The Citadel was silent.
Not the usual silence of dread, filled with whispers and faint echoes, but a deeper quiet — the stillness of a world holding its breath. The blue flames in the skull-braziers burned low, their glow soft and muted.
Vorath sat upon the Throne of Skulls, motionless. Nox Obscura rested beside him, its black edge reflecting nothing, drinking in the dim light. His crimson eyes were half-lidded, fixed not on the hall, but on something distant and unseen.
"…Lyssara," he murmured, the name barely audible, yet the Citadel itself seemed to carry the sound.
His fingers traced the armrest, the bone smooth and cold beneath his touch.
"Centuries," he said softly, almost to himself. "Centuries, and still you bind me. Your voice… still sharper than any blade, still stronger than any chain. Are you truly there… or just another phantom the gods send to torment me?"
The skulls that adorned the walls whispered faintly, unintelligible murmurs, restrained as if fearing his focus. Vorath ignored them, his gaze distant.
"I crushed their gods, their armies, their beasts. I raised empires from their ashes. And yet…" His voice trailed off into a low exhale. "One whisper from you still stays my hand. Even now."
His eyes narrowed, faint light glinting in their crimson depths.
"Why, Lyssara? What is it you would have me remember? Or… have I been dancing to unseen strings all along?"
No answer came, only the soft flicker of the braziers and the long shadows they cast.
Vorath's eyelids lowered further, and for the first time in centuries, the King of Shadows drifted into sleep.
He dreamed.
Darkness stretched in all directions, weightless and formless. There was no throne, no Citadel, no empire — only the faint glow of pale light pulsing ahead, warm and rhythmic, like a living heartbeat.
He was drawn forward, without moving, without choice.
Shapes took form within the void.
A field of white flowers, swaying under a bleeding sunset. The wind carried a soft melody, one he knew, one that scraped against his memories. And there, standing amidst the flowers with her back to him, was a lone figure. Ivory garments flowing. Dark hair trailing like ribbons in the wind.
"Lyssara," Vorath said, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
The figure didn't turn.
The flowers began to wither. Black veins crept across each petal, the stems shriveling as the sky overhead blackened. The melody distorted, twisting into a chorus of whispering voices.
"…Two souls… bearing light… before the Throne of Night…"
Vorath's hand instinctively reached for Nox Obscura — but the sword wasn't there. He stood unarmed.
The whispers grew louder, circling him.
"…The Throne will feed… and the chains will break…"
The figure turned.
Lyssara's face was as he remembered — serene, beautiful, but her eyes glowed with unearthly white light, no pupils, no warmth. When her lips parted, her voice came overlapped with the whispers, sounding both like her and not her.
"Vorath… it begins again."
The world shattered like glass.
Vorath's eyes snapped open. The Citadel was as it had been: silent, still, the braziers burning low. But the cold of the dream lingered, settling in his chest like frost.
For a long while, he didn't move. His gaze drifted across the hall, distant, unreadable.
Finally, he exhaled and murmured, barely above a whisper:
"…So be it."
The skulls whispered softly in the corners of the hall, their voices echoing the dream's refrain:
"…Two souls… bearing light… before the Throne of Night…"
This time, Vorath didn't silence them. He only leaned back into the throne, closing his eyes — not to sleep, but to wait.