The Aelthwyn Borderlands stretched endlessly beneath the muted dawn, shrouded in tendrils of silver mist that curled and shifted like restless spirits. The earth itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting, as two kingdoms prepared for the semblance of war. Crimson banners, dark and crimson as fresh blood, snapped sharply against the morning wind, embroidered with the sigil of Dominion—a roaring lion framed by blades. Rows upon rows of soldiers stood at attention, armor gleaming faintly despite the fog, and their breaths created a steady rhythm of condensation in the cold morning air.
Entomancers moved among them, silent as shadows, cloaked in dark fabrics embroidered with faint runes. Their hands glowed briefly as they released the first wisps of Velzarith Bonegnawer Mist. The swarm was invisible, an insidious phantom, set to infiltrate Elyndral forces over time, to manipulate, weaken, and eventually dominate. The soldiers of Dominion moved as though practicing for a conventional battle, but every measured step, every ordered chant, every shift in formation was part of a calculated illusion, a deceptive choreography designed to mask the real strategy.
King Veythar, seated in his high pavilion, observed with a stillness that unnerved all beneath him. His gaze was unwavering, cold, and calculating, like a predator assessing its prey. Every detail mattered—the precise alignment of the frontlines, the tempo of the cavalry, the rhythm of archers drawing their strings, the distribution of entomancers releasing the vector swarm with near-invisible precision. Beside him, Seliora, his daughter, stood like a figure carved from ice and steel. Her posture was immaculate, regal, her eyes sharp with the wisdom of a strategist who had been raised in the shadow of power and cruelty. She watched the troops, their movements, the formations, anticipating every possible outcome with a keen, merciless intellect. Kaelith, her twin, moved among the ranks, ensuring morale and readiness, his presence commanding respect yet subordinate to the cunning of his father's vision.
Across the border, the kingdom of Elyndral stirred. Their soldiers were battle-hardened, disciplined, aware that reports from spies hinted at Dominion's movement, though the true nature of the plan remained hidden. Queen Luna, radiant in silver armor, her sword clasped firmly at her side, stood upon the ridge overlooking her troops. Her voice, rich and commanding, cut through the mist as she ordered formations, positioned battalions, and adjusted magical wards. Every movement she commanded was precise, deliberate, a symphony of power and authority. Her army responded like an extension of her will, a testament to her dominion over their spirits as well as their bodies. Yet beneath her composure lay a subtle tension—something unseen, something elusive, had begun to stir.
And moving unseen through the same mists, the Hollow Weapon slipped silently across the border. Cloaked in black that seemed to drink the light, she moved with the fluidity of shadow itself. Her dagger pressed lightly against her thigh, the symbol of Dominion's cunning, the manifestation of Veythar's will. Every step was measured, every breath contained, as if her body were an extension of the shadows themselves. She had no name now. No memory, no identity, no past. Only a precise, unfeeling directive to follow orders, obey without question, and execute with ruthless efficiency. Her hair, dark and tangled from months of relentless exertion, clung in damp strands to her sweat-slicked face, brushing against her cloak. Her eyes were hollow, yet they scanned the terrain, cataloging patterns and movements she could no longer name. Whispers rose among the Dominion soldiers as she passed, though none saw her: Who moves like that? What shadow flits across the field?
Far beyond the battlefield, in the infinite darkness of the Spirit Kingdom, Kaelus remained chained, imprisoned, and helpless. The scales along his vast frame shimmered faintly in the void, reflecting glimpses of the present. His eyes were filled with ancient grief, the knowledge of every misstep, every cruelty inflicted upon his child, every stolen memory. He could see her movements, feel the weight of the chains that shaped her, and yet he could do nothing. A low, mournful rumble resonated from his throat, vibrating through the empty prison like a lamentation. No matter how powerful I am… no matter how far I can see… I cannot save her.
Beneath the endless mists of Aelthwyn Borderlands, the Hollow Weapon pressed forward, her black cloak a ripple against the dawn, dagger at her side. Soldiers and mages clashed around her, unaware, distracted by the staged chaos, yet she moved as a shadow among shadows, her presence unnoticed, her purpose unbroken.
Far below, in the subterranean void where chains coiled like serpents around him, Kaelus's eyes flickered, a shard of light in the oppressive darkness. He saw the threads of fate weaving across the battlefield, his heart twisting with grief and impotence. His daughter—his creation, his blood, his hope—moved into danger, and there was nothing he could do. Not a word, not a gesture, not a spell. Nothing could reach her, and nothing could save her.
Then, a voice echoed across the void, smooth, cruel, carrying an almost playful malice:
"Hahaha… you are the same. Without or with power. Why are you always broken? And why… why are you so attractive, so easily seduced by so many in all your lives?
Kaelus's chest tightened, a growl of frustration forming in the pit of his being. The chains around him rattled, faint cracks appearing along the obsidian binding, yet he could do nothing. He could feel the weight of every past failure, every life where he could not intervene, every moment where his daughter faced the world's cruelty alone.
The same voice, cold and teasing, threaded itself through the void, slipping past the scales and shackles to pierce Kaelus's heart: "Why are you so attractive… why do you draw so many hearts… even when your essence is empty?" The words were sharp, jagged, yet impassive, lacking warmth or empathy. They were observation and mockery intertwined. Kaelus's eyes flickered with tears that could not fall. He knew what had been done—her obedience, her hollowing, the training, the ritual—but the grief of helplessness was a burden beyond measure. His child, his creation, had been sculpted into an instrument of destruction he could not touch, could not correct, could not soothe.
And in the borderlands, the Hollow Weapon moved on, her dagger whispering against her leg, her cloak folding around her like the shadow of oblivion. She was nameless, empty, a tool honed by suffering and obedience. She did not hear the voice. She did not see Kaelus's grief. She did not feel. She simply moved, precise, inexorable, the perfect instrument of strategy and death.
The battlefield stretched behind her, chaos orchestrated to conceal her approach, the invisible Velzarith Bonegnawer Mist curling like spectral tendrils along the Elyndral lines. Queen Luna stood regal at the center, every movement calculated, a dominator among her soldiers, radiating authority. And the Hollow Weapon drew nearer, ghostlike, whispering softly to herself in the void of her own mind:
"The crown's hollow dagger."
Far below, Kaelus exhaled a breath he did not know he had been holding. He could only watch as the events unfolded, powerless, yet tethered to the knowledge that his blood, his essence, his creation, was marching toward a destiny he could not alter. And the voice laughed again, rich and merciless:
"How pitiful you remain. Always the same, no matter how many lives you live. And yet… so alluring, so seduced by so many."
The wind swept across the Aelthwyn Borderlands, carrying neither fear nor hope. Only the inevitability of what was to come. And the Hollow Weapon walked onward, silent, unseeing, unfeeling — a perfect shadow of obedience, a dagger of emptiness, a thread connecting kingdoms, kings, and broken hearts in ways no one yet comprehended.
On the Borderlands, Dominion troops advanced with deliberate slowness. Cavalry thundered, mages chanted protective spells, archers loosed arrows, and entomancers continued to disperse the vector swarm. The formation of Elyndral was unyielding, disciplined, and prepared for conventional attack. But even the most meticulous preparation could not foresee the invisible predator that now moved among them—the nameless assassin, moving between trees and ridges, across streams and crags, her cloak folding around her like liquid shadow. Every step she took was deliberate, silent, and precise, and her mind, void of memory or identity, contained only one command: Go. Complete your duty. Return.
Queen Luna, scanning her troops from the high ridge, felt a subtle unease creeping into her calculated mind. Something was amiss. Shadows seemed to shift unnaturally, motions misaligned, faint hesitations in her soldiers she could not explain. Her voice rose, silver-laced with authority: "Hold the line. Every soldier, every mage, every shield. We are Elyndral! Do not falter!" She moved among her generals, her presence a living emblem of dominion, her aura demanding obedience and respect. Yet, beneath her composure, a whisper of doubt threaded through her, a tiny fissure she did not acknowledge.
The Hollow Weapon reached the outskirts of Elyndral's central command. Her dagger, the crown's hollow, pressed lightly against her cloak. She paused, eyes sweeping the scene. Soldiers shuffled, archers nocked arrows, cavalry adjusted mounts—yet none saw her. The wind carried her cloak softly around her body, a shadow that refused to touch the ground, a presence no mortal or mage could perceive. She whispered silently, a ghost of voice: The crown's hollow dagger. And then she moved again, a shadow among shadows, vanishing into the mist, her passage unnoticed yet absolute.
In the depths of the Spirit Kingdom, Kaelus's gaze followed her, helpless yet aching with profound grief. The chains of his own imprisonment rattled as he shifted, his massive claws scraping against the stone floor. A low, mournful roar escaped him, a sound that shook the void itself. He had seen the calamity unfold. He had seen her brokenness, her hollowed obedience, her silent march through the field of war. His heart, though bound and forbidden, cracked under the weight of impotence and sorrow. Why are you always broken? he thought, the question a lament that had no answer.
The Borderlands remained tense, the air thick with anticipation. Soldiers moved like pieces on a chessboard, mages cast faintly glowing wards, and the first hints of confrontation began to ripple across the mist. Yet the true weapon—the hollowed, nameless assassin—slipped through the battlefield like liquid night, unseen, unheard, unstoppable. Her dagger, the crown's hollow, was not yet called to strike, but her presence, precise and inevitable, was a silent promise of what was to come.
And in the depths of the void, Kaelus's eyes shimmered with reflection and grief. His child, his creation, his vessel of his own blood, moved across the Borderlands with perfect obedience, perfected by cruelty, unbroken in her hollowness. The ancient dragon rumbled, a low vibration of sorrow and helplessness, knowing that no power, no spell, no intervention could undo what had been done.
The morning mist thickened, the distant ridges blurred, and the battlefield poised for the first act in a play of strategy, deception, and unseen terror. The Hollow Weapon, nameless, emotionless, unstoppable, moved closer to her unseen objective. The chessboard was set. The pieces in motion. And the silent, precise hand of Dominion's cunning would unfold with meticulous perfection.