The sea burned red, a vast expanse awash in a relentless, bloody gleam as if the waters themselves had been dipped in molten scarlet. Above the western coast of Zvjezdano Nórland, thick, twisting plumes of smoke rose, their tendrils curling into the dawn sky and spreading hues of deep crimson mingled with ashen gray, creating an ominous canvas of blood and ruin. Fenglian had arrived.
He came not clad in the regalia of a conqueror but like an unstoppable storm incarnate. His army surged forth—a relentless tide of contorted, twisted metal, scaled beasts with gleaming, malevolent eyes, and shadow-forged soldiers whose presence conjured nightmares. Village after village along the coast west of Dijamantheim crumbled within days; time and mercy were strangers. Harbors were reduced to smoldering pyres, their once-proud docks succumbing to the hunger of flame, while fishermen, caught in the midst of their labors, were impaled before any chance to flee. Even stone walls, those vigilant guardians of civilization, were not spared, melting under fires that defied nature's laws.
There were no prisoners taken, no missives sent in despair—only the silent, grim aftermath of scorched earth. Fenglian had traversed realms driven by a singular, unyielding purpose.
Mei-Ling.
She had slipped from his grasp like shadows fleeing the light, and he would not rest until her blood, spilled in a cruel covenant, sealed the ever-widening breach between worlds. His path, a jagged, searing scar etched across the coast from the shattered port of Liria to the charred, ghostly remains of Silvercove, left kingdoms trembling. No realm dared to challenge him—yet his burning march was pushing inland, inexorably toward Dijamantheim.
On the gilded balcony of her estate, Aurelia surveyed the impending doom, a chalice of rich wine trembling in her delicate hand. Clad in mourning black trimmed in opulent gold, she embodied both regal sorrow and defiant elegance. Her exile had been brief—a mere few weeks—but her unofficial return had already set whispering tongues aflame throughout the court, for who else could so deftly tame the encroaching chaos now battering their fragile gates?
The wind shifted with an uncanny premonition as the mingled scent of salt and soot, dampened by the tears of nature, carried a dire promise far more sinister than the ruin of politics alone. Fenglian's warfront advanced with a speed that defied mortal anticipation—a pace too swift to be parried or placated. With a measured resolve, Aurelia turned back toward the sanctuary of her estate, where her chambers shone with immaculate precision. Every cushion was perfectly aligned; every candle's flame danced at an exact, calculated angle; every whispered chill in the air was meticulously curated—a world ordered and controlled.
Yet this chaos, this roaring inferno of war, lay far beyond the grasp of diplomacy, seduction, or even the trembling allegiance of her former allies in the high council, whose quivering hearts now shuddered at mere shadows drawn across the horizon. In this crucible of despair, she needed power—or at least the illusion of control. She needed Fenglian to perceive her not as a conquered exile, but as a resource, a tool to be wielded.
At the stroke of midnight, the portal shimmered into existence. Aurelia's envoy—two messengers quivering with fear as they carried a battered flag of parley—returned barely alive, yet their import was unmistakable. Now, on the crumbling, charred field where Silvercove once thrived, she stood alone against the tide of devastation.
Fenglian emerged from the billowing smoke, a specter draped in coalescing darkness and intense gold. He did not simply walk—he arrived, as a towering, awe-inspiring figure shrouded in robes of obsidian and gilded threads, his face concealed behind a jagged mask carved with sinuous serpentine motifs. From the depths of his hidden eyes, embers glowed like coals embedded in the crucible of an ancient forge.
Behind him loomed unspeakable horrors: a monstrously warped beast brandishing six limbed appendages yet devoid of any mouth, alongside armored warlocks whose skin shimmered like polished obsidian and whose spines glinted as though forged from shards of broken glass. With every calculated step, even the earth itself seemed to decay, wilting away beneath their unholy presence.
Aurelia held her ground with a fierce composure; she bowed ever so slightly—just enough to offer the veneer of respect, yet not so much as to betray any ounce of fear. "My lord emperor," she intoned, her voice a seductive cascade of velvet softened by hidden razor blades.
Fenglian remained silent, the wind howling around him as though the very air recoiled from his oppressive might. Straightening her posture, she continued, "I know why you're here." Still, he offered no sound.
"You're searching for Mei-Ling," she asserted, her tone both accusatory and knowing. "And if the carnage along the coast is any harbinger, you will not cease your pained quest until you have found her." A low, distorted sound resonated from within his mask—a sound that was less a laugh and more the echo of a distant, wistful memory.
"I can help you," Aurelia whispered, her words hanging in the desolate air. That single promise stirred him into motion. He stepped forward—each footfall deliberate and weighted, as if the very earth itself split in protest beneath his boot.
Aurelia remained unmoved, even as his immense, dark shadow cascaded over her. "I offer you a trade," she declared, her voice unwavering. "Spare this city. Spare Dijamantheim and its people from your annihilating blaze. Let them remain untouched."
Fenglian tilted his predatory head, and the dancing firelight caressed the intricate contours of his fearsome mask. "In return," Aurelia continued, "I shall reveal where she hides." This proposition piqued his dark interest, and after a stagnant pause, a voice erupted—deep, distorted, resonant through silent realms. "Why betray your own?"
For a fleeting moment, beneath her composed exterior, a sliver of her true nature showed—a raw glint, as sharp and unguarded as untempered steel. "She does not belong here," Aurelia confessed, her voice sinking into a murmur. "She descended into this realm like a rogue comet—without lineage, without title, without discipline."
A silence fell heavy as he questioned, "She took something that was mine."
"Power?" he ventured, his tone laced with a toxic intrigue.
"No," she murmured, her voice dropping to an aching whisper. "Aelric"
A single word, Aelric—the name once unspoken but seething with old passion. Aelric, who had once gazed at her as though she was sculpted from pure stardust; Aelric, who now jealously guarded Mei-Ling as though her very existence were his last fragile breath. Even wounded, frail, and hidden within the dark recesses of his own quarters, he had chosen her above all. And that choice was a betrayal Aurelia could never forgive.
"She obstructs the path," she stated, her tone a blend of sorrow and defiance. "You desire her, and I desire Aelric. Our goals, no matter how alien, have aligned." An oppressive silence fell once more as Fenglian scrutinized her, unmoving in his colossal certainty. Then, in a gesture that sealed their fateful bargain, he nodded once.
With a delicate, measured inhalation, Aurelia acknowledged the deal. It was struck without the spilling of blood or the pomp of ceremony—only the mutual understanding shared by monstrous souls. "Take me to her," Fenglian commanded, his voice resonating with inevitability.
"I will," she replied with steeled resolve.
She turned toward the trembling city, her cloak billowing dramatically in the wind as if heralding the approach of destiny. And behind her, the creeping darkness advanced.
Zlatnomirheim's spires, bathed in the pale light of a hesitant morning sun, glimmered in an oblivious grandeur. They knew nothing of the unholy pact forged amid the ashes of their devastated neighbors nor of the ephemeral alliance that now walked beneath their shadowed alleys. Unaware that death had taken on the elegance of velvet or that the relentless hunt had truly begun.