God From The Abyss

The main avenue was broad enough to let ten carriages pass abreast and shimmered under the light from the floating crystal lamps. The light they gave wasn’t white but warm amber — gentle enough to not blind, yet bright enough to reflect off the polished roads.

Twilight spilled its last light across the city, and Halvaris, the capital city of the Romanian Empire, answered with hues of dying gold.

Down below, the lower districts were already buzzing and bustling in the euphoria of nighttime. Traders shouted prices and haggled, children ran up and down, and guards in black and silver armor patrolled with a certain kind of confidence. Everywhere, there was motion.

Steam rose softly from vents near the ground — from the city’s heating system. A bard’s lute echoed faintly through an alley. The clang of metal and the faint buzz of runes and mana blended into a sound of its own — the pulse of the Romanian Empire.

To live here was to live under constant watch, but also constant awe.

Halvaris was not a city of dreams — it was a city of ambitions, built to remind posterity that the Empire was eternal. It was a place built on order and power. Beautiful, but it always had the quiet, subtle reminder that every light shone and burned because someone strong allowed it to.

The Upper districts gleamed up ahead.

Here, nobles walked marble pathways and carriages drawn by tamed Ravagers rolled by in silence. Here lived only nobles, high officers, and members of the Imperial bloodline.

In the heart of this district was the Citadel — a mighty fortress-palace that dominated the skyline with black spires that climbed so high they seemed to pierce the night.

Around the Citadel, the estates of high families or their outposts and embassies stood proud and tall, their banners fluttering in the cool wind.

The Grand War Spire of the Citadel also rose to an astonishing height. Its shadow stretched across a great length over the city.

At its summit lay the War Chamber — vast, circular, walled in by engraved plates of obsidian steel and glass.

Here, meetings that decided lives, started wars, and ended them took place behind closed doors. And to the unknowing citizens down below, tonight was one of those times.

On the walls were lined runes that glowed and hummed faintly, forming a defense.

A large, round, polished oak table sat at the center of the chamber, with five chairs forming an arc, making the occupants of the chairs face a throne.

There sat somebody — or rather, the silhouette of one, as the only source of light in the room was the faint glow of the runes that illuminated only one part of the entire chamber, and that did not include the throne area.

Five stood behind the five chairs — five figures who each could level cities if they willed it.

The figure reclined in the throne, his form cloaked in shadow, his voice smooth and restrained. No one ever saw him.

None dared to.

Behind him, the crimson insignia of the Empire shone faintly — the rising sun and the sword.

"Please, sit," the shadowy figure said, his voice soft.

"Yes."

They all sat.

"Report."

The first to stand was Supreme Commander Rodain Lithorne, a man with short black hair and eyes that held nothing and reflected nothing. His black and gold uniform bore five scarlet stripes across the sleeve — the symbol of the first among equals.

He bowed slightly.

"The Khyronians have begun a movement. Six legions, confirmed. Possibly two more concealed in the western fold. Rumors of war engines and siege beasts have been common amongst the merchants, although the authenticity of these rumors is being verified. I do know that they march under the banner of the Demon King of Sloth, Belphegor.

"For now, however, they have resorted to guerrilla warfare and have attacked a few of our border towns."

"Projected intent?"

"Conquest as usual," Rodain replied flatly.

"They are spreading fast, also targeting weaker towns of both Dwargon and Theria."

A quiet breath left the shadows of the throne.

"And possible casualties, should they attempt to come through the northern province?"

The one who answered was High General Malcius, an aged archmage. His tone was calm, academic, detached.

"Normally, to come from the northern province, one must go through the Vampiric Mountains. That place is Hell, just that it is iced over. Without proper guidance, they wouldn’t even make it to the Northern Province, let alone dream of attacking it.

"And from the movement of Kyhron, they do not intend on reaching the Vampires’ domain. Then again, for now, we are not completely sure of the army’s path. And the behavior of those damned creatures has never made sense to anyone."

A soft, amused hum broke the air. It came from the far side of the table — a woman lounging with crossed legs, a faint smile playing on her lips.

Sera Lysandre, the youngest in the room — twenty, barely out of youth — was the source.

The Red Wraith of the Empire. Her uniform was different: sleeveless, tailored for movement. Her flowing red hair resonated with the faint red light in the room, and her red eyes, under the shadows, gleamed with deadly playfulness.

"If they made it to the northern province, then someone fell asleep at their post."

Rodain’s eyes flicked her way, cold. Not that she cared.

"Watch your tongue, Lady Lysandre. We are not here to play."

"Yeah, sure, old man. Sorry, I forgot you were still thirty-seven or something."

A vein pulsed in Rodain’s temple.

Sera couldn’t care less. Her smile widened — sharp and knowing.

"According to the reports I’ve read, Kyhron never marched this fast without an internal push. And it’s been less than twenty years since the last war. This reeks of desperation. Someone or something might driving them harder than usual."

Her gaze lifted to the shadowed throne — defiant, amused, yet reverent in its own way.

"Wouldn’t you agree?"

A quiet chuckle came from the dark.

"That much is visible, Lysandre. Continue your speculation. I find it very entertaining."