The grand hall of the Dominion's palace, usually bustling with councilors, ministers, and emissaries, had fallen into a silence so absolute it seemed to thrum in their bones. Light poured in from the high stained-glass windows, painting fractured patterns on the marble floor, yet the air itself seemed to dim under a presence that no one dared fully perceive.
King Veythar, ruler of the Dominion, had just finished speaking when he noticed the shift. A subtle stillness, a weight pressing down on his chest as if the hall itself had become a living, judging entity. His words faltered. The courtiers around him froze mid-breath, mid-gesture. Conversations died, pens hovered above parchments, and even the guards stood straighter than their training demanded, sensing a power that was not of this world.
And then, from the shadows of the grand archway, he appeared.
Azeriel.
Not a man, not a god, but something else—something beyond comprehension. The very air around him shimmered with an imperceptible radiance. His presence was magnetic, a silent command that bent the wills of every mortal soul in the room. The moment his gaze landed on the throne, the murmurs of authority, the pride of ages, all crumbled like brittle parchment.
The palace fell silent before he spoke again. Not the hollow silence of restraint, but the absolute stillness of reverence, the kind of quiet that presses against the chest like an invisible weight. The Dominion's King, Veythar, felt it first. His tongue froze mid-word, and for the first time in his long reign, he realized the throne beneath him was nothing more than wood. The authority he had wielded all his life had collapsed like sand beneath the ocean tide.
Azeriel's gaze swept across the room, slow, deliberate, crushing. "Do you forget who I am?" His voice was low, and yet every syllable resonated like steel in the hall. It wasn't just sound; it was power made audible. The courtiers could feel it as a pressure in their chests. "Do you not know who rules this realm?"
King Veythar felt his knees weaken. Every instinct screamed that he should kneel, yet the weight of a king's pride kept him upright—barely. His voice, when it came, was hoarse, "My lord… Azeriel… we—"
"Silence." Azeriel's single word cut through the hall, sharper than any blade. The courtiers and ministers lowered their heads instinctively, their own thoughts choking on the command of his presence. No one dared speak. No one dared breathe too loudly. Even the great tapestries that lined the hall seemed to sag, submissive under the gravity of his aura.
Azeriel advanced, and the air around him seemed to twist. Shadows stretched unnaturally, bending toward him as if seeking approval. He was not merely walking; he was moving like a force of nature, and with each step, the hall's grandeur seemed insignificant, its walls mere canvas to his majesty.
He took another step forward, and the King's knees trembled. Ministers who had laughed in council, who had plotted and betrayed for decades, bowed their heads almost instinctively. They could not meet him. They could not even meet the eyes of their own King, for the silver fire in Azeriel's gaze erased all pride, all defiance, all hope.
"And yet," Azeriel continued, voice flowing like liquid authority, "because of those who have followed me, who understand what true power is… I shall bestow a gift upon this realm."
A murmur died in every throat before it could escape. The very word 'gift' sent shivers through the room. None dared to ask what it might be; to ask was to presume familiarity, and none could presume familiarity with him.
"That gift," he said, voice dropping almost to a whisper, yet carrying to every corner, "will unite the world. It will transcend borders, kings, empires. It will remake balance itself. And it is not yours to touch, only mine to command."
A tremor ran through Veythar. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it again. His hands twitched on the armrests of his throne as though to steady himself, yet there was no steadiness left in him.
He remembered the warnings whispered in corridors, the tales of Azeriel's power, and the legends of his dominion over both memory and emotion. Now, seeing him in person, he understood. The stories had been true, yet they were shadows of the reality before him.
Azeriel's eyes—silver and burning with an inner light—swept across the room. "Do you see her, all of you, little lords of the mortal realm?"This is she of whom I speak."
The courtiers stiffened. Whispers of the Spirit Princess, the girl whose mana had shaped histories, raced through their minds. She was absent, and yet present—an idea made flesh by Azeriel's will.
"She is not to be loved. She is not to be pitied. She is not to be coddled." His voice dropped lower, almost cold as the void between stars. "Break her. Mend her. Forge her into a blade that cannot refuse. She will be mine in all ways that matter. Her will shall bend under my hand. Her memory will obey me. Her freedom is a lie I will strip from her as easily as I remove a veil."
Every noble froze. Even Veythar, used to commanding armies and bending nations, felt his spirit quiver. Some among the ministers paled; others felt the strange, dark awe of witnessing someone who had consumed centuries of power and reshaped them into a single, terrifying presence.
Ministers who had once plotted and schemed now bowed their heads, silent in their terror. They were witnessing a being who had absorbed centuries of dominion and condensed it into a single, inescapable truth.
"I do not consider her a person," Azeriel said, his voice lowering to a whisper that yet carried across the hall. "She is an instrument. A weapon. A masterpiece in progress. And you—every throne, every man and woman here—will obey my vision."
Veythar's hand tightened on the armrest of his throne. "We… we understand, my lord…" he managed, the words tasting like ash.
"Understand?" Azeriel's gaze swept over him, and the world seemed to pause. "Do you truly understand what that entails? That she will exist not for her own sake, not for compassion, not for glory—but for me? Her mind, her memories, her very essence—she will serve my design, or she will cease to be anything at all."
The hall felt smaller. The air heavier. Even the sound of the wind against the palace walls seemed like a faint echo of the authority Azeriel wielded. Ministers felt their thoughts scatter, memories of past ambition, personal vendettas, even love and loyalty—their mind's defenses faltering beneath his presence.
"I will give you the map," he said, his hand slicing through the air, almost as if drawing the invisible currents of destiny itself. "The path to her is simple: obedience. All else is folly. All else ends in ruin. Treat her with disdain, use her, strip her of sentiment, and you will understand the true gift I bring: the power to unite this realm under the certainty of dominance."
One minister dared to glance up. Just for a heartbeat. The look cost him a shiver that ran down his spine. Azeriel's eyes seemed to pierce the veil of thought, diving into his fears, his desires, and returning them as something raw and unbearable.
"She is not your plaything," Azeriel added, his voice a whip of ice and silver, "but she is mine to forge. And you—mere stewards of kingdoms—will facilitate the shaping of what I have claimed as my masterpiece. Fail, and the gift you covet will be the weapon that destroys you."
The words hung in the hall, tangible as iron chains. Every head bowed deeper. Every hand trembled. No one dared speak, but in their minds, a silent chorus rose: this was no mortal. This was no simple god. This was dominion itself given form, and their lives were threads to be woven into his design.
"And now," Azeriel concluded, stepping back, the light around him folding like liquid, "prepare yourselves. Obedience is not a suggestion. Preparation is not optional. I have given you a vision, and you will fulfill it. You will welcome the coming day, when the Spirit Princess is no longer untouched, no longer free. You will be ready."
The courtiers remained silent long after he departed. The echo of his presence lingered, a weight on the chest, a fire in the mind, and a terror in the soul. Veythar, alone for a moment, dared to breathe. He understood the task ahead: he would marshal his armies, fortify his cities, and obey, not because he trusted, but because he had no choice.
And somewhere beyond the horizon, in the quiet of the Spirit Realm, Illyria remained unaware of the designs shaping her destiny. She practiced, she learned, she grew, yet the first whisper of the storm had begun—the shadow of Azeriel's gaze reaching across realms, marking her as his masterpiece, his weapon, his obsession.
Even in her seclusion, even in her solitude, the threads of his dominion were pulling, tightening, and twisting around a fate that had already begun.