crown of self-interest

The winds swept over the ancient city of Velaris, where Zaros Valen stood at the heart of his citadel, a place that seemed both a monument to his greatness and a prison for the ambitions that still gnawed at him. The towering spires of his fortress overlooked the vast lands below, but his gaze was set far beyond, toward the distant mysteries that lay veiled in the world around him. The remnants of the first arc weighed heavily on his mind, the battles fought and won, but more importantly, the intricacies of power and control that had guided his every decision.

But now, new challenges loomed on the horizon. He could feel the stirrings of something deeper — the growing presence of powers that existed beyond his current realm of influence. He had learned much from his conquest of the Phantom Court and the Chronomancers' Enclave, their arcane secrets now his to command. The realms they ruled over — death and time itself — were now woven into the tapestry of his immense power. Yet, there was always more to be gained.

Standing on the edge of his citadel, Zaros whispered to himself, “Control is fleeting without the understanding of what lies beyond.” His thoughts traveled to the stories told in his youth, of lands far and wide, each with their own legends, rulers, and hidden truths. They were not just stories, he realized now. They were fragments of knowledge that held keys to even greater power.

His reverie was interrupted by a soft sound — a ripple of energy that only he could perceive. It was the telltale sign of an intrusion into his carefully guarded domain. Without hesitation, Zaros vanished from the citadel’s edge, reappearing instantly in one of the many inner chambers of his fortress. There, within the twisting currents of the arcane wards he had set in place, stood a figure cloaked in shadows.

"You dare to trespass here?" Zaros’ voice was low, yet carried the weight of undeniable authority.

The figure stepped forward, the shadows parting slightly to reveal a face obscured by a mask. "I do not seek confrontation, Zaros Valen. Only an audience."

"Then speak, before I tear the answers from your mind," Zaros responded, his patience clearly thinning.

The masked figure tilted its head, an air of calm confidence surrounding them. "The world is shifting, as it always does. You have felt it, have you not? The balance of power across the continents is no longer as stable as it once seemed."

Zaros narrowed his eyes. He had indeed felt the stirrings of change, but he would not reveal this to a stranger. "And what of it?" he demanded.

"The lands are moving closer to conflict, to chaos. Iltheria, Khorvas, Aeloria, Thalios, and even Selarion—they are on the brink of war, each believing they can claim dominance over the others. And where there is conflict, there is opportunity. Even for one such as yourself."

Zaros remained silent for a moment, his thoughts racing. He knew the politics of the various continents well, had studied their histories, their myths, and their leaders. But this masked intruder knew something he did not. And that made him dangerous.

"You speak of conflict as though it is inevitable," Zaros said, his voice a measured calm. "But wars are not won by words alone. What makes you think I would be interested in this chaos you speak of?"

The figure raised a hand, and in an instant, the air around them shifted, revealing a map—a projection of the world as Zaros knew it, but with new markings, symbols that even he was not familiar with. "Because you are not the only one who seeks power, Zaros. And if you do not move now, others will claim the prize you so desperately desire."

Zaros studied the map, his mind already analyzing the information being presented to him. "What prize?"

"Control of Eryndor," the figure said simply. "But not just its lands. Control of its people, its myths, its gods... and even the pathways between dimensions. There are other worlds, other realms, where power is not bound by the limitations of this one. You have tasted a fragment of that power already, but there is more. Much more."

Zaros could feel the weight of the figure's words. It was as if they were speaking directly to the core of his ambition, the desire that had driven him from the very beginning. Control. Absolute, unchallenged control.

"And you?" Zaros asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "What do you gain from telling me this?"

The figure's masked face remained unreadable. "I seek only to be a guide. Whether you succeed or fail is irrelevant to me. What matters is that the world will change, and I will be there to witness it."

Zaros regarded the figure for a moment longer, then, with a flick of his wrist, dismissed the projection. "You are dismissed," he said coldly. "I have no need for guides."

The figure bowed slightly, as if expecting this response. "As you wish, Zaros Valen. But know this—there are forces in motion that even you may not be prepared for. The gods themselves may take notice soon, and when they do... even your power may not be enough to face them."

With that, the figure vanished, leaving Zaros alone in the chamber once more. But their words lingered in the air, unsettling and intriguing at the same time.

Zaros turned away from the now empty room, his thoughts already shifting to the new information he had been given. The continents were on the brink of war, and the gods themselves might soon become involved.

He thought back to the stories of old, the tales of the Five Eternal Stars of Iltheria, the Forged God of Khorvas, and the Deep Monarch of Aeloria. Myths, yes. But myths had a way of influencing the world, of shaping reality itself.

Zaros moved to one of his many arcane libraries, pulling out a tome that detailed the ancient religions of Eryndor. He needed to understand the full extent of the forces at play, the powers that had been dormant for so long but now seemed ready to awaken.

He flipped through the pages, his eyes scanning quickly over the ancient texts. There were passages on the Forged God, the Spirit Keeper of Thalios, and the Sunlit Tide of Selarion. But it was the mention of the Ghostwood that caught his attention—a cursed forest said to consume the souls of those who entered, a place even the gods feared to tread.

"Perhaps," Zaros mused, "it is time to remind this world who truly holds the power."

With a wave of his hand, he summoned a portal, its shimmering surface rippling like water in the air before him. He stepped through, leaving the confines of his citadel behind.

On the other side, he found himself standing on the edge of the Ghostwood, the ancient trees towering over him like silent sentinels. The air was thick with the presence of something dark and ancient, something that had not been disturbed for centuries.

Zaros smiled to himself. The figure had been right—there was more to this world than he had yet uncovered. But he would not allow anyone else to take it from him.

The power of the gods, the control of the continents, the secrets of the realms beyond—all of it would belong to him.

And soon, the world would remember why Zaros Valen was a name to be feared.