The obsidian throne pulsed with its own dim radiance, not flame, not sun, but the will of the Dark Lord. Maps shimmered across its surface, shifting as if alive, every border drawn in light that bled like ink into shadow. He needed no torches here. The Realm itself bent to reveal what he wished to see.
Six threads thrummed within him, six perspectives pulled taut like strings of a great instrument. One was himself, seated in dominion. The other five were his Avatars, wandering the Ancient Realm as spies, travelers, seeds of shadow in foreign soil.
---
One.
Aboard the Swifter, tossed on the sapphire churn of the Grand Rapids. Salt spray lashed his face, timbers groaned beneath his boots, and the crew's laughter rang sharp in his ears.
His alias — Merlin of House Sylvestrus — had been chosen in haste, dredged from half-forgotten gaming marathons. Exotic, obscure, safe. Or so he thought. Instead, the name had detonated across the deck like a fireball. Men bent double with laughter, women wiped tears from their cheeks.
"Merlin of House Sylvestrus?" a sailor wheezed. "Then you're the Great Grand Merlin the Wizard, of the legendary house? Shame you're Elven, seeing as he was Human. And a wizard!"
The chorus of laughter swelled. Even Captain Ellis emerged from her cabin — stern eyes, carved jaw, the sea itself in her bearing. The mirth died instantly under her gaze. Then, to his dismay, a smile curved her lips.
"Well then, Master Merlin," she said, voice dry as salt. "Perhaps your legendary magic will keep us safe from storms."
The crew roared again, but her eyes were measuring, weighing. The sea around them churned with restless fury, and in her voice was the timbre of one who had outstared it a thousand times.
"The Rapid Sea wasn't born," she told him later, leaning on the rail as waves struck the hull. "It was made. The MagalaN raised it to keep the Horde from crossing into the Elven Continent. Entire fleets swallowed. Cities lost beneath the foam. Monsters born of the deep. This sea isn't water. It's a wall."
Merlin smiled faintly, though his mind was already shifting, noting: A barrier crafted by my kind. Forgotten, but not gone. What else lies beneath?
---
Two.
A dusty road winding through Elven lands. His avatar walked among pilgrims in simple robes, a scholar with ink-stained fingers and a satchel of scrolls. Their songs rose and fell like gentle waves, their prayers laced with fear — not of demons, but of their own leaders.
Every gesture, every whispered doubt, he recorded in a worn journal. The strength of the elves lay in their unity, but their weakness was here too: fractures, doubts, the weight of mistakes unspoken.
---
Three.
At the northernmost edge of Elven land, an avatar stood on a cliff where the river frothed into rapids and hurled itself westward into the sea. Beyond, the Rapid Sea stretched, bruised and grey under a storm-wracked sky.
And past that horizon — Neverday.
It wasn't a place. It was a wound. He could feel it even from here: shadows pressing against the veil, a cold that reached into marrow. A silence that wasn't empty, but listening. His avatar gripped his cloak against the wind, though the chill was not of weather but of something older, hungrier, waiting.
---
Four.
High in a mountain pass, another avatar traced lines into parchment, the steady hand of a cartographer. Each ridge, each path, each fort etched in ink, while eyes scanned the distance for banners of the Alliance Kingdom.
The wind howled thin and sharp, carrying the faint ring of steel. Patrols. Armies. He noted them all, marking the pulse of an empire that believed itself safe behind stone and snow.
---
Five.
On the plains, heat shimmered. Caravans rolled along dusty roads, laden with silks, spices, steel. His avatar played the merchant, weighing coins, bartering loudly, laughing louder. But behind the mask his gaze traced patterns: which goods flowed fastest, which names were whispered most, which guildmasters bowed to kings, and which bowed only to gold.
The Human Kingdom was loud, restless, ambitious. But ambition was a lever.
---
Back in the throne room, the Dark Lord hovered over the glowing map. Threads of vision still pulsed through him — sea spray, mountain winds, desert dust — when the air shimmered.
Victoria entered, crimson gown swirling, hips swaying like the tide, her scent a weave of jasmine and shadow. His lips curled in amusement.
"You always arrive outside the door, my love," he murmured. "Is it because you want me to watch you walk? Or because you like knowing I can't resist looking?"
Her emerald eyes glinted. "Perhaps both."
He chuckled, a guttural rumble betraying his eagerness. For all his dominion, all his terror, she could still undo him with a glance.
But then — a surge.
His head snapped back. Sensations collided: salt spray, spiced tea, a hawk's cry, a merchant's laughter, a pilgrim's hymn. Five voices pressed at once, and when he tried to speak, the words tangled into nonsense.
"Oh… hello there… yes, quite nice… and… what's this? A dragon… no, a cup of tea… wait—storm?!"
Victoria froze, emerald eyes wide, caught between concern and stifled laughter.
"My love," she whispered, "are you… well?"
Before the Dark Lord could recover, a rasping squeak echoed from the arm of the throne. Puff, quill scratching furiously, didn't even look up.
"Oh-ho! Delightful! 'Dragon, tea, storm!' Truly, the wisdom of ages!" Puff scribbled faster, his tail twitching like a metronome. "This shall be recorded as the First Prophecy of Utter Nonsense."
The Dark Lord stiffened, shadows coiling around his frame, though his face flushed with heat. Embarrassment. Again.
"I…" he rumbled, trying for menace but managing awkwardness, "may have gotten a bit carried away. Still adjusting to this… multi-avatar technique."
Victoria's lips curved, laughter dancing in her emerald gaze. "Then you'd better practice, my love. You'll terrify fewer merchants if you don't mistake them for teacups."
Puff squeaked in glee. "Yes! Yes! Teacup Terror of the Shadow Realm! Oh, it sings! Wait until the bards hear this one—"
A shadow flicked from the Dark Lord's hand, silencing Puff mid-scribble. The minion's beady eyes blinked wide, but his grin only grew as he mouthed the words: legendary material.
A groan escaped the Dark Lord, half mock offense, half reluctant amusement. Yet as Victoria's laughter rang like velvet bells through the chamber, even he couldn't suppress the curve of a smile.
He straightened, forcing command back into his tone. "Enough frivolity. We have an empire to shape." His shadow stretched long across the obsidian floor. He gestured to the great round table, its etched maps bleeding light into darkness. "Let us begin."