she held all the pieces.
In the south, Queen Luna observed her soldiers with hawk-like precision. Her hand rested on the pommel of her sword, eyes narrowing at the subtle hesitation creeping through her ranks. Her formation, strong and disciplined, had always been their pride, yet today the soldiers wavered. The wind carried the faint scent of something unfamiliar—sickly, sweet, and subtle. Even the plants along the ridges seemed to curl in discomfort. Luna's lips pressed into a thin line. She had learned to read the battlefield, to understand its pulse, and something was wrong. Very wrong.
She lifted her voice to her commanders, her tone cold but commanding: "Hold positions. Defend. Do not advance until I give the word." Every movement was deliberate, calculated. Her eyes swept over the mist, noting every ridge, every shadow, every change in the earth beneath their feet. Even the smallest detail—the subtle curling of leaves—warned her of the unnatural forces at play. Elyndral's soldiers might have been strong, but the land itself whispered of domination from unseen hands.
The tenth day was not a day of victory yet, only the final step in a cruel plan. The vector swarms proliferated slowly, taking hours, then more hours. Soldiers began to falter one by one. Their thoughts grew sluggish; their strength waned imperceptibly. And still, the deceptive front held: outwardly, the battle seemed evenly matched. The Dominion's soldiers pressed forward in formation, but the true victory was unseen.
Meanwhile, in the distance, the dark cloaked figure waited atop the central ridge of Elyndral's territory. Nameless, faceless, silent—the weapon that had been prepared for years. The Hollow Dagger. It moved not with thought, not with emotion, not with hesitation. It moved because the order existed. Every muscle was trained, every reflex honed, every instinct calibrated. Its presence was unnoticed by all, blending with the shadows, as if it were part of the mist itself. Nothing in its mind but obedience, nothing in its heart but the fulfillment of command.
Seliora's eyes followed the distant movements of the battlefield, but her mind was elsewhere, observing the subtle collapse of Elyndral's strength. Her lips quirked into a dark, low laugh, quiet enough for only her closest generals to hear. A laugh that carried the weight of cruelty, calculation, and delight in the inevitability of her design. "Soon," she murmured, "the fruit of Crimson Dominion will be mine. Every piece will fall, every hand will obey… and the rest will die quietly in their ignorance."
Queen Luna, still on the front, began to piece together the unnatural collapse of her army. The hesitation, the slight missteps, the faltering of coordination—it was not fatigue. She narrowed her eyes. "Something is wrong," she muttered, almost to herself. "This is… deliberate. The formations, the behavior—they are betraying me." Her hands tightened around her sword, the veins along her neck taut. She was a dominator, a ruler, a queen trained in both combat and strategy. Nothing had prepared her for the invisible cruelty now unraveling her soldiers, yet she would not yield. She would not bend.
Hours stretched into the deepening dusk. Mist thickened along the ridges, curling around fallen rocks and jagged cliffs. The vector continued its silent work, and the first soldiers began to stumble, their consciousness slipping in waves. By mid-afternoon, a ripple of confusion passed through the ranks. Commanders shouted, but their voices were drowned in the fog of controlled chaos. Seliora's dark smile widened. She enjoyed the cruelty not only for the victory it brought but for the demonstration of dominance. Humanity, she mused, was a beast, greedy and cruel in its own right—but even beasts could be tamed with patience and strategy.
The Hollow Dagger, meanwhile, shifted imperceptibly across the battlefield. Silent, faceless, obeying only the order it had been given. Its black cloak rippled against the wind, a shadow slipping over shadows. No thought. No hesitation. Only the fulfillment of mission, yet the world did not know it existed.
By evening, the mist thickened, and the effect of the vector was undeniable. Soldiers collapsed, one by one, silently, their bodies betraying their minds. Elyndral's formation weakened; Queen Luna saw it with growing horror. She was a strategist, a queen, yet even her insight could not entirely prevent the slow, insidious victory of the Crimson Dominion. She barked orders, tried to reorganize her troops, but the sickness in their minds moved faster than any command.
Seliora stood atop the ridge, the black cloak of her command fluttering, eyes gleaming as she watched the subtle collapse of a kingdom. The deception was complete. The pretense of war, the show of strength, the calculated patience—all unfolding as meticulously as a chessmaster arranging pieces. And yet, she allowed herself a moment of dark amusement. How easily the strong could fall, she thought, when the mind was poisoned before the body.
Night fell, and the battlefield grew quiet but for the distant rustle of collapsing soldiers and the hiss of mist curling along rocks. The Hollow Dagger moved closer to the central palace of Elyndral. Silent. Obedient. Its black cloak merged completely with the shadows, its form indistinguishable from the night itself. No thought. No hesitation. Only the order: move, infiltrate, observe. The nameless weapon was ready, but the strike had not come. That moment would wait for the perfect opportunity.
The central palace loomed, silent under the moonlight, unaware of the predator in its midst. Every soldier inside, every guard, every noble, oblivious to the unseen shadow approaching. The Hollow Dagger would enter, walk past all defenses, obey every command, yet there would be no sign of emotion, no recognition, no hesitation. Just fulfillment. A weapon without a name, without a past, without a soul—hollowed completely, as Seliora had intended.
Seliora whispered to herself, almost a secret to the wind: "Soon… all will kneel, all will fall. And not a soul will remember what truly struck them." Her words were dark, yet precise. A monarch, a strategist, a predator among beasts.
And somewhere in the distant, silent mountains, Kaelus's eyes flickered in the shadows of the underground chains, a silent witness to the unfolding calamity, forbidden from acting, forbidden from interfering, yet understanding the scope of the suffering in every detail. He remained powerless in the face of the calculated cruelty that now spread across the battlefield below, his heart echoing the impossibility of salvation.
The night settled over Aelthwyn Borderlands. Mist wrapped around the ridges. Soldiers fell silently. The Hollow Dagger advanced without notice. And the world waited, oblivious, for the culmination of strategy, cruelty, and obedience that would mark the dawn of Crimson Dominion's calculated victory.