The Hand of Malakar

  The chamber pulsed with unnatural light, green phosphorescence casting elongated shadows upon the obsidian walls. Within the heart of the Black Sepulcher, where even the air seemed burdened by whispers of the past, Vhalzaren stood before the shattered remains of the Emperor’s throne.

  His skeletal fingers traced the jagged cracks along the throne’s armrest. Once, this seat had belonged to Malakar the Undying, the architect of the Imperium’s rise—and fall. Even in death, his will lingered, fractured echoes of his divine ambition still reaching across the veil. Vhalzaren could hear them, faint and distant, promises of a world reborn in undeath’s embrace.

  He turned, his emerald-lit gaze falling upon the kneeling figure at the chamber’s entrance. An emissary of the Phoenix Accord, bound in chains of necrotic iron. The man’s armor, once gleaming, was now dulled by blood and dust. His eyes burned with defiance even as his body trembled from exhaustion.

  “You defile what remains of the Imperium, Betrayer,” the emissary spat. “You twist its memory into this—this perversion.”

  Vhalzaren stepped forward, his robes drifting soundlessly over the blackened marble. He reached out, fingers hovering inches from the man’s face, feeling the warmth of mortal life—a flickering candle against the abyssal night.

  “The Imperium was destined for more than mortality,” Vhalzaren said, his voice a chilling whisper. “And yet, you cling to the past, shackled by flesh, by time, by weakness.”

  The emissary’s breath came ragged. “The Phoenix Accord will never let you succeed.”

  Vhalzaren tilted his head, considering the statement. Then, with deliberate motion, he raised his hand. The chamber darkened, shadows elongating as tendrils of green energy slithered through the air, weaving a sigil of death in the space between them. The emissary screamed as the magic seized his soul, twisting it from the confines of his fragile body.

  His body crumpled. His soul, now a spectral wraith, hovered before Vhalzaren, its form still trembling with the echoes of its former self.

  “You misunderstand,” Vhalzaren murmured, his skeletal lips forming something akin to a smile. “The Phoenix Accord does not concern me. You do not concern me. Only Malakar’s return matters.”

  With a flick of his hand, the wraith drifted toward the throne, merging with the swirling mass of countless others. A chorus of tormented whispers rose in response, fueling the arcane lattice that pulsed within the chamber’s depths. The Emperor’s essence was not yet whole—but soon.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Vhalzaren turned, striding toward the great doors of the Sepulcher. The Dominion of Ash stirred, his forces awaiting the next command. The time for patience was nearing its end. Soon, the living would kneel, not before a kingdom of flesh, but before a new Imperium, eternal and unbroken.

  Death was never an end. Only a beginning.

  Beyond the great doors of the Black Sepulcher, the storm of undeath raged. Cindervale’s sky was an ashen void, choked by the remnants of a thousand pyres. The forces of the Dominion of Ash stood in formation, an endless tide of skeletal legions and wraith-bound sentinels, their hollow eyes aglow with unnatural fire.

  Vhalzaren raised his hand, and silence swept across the ranks. Even the wind seemed to falter in reverence.

  “The time has come,” he intoned, his voice resonating through the marrow of the gathered dead. “The Phoenix Accord will falter. The living will crumble. The Imperium will rise anew.”

  From the ranks stepped a figure clad in ornate black plate, its surface inscribed with runes of preservation and binding. Varokh the Hollow, once a champion of the Accord, now Vhalzaren’s greatest enforcer. The lich’s magic had reforged him, binding his soul to servitude in exchange for eternal strength.

  “My lord,” Varokh rumbled, kneeling before the Hand of Malakar. “The Accord has fortified the Sunspire Bastion. They will not yield.”

  A hollow laugh escaped Vhalzaren’s skeletal lips. “They will.” He lifted his hand, and from the swirling pit of souls within the Sepulcher, tendrils of green light extended, reaching into the sky like spectral fingers.

  The air split with a howling wail as the souls of the fallen surged forth, spectral warriors coalescing into ghastly battalions. They would march ahead of the Dominion, slipping through cracks in reality, striking terror into the minds of the living before the true onslaught began.

  Vhalzaren turned to his generals, the remnants of forgotten warlords who had pledged themselves to the Dominion in death. “The Sunspire will fall before the next moon wanes. We march at dusk.”

  The dead obeyed.

  The march to Sunspire was relentless. The undead legions moved without rest, an endless tide of spectral horrors and armored revenants carving a path through the ruined lands. Night after night, the sky was alight with eldritch fire as Vhalzaren’s wraiths clashed with desperate resistance, their foes crumbling beneath the weight of inevitability.

  On the twelfth night, as the blood-red moon hung low over the horizon, the Sunspire Bastion came into view. A towering edifice of golden stone, its radiant spires gleamed defiantly against the gloom, a beacon of the last true resistance. Banners of the Phoenix Accord rippled in the winds, their sigils standing against the shadow’s advance.

  Vhalzaren stood atop a ridge, gazing upon the citadel with something akin to admiration. The defenders had reinforced their walls with divine wards, shimmering barriers of holy light crackling in defiance of the Dominion’s approach.

  Varokh approached, his hollow voice unwavering. “They are prepared, my lord.”

  Vhalzaren’s skeletal visage did not move, yet the air grew colder, heavy with his malice. “Then we begin.”

  He raised both hands, and the very earth trembled. The storm of undeath surged forth, a tidal wave of horrors descending upon the gates of Sunspire.

  Another battle in the long war for the Imperium had begun.