Lord of the realm

Pride nodded, pleased by this news. "And my siblings? Do any of the other Sins wake?"

"We have felt stirrings, my lord," the cultist replied carefully.

"The network of the faithful speaks of unusual events. Powers awakening, ancient seals breaking. It may be that the time of the Great Return has finally come."

The demon's smile grew wider, showing those too-perfect teeth. "Excellent. Then let us begin the work of reclaiming what was always ours."

He walked to the chamber's wall and placed his hand against the ancient symbols carved there. At his touch, they flared with brilliant light, and the entire pyramid began to hum with power.

Far above, in the desert sands, the black triangle began to glow with crimson fire, a beacon that could be seen for miles across the wasteland.

The Lord Sin of Pride had awakened, and his reign of terror was about to begin.

***

A few days later, in the month of October of the year 1618.

Far from the human lands and empire, a huge battlefield had taken shape. To the ends of the battlefield, tents were raised.

The war camp sprawled across the windswept plateau of High Plained Moorean like a great beast of canvas and steel, its orderly rows of tents stretching toward the North Eastern borders where the Empire's authority grew thin as morning mist. The borders were a place of constant struggle and wars; the battles lasted for weeks and months.

The plain has seen more blood than rain.

From the elevated command position, one could see the geometric precision with which the camp had been laid—the quartermaster's supply wagons formed neat squares in the center, surrounded by concentric rings of soldiers' bivouacs, then the cavalry lines with their restless destriers, and finally the outer perimeter where the siege engines squatted like sleeping giants beneath their protective tarps.

The morning air carried the familiar sounds of an army in motion: the rhythmic clang of smiths working steel, the sharp bark of sergeants drilling their companies, and the creak and groan of wagon wheels on the packed wet roads that had been carved between the tent rows.

Cook fires sent thin spirals of smoke into the grey sky, and the ever-present smell of horses, leather, and unwashed men mingled with the clean scent of the highland grass that still pushed through wherever boots had not worn the ground bare.

At the heart of this military city stood the command pavilion, its red silk walls marked with the golden serpentine dragon of the Empire.

Unlike the utilitarian canvas shelters that housed the common soldiers, this tent rose three times the height of a man, its peaked roof crowned with banners that snapped and danced in the highland wind.

Guard posts flanked the entrance, where soldiers in polished mail stood at attention, their spear points gleaming despite the overcast sky.

Within the pavilion's spacious interior, rich carpets from the southern provinces covered the ground, and carved wooden furniture that had been hauled across half the continent provided an illusion of civilization in this remote place.

Maps covered every available surface—detailed charts of the eastern borderlands marked with colored pins showing troop movements, supply lines, and the ominous black markers that indicated demon sightings.

Sister Anita Nightwhisper sat behind the massive oak table that served as her field desk, her presence commanding the tent's attention even in stillness.

She was a woman who had seen perhaps forty winters, though the ageless quality common to those who wielded the Origin arts made such estimates uncertain.

Her dark hair was pulled back in the severe style favoured by the Witch Council, held in place by silver pins that bore the crescent moon symbol of her order. The deep purple robes she wore and the golden pin in the form of a wand, which was on her chest, marked her as a direct subordinate to the Mother Superior herself—a rank that made hardened generals speak in careful, measured tones.

Her grey eyes, sharp as winter steel, studied the three figures seated before her with the intensity of a hawk evaluating prey. She was here for the three of them.

These were not ordinary soldiers to be commanded with simple orders and dismissed.

These were the Chosen—heroes marked by fate and circumstance to stand against the encroaching darkness that threatened to spill across the Empire's borders, human lands.

To her left sat Commander Rodney Dennholm, a man whose thirty-plus years had been carved by sword and storm. His weathered face bore the map of countless campaigns.

His armour, though cleaned and polished for this meeting, showed the honest wear of a man who led from the front. The great sword strapped across his back had drunk deep of enemy blood in a dozen realms.

Beside him, in stark contrast to the human warrior's solid presence, sat Marylla Shadowend, the elf whose pointed ears and ethereal beauty marked her as one of the Grewood kindred.

In her thirties, by human reckoning—though she had seen twice that many seasons pass in the timeless groves of her homeland—she possessed the supple elegance that came naturally to her people. Her leather armor was dyed in deep forest greens and browns, and the long wand that rested against her chair was crafted from heartwood that had never known the touch of mortal hands. Silver-blonde hair fell in a straight cascade to her shoulders, and her violet eyes held depths that spoke of ancient wisdom and terrible purpose.

The third of their number sat with the easy confidence of one who had walked through shadow and emerged unbroken.

Paxton Whyte had earned his name through deeds that were whispered rather than sung—a master of the subtle arts who could kill with poison or blade, gather intelligence from the unwilling, and move through enemy territory like smoke through water. His appearance was deliberately unremarkable: brown hair, average height, and clothing that would not draw a second glance in any tavern or marketplace. Only his eyes betrayed him—pale green orbs that missed nothing and revealed less.

All three of them were chosen, the same as the ones in Frostvale. They had awakened to their powers several years ago and started their campaign against the demon armies.

They had grown quite strong since the time of their awakening and were now looking like veterans of war.

Sister Anita let the silence stretch, allowing the weight of their circumstances to settle upon the tent like a physical presence.

Outside, a horn sounded the changing of the watch, and somewhere in the distance, a horse whinnied.

The sound of shuffling papers came from the smaller chambers adjoining the main pavilion, where her scribes worked to maintain the endless correspondence required to keep an army supplied and informed.

And today, Anita was here for a specific reason. But her presence wasn't liked by Rodney and Marylla. They thought of her as an arrogant woman who used her power to throw them around. They thought of all witches alike. They do not like them and knew better enough to hide those feelings.

Paxton was different from those two. He had utmost respect for the witches.

While they have their own feelings, Anita was keeping her most stoic face.

"The reports are confirmed," she said at last, her voice carrying the measured authority of one accustomed to command.

"Three days past, our forward scouts encountered advance elements of a demon legion emerging from the Blakstone Canyon. The creatures they described match the ancient texts—Black fiends with their burning eyes and razored claws, supported by lesser imps and what appears to be at least one Doom Messenger."

She gestured toward the eastern edge of the map spread before them, where the parchment had been marked with fresh ink to show the latest intelligence. "The Legion is not moving randomly. Their path suggests they seek something specific—or someone. The timing cannot be mere coincidence."

Rodney leaned forward, his calloused hands clasping together on the table's edge. "How many do we face? My scouts report creatures beyond counting, but that tells us little of substance."

All these years of war have given ranks and merits in the army. They have been in constant war with demons ever since their awakening. So much that they forgot the life that was normal.

"Conservative estimates place their numbers at ten thousand, though it may be twice that," Anita replied.

"What concerns me more than their numbers is their organization. Demon legions are typically chaotic affairs, driven by hunger and rage. This force shows discipline and purpose. They are being guided by intelligence far beyond what we would expect from such creatures."

Marylla's voice carried a note of concern. "In the old songs of my people, such organized demon hosts appeared only when summoned and bound by powers of the deepest darkness. If someone has called them forth and given them direction..."

"Then we face not merely an invasion, but a carefully orchestrated campaign," Paxton finished, his voice soft but carrying clearly in the tent's confines. "Which raises the question of who possesses both the knowledge and the will to attempt such a summoning."

Anita nodded grimly. "The Mother Superior's divinations have revealed disturbing possibilities. We believe the Sect of Bledred Skull may have finally succeeded in their centuries-long quest to awaken the sins."