King Thalorien sat upon the floating dais of the central palace, robes cascading like woven sunlight, staff of emerald and silver in hand. His eyes, sharp as obsidian, swept over the assembled council, generals, and mages. He had sensed something amiss—the subtle faltering in the soldiers' march, the shimmer of illusions at the barriers—but pride held his voice and posture unbroken.
"Report," he commanded. His tone was steel tempered with velvet, the authority of a sovereign who trusted neither fear nor flattery.
The generals shifted, uneasy, muttering reports of formations breaking under no apparent force, the soldiers hesitating mid-command. "Your Majesty… the barriers… our wards remain intact, yet—"
"Yet?" Thalorien's eyes narrowed, the word slicing through hesitation. "Speak clearly, or leave."
A mage stepped forward, trembling slightly. "Sir… the illusions… the Dominion… they move as though the Vale itself bends beneath them. Our people… falter."
Thalorien's hands tightened around the staff. His breath, slow and deliberate, drew in the weight of centuries of magic and command. "Fools mistake perception for reality. Maintain your posts. Shield the people. The Vale is eternal, and I am its master."
Outside, the crimson banners of the Dominion moved across the slopes, the illusion of shattering barriers convincing even the proudest defenders that collapse was imminent. The Scarlet Bind had begun its work. Invisible, insidious, bending the will of those inside the encircled Vale, without breaking a single stone.
Through the corridors of the palace, silent as a shadow, the Hollow Dagger moved. Chains hidden beneath folds of black, cloak brushing the polished floor, eyes empty but sharp, scanning. She moved toward the inner sanctum where Thalorien's presence radiated—every pulse of authority, every flicker of thought, cataloged in her hollow mind.
The dagger paused beside a carved balcony overlooking the throne. She observed the king, the council, the subtle panic masked beneath royal composure. Not a muscle betrayed her presence. She waited. Always waited.
And then, something fleeting—a ghost of memory, a jolt of familiarity. A face, faint, almost forgotten, flickered across her mind. It was gone before she could grasp it, leaving only a whisper of recognition.
Thalorien's voice, carrying over the court, shattered the moment: "Do not falter, mage. Deception or no, the Vale does not bow to fear. Magic flows through these lands, as it has since the first islands hung above the abyss. Remember that. Protect that."
The Hollow Dagger registered the authority, the pride, but did not move. She was an instrument, a blade, obedient to orders alone. Yet within her hollow mind, fragments of understanding began to etch themselves silently—the cadence of command, the weight of responsibility, the pride of a ruler even in the face of insidious deception.
In the floating gardens surrounding the palace, the Crimson Dominion soldiers paused, waiting for the sign. Seliora's command came, low, melodic, precise: "Encircle the Vale. Let the Bind take hold. Do not break their walls. Let the beauty of their arrogance trap them."
The illusion shimmered. Wards and barriers flickered as if cracking, yet the Vale stood untouched, floating, majestic. Soldiers faltered. Generals cursed under their breath. Even Thalorien's keen perception could not pierce the veil entirely—he sensed manipulation, subtle, dangerous, but lacked the pieces to resist.
The Hollow Dagger, observing from shadows, absorbed every movement. She did not feel triumph, nor fear, nor hesitation. Only order. Only silent anticipation. Yet, in the echo of Thalorien's command, she felt the weight of a monarch's dignity, a resonance that would linger in her mind long after her obedience had ended.
Seliora's eyes traced the patterns of the Bind from her vantage on the ridge. The Vale's defenses held, beautiful, proud—but the hearts within bent invisibly. "Patience," she whispered. "The fruit ripens slowly, but when it falls, it falls perfectly."
By nightfall, the Scarlet Bind had spread fully, every soldier and mage touched invisibly, bending them into compliance without a drop of blood. The floating islands of Verdant Vale glimmered under moonlight, untouched in structure, yet their will crumbling.
Within the palace, King Thalorien remained standing, ever proud, yet now glancing toward the shadows that moved unnaturally. His eyes caught the faintest whisper of movement—a black figure that did not belong to the court, to the guards, to the walls themselves.
The Hollow Dagger had reached the inner sanctum, poised beside the throne, silent, still. She would wait for the order, and nothing more. Nothing less.
And somewhere, far away, faintly across the void, Kaelus stirred. Chains cracked. A low rumble resonated, a heartbeat of ancient power sensing the unfolding manipulation of kingdoms. The voice, tender yet insistent, echoed faintly in the Hollow Dagger's mind:
"My child… do not be lost to the sins of men. Remember yourself, even as you obey. Listen to the whispers buried in your soul… you are…"
Time moved normally again, the battlefield frozen only in the perception of her mind. She shifted, silent, retreating through corridors no one noticed, back toward the rendezvous point in the Dominion forces. No thought, no hesitation, no emotion. Only the precision of execution.
Seliora's laughter rose faintly over the Vale, cruel and melodic, echoing over ridges and terraces, as the Shadow of Crimson Dominion continued its silent conquest.