ShadowBound: The Need For Power

In an unknown place on Amthar, where the trees reached tall and twisted in haunting elegance—both beautiful and grim—the moon cast her glow upon the world, veiled ever so slightly by wandering clouds. The night was quiet, save for the whisper of wind through blackened leaves.

The lands, once scorched and lifeless from the corruption of demon rifts, had begun to breathe anew. Not yet vibrant, but touched by a semblance of life, enough to draw the eye. Amidst the thickets of ancient bark and creeping moss, there lay a hidden entrance—shrouded from mortal sight, yet clear as day to those who bore the arcane gaze. It was the mouth of an underground domain, a passage into shadowed depths.

Through that passage stretched a narrow, winding tunnel, leading to a vast subterranean chamber aglow with unseen light. It shimmered not from torch nor sun, but from some mystic brilliance buried deep within the stone.

The chamber bore the splendor of nobility—a grand space adorned with luxurious couches upholstered in velvet, a majestic mahogany table set with books, scrolls, and maps in perfect order. Upon the earthen walls hung portraits—ancient bloodlines, armored knights, and arcane symbols etched with reverence.

In the far corner, away from the central gathering, stood a lone couch beside a small round table. Atop it rested a single glass, another beside it, and an open book, its pages unmoving though no wind stirred.

The chamber itself was the envy of any commoner—too refined for peasants, too hidden for kings. Yet within it, a narrow corridor stretched further into darkness, lit with the same unseen glow. This passage led to yet another space, where she stood.

A woman—elegant, motionless. Her hair, chestnut-brown, cut in a long bob that brushed her shoulders. Her dress, modest and graceful, spoke of pastoral charm—a deep forest green bodice laced with brown ribbon in gentle crisscross. Creamy linen sleeves puffed below the elbows in peasant style. Her skirt, dyed in matching green, fell in flowing pleats to the floor. A brown sash cinched her waist, tied in a neat bow.

She stood still, her hands folded before her, serene as a statue.

But silence did not reign entirely. It was shattered—pierced by the harrowing screams of men and women alike.

At the far end of the room, the corpses of humans littered the floor, their forms twisted, lifeless—flesh paling into near death's gray. Amongst them, at the center of the slaughter, stood a man.

Tall, towering—six foot and more. His long brown hair slicked back, trailing down to his mid-back. His bare chest revealed a powerful frame, muscles honed like forged steel. He wore only black trousers, stained faintly with dust and something darker.

In his grasp, he held a middle-aged woman by the neck, her feet lifted from the earth. She clawed at his hand, lips quivering as though to speak, but no sound came. His grip was too strong to grand her that privilege.

She trembled and tried fighting for her life but failed.

Her color drained as her essence pulled away by invisible force. Then, just like the others, her body slackened. She became pale and hollow.

The man let her drop. The sound of her fall echoed through the chamber.

He exhaled, slow and pleased. "The essence of humans," he said with calm reverence, "is a treasure. Not to be wasted, but shaped into power."

"Indeed, Lord Sylvathar," the maiden replied, her voice sweet with respect, lips curling into a gentle smile.

As the man turned to face her, his beard—short and well-groomed—framed a jaw etched with quiet authority. His eyes glowed a fierce, radiant green, only to fade as he neared her.

"I love how you always understand me," Lord Sylvathar murmured, stepping close.

Her smile did not waver, nor did her hands shift from their poised rest. She watched him approach with the grace of a lady and the silence of a ghost. Her gaze, soft yet unwavering, met his eyes.

"My understanding is thine to command," she said softly, her voice like a lullaby woven from silk and still water.

Lord Sylvathar reached out, his fingers brushing a lock of her hair aside, tucking it gently behind her ear. His touch was delicate, almost tender—an eerie contrast to the crimson stains that still marred the soles of his feet and the scent of death that hung about him like a cloak.

"Thy warm eyes, Morenelle," he murmured, his tone low and intimate as he lifted her chin with a single knuckle. "They remind me of the grace my siblings bask in—grace given freely by my father. A grace I... never once tasted."

A flicker of something unreadable passed through Morenelle's eyes—perhaps pity, perhaps something deeper, more dangerous. Yet she spoke not of sympathy, nor sorrow.

"Then let me be the warmth thou wert denied," she said, her voice steady, her words deliberate.

He studied her for a moment, as though weighing the sincerity behind her words. Then he gave a slow nod, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Thy loyalty to me is as beautiful as always," he said. "I'm grateful, but in the demon realm, what is denied by blood must be claimed by blood alone. So thou canst not give me that grace I seek, Morenelle," he said, as he lowered her chin and turned to retrieve a dark green robe from the wall.

"But... thou canst help me obtain it," he added, striding into the corridor that led to the main chamber.

Morenelle remained still, her smile unwavering, her hands still folded neatly in front of her. After a short pause, she followed Lord Sylvathar.

Arriving in the main chamber, Morenelle beheld Sylvathar seated in one of the cushioned chairs, holding a glass filled with a dark liquid that resembled wine—but clearly was not.

"Thou knowest, humans have always amazed me. Thy way of life, thy food, all of it. Enough to move me to replicate it. Even this chamber," Sylvathar said as he leaned back in his chair.

"Yet, thou dost not drink wine," Morenelle remarked with reverence.

"Of course not. The only drink worthy of my kind..." he said, lifting the glass to his lips and drinking. He set it down with poise. "Is human blood."

"And thou art every bit thy kind... no?"

"Indeed, my lord," Morenelle said, bowing her head slightly, her smile serene.

"Now, tell me," Sylvathar said as he took another sip of his crimson drink. "One of my newly made subjects hath been captured. What course of action wouldst thou deem best?"

"I suppose Gordon Rvack was the inconvenience in question," Morenelle answered calmly.

"Indeed. It seems he held little value. Yet he fulfilled his purpose, providing a false goal—just as thou hadst planned and foretold. Thy mind remains as exquisite as ever," Sylvathar said with quiet admiration.

"'Tis all thanks to thee, my lord," Morenelle replied.

Sylvathar swirled the blood within his glass, the dark liquid climbing the rim like a serpent coiling in wait, then slithering back into stillness. He spoke without granting her his gaze.

"Then let us ensure our next stroke is as precise," he said. "That false trail... it bought us days—mayhap weeks. But their eyes now draw ever nearer to the heart of truth."

Morenelle stepped forth, her movements soft as the hush of wind through midnight silk.

"Shall I lead their gaze astray once more, my lord?" she asked, her voice low and silken, like a secret whispered upon the nape of one's neck. "Another lie? Another flame to lure their moth-like minds?"

Sylvathar chuckled, a sound like rusted chains scraping the stone halls of a long-forgotten tomb.

"Nay. No more falsehoods. I have lingered long in this realm's shadows... too long. The divine-blessed child is mine to claim. Yet caution remains ever my companion." He rose, the obsidian folds of his robe cascading into place like rippling shadow. "Let them make their move—be it guided by lies or truth. Let them believe they approach the core. Let them taste the edge of triumph…"

He turned, eyes glinting like knives beneath moonlight.

"But in the end, victory and grace shall belong to me alone."

Morenelle's smile deepened, though her gaze gave nothing. "As thou commandest, my lord. But what of Ember? She yet lingers within the academy. Shall we silence her?"

"Death suits the disloyal," Sylvathar said coldly. "But the girl still holds value. We shall use her—bait to draw out the princess."

Morenelle inclined her head with quiet reverence. "It shall be done. I shall dispatch Morbuan to seize the princess."

Sylvathar moved to the edge of the chamber, where the portraits of knights and noble alike hanged.

He lifted the glass once more, draining the final drop with the solemnity of a man toasting the beginning of war. Then he let it fall—glass shattering upon the obsidian floor, crimson droplets scattering like the blood yet to be spilled.

"Summon Morbuan," he said, his voice quiet yet absolute. "Tell him to go unseen. No blood, unless required. The girl must be delivered alive… and intact."