POV: Arken
The dead always whispered before they faded.
Their fear lingered the longest.
Arken stood at the edge of the black abyss that served as his throne room, the shadows curling lovingly around his boots. Below him, the last echo of the failed assault still trembled in the air—screams, broken magic, burning moonfire.
He tilted his head slightly.
“They survived,” he murmured.
The shadows answered in a thousand voices.
Yes… but barely.
A slow smile curved his lips.
Good.
Tests were never meant to be lethal.
A cloaked figure emerged from the darkness, kneeling at the base of the obsidian steps. “The twins grow stronger, my king. The ritual awakened them completely.”
Arken’s eyes flared crimson. “I felt it.”
The surge of ancient power had rippled through the realms like a be
