Far away from the marching armies, beyond the reach of banners or prayers, the world twisted in shadows. The clouds over the distant continent of Mournhollow swirled unnaturally, cast not by weather but by will—conjured from the dreams and nightmares of gods long forgotten. In the heart of a palace carved into obsidian cliffs, a great hall simmered with dark power. The stone itself breathed as if alive, pulsing with veins of red light, murmuring ancient tongues.
Thirteen thrones stood around a crescent dais, each shrouded by veils of arcane mist. The Dark Council had gathered. Each presence was a distorted silhouette of terror: a being made of shadow and mirrors; another wreathed in eternal flame; one composed entirely of shifting bones that clacked with every breath; another, a swirling mass of ink and whispers; a matron of decay, trailing cobwebs and mold; a skeletal priest whose robes sang with cursed hymns; a creature of pure void, eyes burning with white fire; and others whose forms defied sense and sanity.
At the center of it all sat Voryn—the Hooded Lord—slouched across a throne of jagged blackstone, as if lounging by a hearth instead of presiding over the fate of empires. His cloak shimmered with galaxies, stars blooming and dying across its folds. His face remained hidden in shifting shadows, but the glint of cruel satisfaction pierced through. Across his lap sat the Hooded Lady, draped in a silken veil of midnight, her voice a purr, her fingers lazily tracing the symbols carved into his arm—symbols that bled shadows.
Before them, suspended in a globe of blood-crystal, hovered the real-time image of two worlds: Shin's banner advancing over green fields, and Tristan's forces massing beneath spires of red. Between them stretched the silent battlefield yet to be painted with war's palette.
"It begins," Voryn murmured, his voice laced with amusement and something older—something eternal, older than the gods who once ruled these lands.
One of the council members, cloaked in feathers and bone, shifted in discomfort. "You let them grow too strong. The Kitsune boy—he carries both light and shadow. He is a mirror, and mirrors reflect prophecy."
"Precisely," Voryn said, grinning beneath the darkness of his cowl. "The game is far more entertaining when the pieces fight back. We cannot breed despair without hope first."
The Hooded Lady leaned back, whispering in his ear. Her eyes danced with cruel playfulness, and her voice dripped honey and venom. He chuckled and rested his chin atop her shoulder.
"Let the boy shine. Let the banners fly. Let the people believe in hope. Let them gather, let them love, let them burn bright." He tilted his head as if watching a stage play unfolding with divine perfection. "And when the curtain falls—"
He snapped his fingers.
"—we will raise the next act."
The blood-crystal pulsed, shifting focus to Laginaple. Black tendrils slithered across the land like living roots, converging beneath the earth where a grotesque army writhed in slumber—abominations not born but crafted. Spells of rot and ruin whispered through the soil.
"Shall we bolster the king's hand?" the Hooded Lady asked, eyes gleaming with malice. "They need to feel the bite of teeth sharpened by despair."
"Oh, yes," Voryn said, licking his lips. "Let us give young Tristan more teeth. A stronger enemy makes stronger heroes. It's only fair. And should they break? We feed off the shards."
He waved a single finger, and one of the blood-crystals splintered, revealing a beast—a knight of despair cloaked in silence—awakening in a crypt beneath Laginaple.
The others nodded slowly, even the dissenters now spellbound by the inevitability of the spectacle. No one questioned Voryn now. Even gods had learned to fear him. Each of the thirteen, with their unique burdens and legacies of destruction, offered a part of their domain to seed the conflict to come.
The Hooded Lord stretched, as if waking from a long nap. "I do enjoy when the Warriors of Light burn brightest—just before the dark snuffs them out. They scream so beautifully."
He raised a chalice of dark wine, the liquid swirling with stars and screaming souls.
"To despair. To the coming fall. To the truth they will never see coming."
The council drank with him. The chamber pulsed with silent laughter.
And far across the sea, the first dark omen flickered across the skies of Laginaple, unnoticed beneath the marching feet. A blood-red streak, hidden in the clouds.
The game had truly begun. The curtains were drawn, the audience silent.
Everything begins and ends with Voryn.