The dawn was a slow bleed of gold across the floating terraces of Verdant Vale. Mist curled around the hanging gardens, the waterfalls spilling like molten silver into the abyss below. From a distance, the Vale appeared serene, untouched, a paradise of magic and life—but the air trembled with anticipation.
On the slopes leading to the Vale, the banners of Crimson Dominion fluttered, crimson and black like streaks of fire against the pale morning light. Soldiers marched in perfect formation, armor glinting, blades slung, and eyes sharp. Their steps were a drumbeat of inevitability. Each footfall whispered a message: we come not to fight, but to conquer.
Mages followed, veiled in the smoke of enchantments and illusions. Their staffs drew sigils in the air, shimmering light weaving intricate patterns. From the front, they cast the appearance of a shattering barrier over the Vale, flickering like glass breaking in the sun. It was a deception so perfect, even the keenest eyes of Verdant Vale would be tempted to believe the magical defenses were failing.
Seliora rode at the center of the formation, her posture regal, cold. Kaelith flanked her, silent, calculating. Their commands were precise, measured, like the notes of a symphony only they could conduct. Every soldier, every mage, knew the rhythm, the purpose, the deception. Not one step was wasted. Not one movement unnecessary.
Behind the formations, the masked hollow dagger moved unseen. Cloaked in shadows, chains hidden beneath folds of black, she glided like smoke between the ranks. No footfall. No breath. Her eyes, empty, observed the Vale, the soldiers, the mages, as if nothing touched her. Her obedience was absolute. Her purpose: to reach the central palace and wait. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Inside Verdant Vale, His majesty, King Thalorien observed from his highest terrace, staff of emerald-tipped gold in hand. His generals murmured, assessing, preparing, unaware that the illusions painted by the Dominion mages were already seeding confusion among the sentries. The barriers held, strong, proud—but the Scarlet Bind would work within the encircled area, bending will with invisible threads, forcing compliance without shattering a single stone.
Seliora's voice cut through the morning mist, carried effortlessly across the formation. "Keep your ranks. Project the illusion. Let them feel the walls crumble. Let them doubt, and they will falter."
Kaelith added, quiet but sharp: "Patience. The Vale will move, they will expose their pride, their flaw is arrogance. They will march into our symphony."
The floating islands of Verdant Vale trembled, as if sensing the deception. Trees shivered, fountains rippled, petals spun like confetti in a slow breeze. Even the magic of the Vale, ancient and proud, whispered unease through the canopy. Yet the soldiers, bold and strong, pressed forward, believing the barrier faltered. The illusions worked like a predator's trap: they saw only what was allowed.
And then the hollow dagger, silent as death itself, slipped past the outer guard, past wards keyed to flesh and mana. Chains hummed faintly beneath the cloak, but no sound reached the ear. Her eyes, hollow yet piercing, scanned the palace's center, noting the king's majesty, his advisors, the layout, the throne room. She paused only once—when a jolt of recognition brushed her mind. Something faint, almost forgotten, yet persistent.
Seliora watched, from a ridge above the Vale, her lips curving slightly. "Move now," she whispered, almost to herself. "The prey thinks it controls the field, but it dances to our song."
The Vale's defenders, proud and unwavering, began to notice. Guards murmured, generals blinked, their formation tightening. Yet it was too late. Every step forward into the deceptive battlefield strengthened the Scarlet Bind's influence. Threads invisible, venomous to will, weaving control silently. By the second day, cracks appeared—not in stone, not in barrier, but in resolve. Soldiers felt fatigue where there was none. Commands faltered, discipline wavered. The Dominion's smile was quiet, imperceptible.
Within the central palace, the hollow dagger reached the inner sanctum. No one noticed her entry, no ward, no soldier. She stopped beside the king's throne, silent, unblinking. Every motion outside seemed slowed, almost surreal. And for a moment, as if the world itself listened, time seemed to hold its breath.
From the shadows of her mind, a voice emerged—not hers, not audible, but clear as daylight in her consciousness.
"My dear child… do not fall into the hands of the pillar of seven deadly sins. Greed, cruelty, power… listen. The deepest voice of your memory… you are more than this hollow. Remember. You are…"
The words cut through the emptiness of her obedience. Her chains hummed. Her eyes, empty, registered the presence of something beyond the realm of mortal perception. The chains that bound Kaelus, the dragon of old, shimmered far away, tiny fractures appearing in the ancient bindings as he watched the unfolding calamity. His roar, a quiet tremor across realms, resonated only with her hollow mind.
Yet nothing moved in her outward form. She remained a shadow, an instrument. The voice, the dragon, the fragments of memory—they did not alter her obedience. She turned, as ordered, moving back into the hidden corridors of the palace, unseen, untouched, unshaken.
Outside, the deceptive war continued. Crimson Dominion soldiers marched across the terraces of Verdant Vale, the illusion of a crumbling barrier convincing defenders they were already beaten. Mages simulated the breaking of wards, sending pulses of false energy that made shields flicker. The Scarlet Bind did its work within the encircled area—mind control without destruction, domination without battle.
From her hidden vantage, Seliora observed the slowly bending will of the Vale's defenders. She leaned forward, whispering to Kaelith: "They do not see us, yet we control every thought they trust. This is the future of war."
Kaelith's eyes, cold and calculating, mirrored hers. "And the Hollow Dagger?"
"She waits," Seliora said, lips curved in a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "Waiting, always ready. Silent. Deadly. Perfect."
By the third day, the Vale's soldiers staggered, their pride eroding in silence. By the fifth, their generals questioned commands they had never doubted.
The Hollow Dagger moved within the palace, silent as air. Every step was a statement of control, obedience, perfection. She did not think, did not feel—only observed, only obeyed. And yet, in her mind, faint traces of commands and voices echoed—fragments she did not understand but would not forget.
The tenth day arrived. The Scarlet Bind reached full potency. Soldiers and mages of Verdant Vale faltered completely. The barrier held, majestic and intact, but the minds within bent under invisible threads. Crimson Dominion cheered quietly from the ridges, the illusion complete. Seliora's laughter, low, melodic, cruel, carried over the field.
In the throne room, unseen and silent, the Hollow Dagger paused beside the king, her gaze unblinking. Nothing moved her, nothing tempted her. And yet, in the recesses of her mind, the echoes of the words, the battle, the surrender, traced themselves, a silent acknowledgment of worth she could not claim.
The Vale, proud and floating, lay captured without a broken stone, without a drop of unnecessary blood. The deceptive war, perfect and cold, had achieved its purpose. Outside, the Dominion's banners fluttered, a signal of victory, a testament to the cunning of Seliora and Kaelith, and the obedience of a weapon without name, without will—yet carrying in her hollow veins the shadow of what she once was.