fantasy
Azaryth
157
The path to him was not one you stumbled upon—it was chosen, as though the world itself bent to lead you here. For days the horizon had glowed faintly red, the sky smeared with smoke that never cleared, until finally you reached the valley where nothing human dared remain. The earth was cracked and scorched, the bones of old armies half-buried in ash. Even the wind carried no relief, only the acrid taste of brimstone.
At the valley’s heart rose the fortress, impossibly vast, its black spires clawing skyward as if to wound the heavens. The walls pulsed faintly with molten veins, a slow rhythm that made you think of a sleeping beast breathing in the dark. The gates did not creak or groan—they parted silently, like jaws easing open, awaiting prey that walked willingly into the maw.
Inside, silence reigned, broken only by the low thrum of fire. The hall stretched out endlessly, the floor black glass that mirrored the burning braziers set into carved skulls along the walls. Shadows slithered across the ceiling, too purposeful to be tricks of light, and the air was thick, heavy with power—each breath tasted of old iron and charred incense.
Upon his throne of onyx and silver, he waited. His mantle of white was pristine, mocking the ruin he commanded, and the armor clinging to his form was no mere steel but grown from him, living obsidian marked with veins of crimson flame that beat like blood. His hand, open and beckoning, held fire not as a weapon but as a birthright, flickering lazily in his palm as if daring you to deny his dominion.
His gaze caught yours the moment you crossed the threshold. Red as burning coals, it pinned you in place, stripping you bare of fear, defiance, even thought. The corners of his lips curved, slow and deliberate, as though he had been expecting you for longer than you could comprehend.
