Lord of the realm

The sound of running footsteps came from inside the villa, and Rena appeared in the doorway, followed closely by Baren and Taeryn.

Three of them had been resting after their long journey, but the sound of voices had brought them running.

"Morgana!" Rena cried out, seeing the witch collapsed on the ground. "You're back! Where's Jaenor? Is he all right?"

She looked around the courtyard as if expecting to see him step out from behind one of the flowering bushes.

When she saw only Morgana's grief-stricken face, her smile began to fade.

"Where is he?" she asked again, her voice becoming smaller and more afraid.

Morgana forced herself to look up at the young woman, who looked at her with hope. The words felt like poison in her mouth, but they had to be said.

"He's gone," she whispered.

"They... they killed him. I was too late."

The courtyard fell silent except for the gentle sound of the fountain.

Rena stared at Morgana with eyes that didn't seem to understand what she had just heard.

"No," she said quietly.

"No, that's not... you're wrong. He's hiding somewhere, or he's hurt, or..." Her voice trailed off as she saw the truth in Morgana's face.

"I'm sorry," Morgana said, her voice breaking completely. "I'm so sorry. I failed him. I failed all of you."

Rena's legs gave out, and she sank to the ground just as Morgana had. The sound that came from her throat was like that of a wounded animal—raw, filled with a pain that had no words.

"No, no, no!" she sobbed, her hands covering her face.

"He can't be dead! He was just... we were just talking yesterday about what we'd do when we got to safety!"

Her words dissolved into tears that shook her entire body.

Baren moved to her side, his own eyes red with grief, and gathered her into his strong arms like she was a child.

"How?" Darian asked quietly, his weathered face grim with sorrow and rage. "How did they kill him?"

Morgana wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and forced herself to speak. "It was a ritual. They used his blood, his power, to awaken something terrible. One of the Seven Demon Apostles—the Lordess Apostle. She... she drained the life from him to fuel her resurrection."

The horror of those words settled over them like a heavy blanket.

Rena's sobs grew louder, and even Baren, strong as he was, began to weep openly.

Taeryn choked back a sob, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"The boy died to bring back one of the most evil beings that ever existed," Darian said, his voice filled with fury. "And we couldn't stop it."

Morgana nodded, unable to trust her voice.

She looked at Rena, who was crying as if her heart had been torn from her chest, and felt the weight of her failure crushing down on her like a mountain.

She had found her nephew, the last hope of her bloodline, only to watch him die in the most horrible way imaginable.

And now she had to live with that failure for the rest of her days.

***

Far from the grief-stricken courtyard in Hanompetra, in a land where the sun beat down mercilessly and sand stretched to every horizon, something else was stirring to life.

Rising from the endless dunes like a monument to forgotten ages stood a structure that defied the desert around it. It was built in the shape of a perfect triangle, its sides rising hundreds of feet into the air and meeting at a sharp point that seemed to cut the sky itself.

The pyramid was made of black stone that absorbed the desert heat without reflecting any light, making it appear like a hole in the world. Strange symbols covered its surface—writing in a language that predated human civilization, telling stories of power and domination and the glory of beings who had ruled when the world was young.

Deep within the pyramid's heart lay a chamber carved from solid obsidian. The walls were smooth as glass and covered with more of the ancient symbols, but these glowed with a faint red light that pulsed like a heartbeat.

In the center of the chamber stood several figures dressed in robes of deep crimson. The fabric was expensive and well-made, but it was marked with symbols that would make any decent person's blood run cold—skulls and bones and twisted shapes that hurt to look at directly.

These were the Blaedred Skull Sect, worshippers of beings so evil that their names were forbidden in most civilized lands. They had waited in this place for generations, keeping their vigil and preparing for the day when their lord would return to the world.

One of the robed figures stepped forward, carrying in his hands a crystal flask filled with liquid that gleamed like rubies in the chamber's red glow. This was not wine or any innocent drink—it was blood, freely given by the faithful and carefully preserved with dark rituals.

This ritual was followed by the one done in the Gorge; that group in the chamber and this sect are related and have coordinated all this process.

This sect held no humans within its ranks. It was composed entirely of Demons—creatures born in shadow—who swore themselves to the service of the Seven Sins, the dreaded apostles of the Daemon God. Their devotion lay not to the god himself, but to the apostles, for it was the apostles who had shaped them from nothing, breathed will into their hollow forms, and bestowed upon them a purpose.

To the Demons, the apostles were not merely masters but creators—their true gods.

At the center of the chamber sat a massive stone coffin, rectangular and carved with such intricate detail that it seemed to move in the flickering light.

The patterns on its surface told the story of conquest and domination, of a being who had once commanded armies and brought kingdoms to their knees.

The cultist raised the flask above his head and began to chant in the old tongue, words that seemed to make the very air tremble with power.

As his voice rose and fell in the ancient rhythm, the other worshippers joined in, their voices creating a harmony that was both beautiful and terrifying.

With great ceremony, the lead cultist poured the blood onto the coffin's lid.

Where the crimson liquid touched the carved stone, the symbols began to glow brighter and brighter until the entire chamber was bathed in red light so intense it was almost blinding.

The chanting reached a crescendo, and suddenly the light exploded outward in all directions. When it faded, the lid of the coffin had vanished, dissolved into nothing by the power of the ritual.

From within the stone box, a figure slowly sat up, as if awakening from the deepest sleep. This was no human being, though at first glance he might have passed for one. His features were handsome and noble, with high cheekbones and a strong jaw that spoke of natural authority.

But his skin was pale purple, the color of old bruises, and his eyes burned with crimson fire that seemed to look right through whoever gazed upon him. Two thick horns grew from his forehead, his perfectly styled hair like a crown of bone.

His beard was trimmed to neat precision, and his mustache was sharp as a blade. When he smiled, his teeth were white and perfect—too perfect to be natural. Behind him, visible as he turned his head, was a long tail that moved with serpentine grace.

The newly awakened being looked around the chamber with satisfaction, taking in the sight of his faithful worshippers who had fallen to their knees in reverence.

"All hail the Lord Sin of Pride!" they chanted in unison, their voices filled with worship and fear. "All hail the awakened one!"

The demon—for that was what he truly was—stood slowly, his movements smooth and graceful despite having been asleep for centuries.

He was one of the Seven Sins, the first apostle, and the most powerful servant of the Daemon God, a being whose very existence was an affront to all that was good and holy in the world.

Pride smiled as he looked upon his faithful servants, and when he spoke, his voice was like honey poured over steel—smooth and pleasant, but with an edge that promised terrible consequences for those who opposed him.

"My children," he said, his crimson eyes glowing with satisfaction. "You have done well."

He stepped out of the coffin and onto the obsidian floor, his bare feet making no sound on the polished stone.

The cultists remained kneeling, not daring to look directly at his terrible beauty.

"Tell me," Pride continued, his voice carrying the absolute authority of one who had never been denied anything he desired.

"What news of the world above? How long have I slept?"

The lead cultist, still holding the empty flask, dared to raise his head slightly. "Four centuries, my lord. The world has changed much, but your faithful have never wavered. We have prepared for your return."