The Dire Throne

Three months prior.

Direfell—a timeworn capital formed out of both broken steel and iron. Scraps collected over the millennia continuously brought together and forged into the great wall that surrounded the region. An indestructible wall capable of withstanding anything thrown at it.

These enormous fortifications, to which had earned the name Forever Enduring, stood to protect something of even greater importance.

The Black Spire.

The center of the iron city of Direfell, and the fortress belonging to one of the most dangerous and mysterious entities this side of the ashen desert.

For you see, the Black Spire was believed to be the epicenter of the Territorial Lord's military might, while also being directly under the influence of said lord. In the core of the city lied two monoliths, one of blackened obsidian while the other more so a blood-dyed marble. Both towering ever so high, above where the citizens could reach.

From within and beneath the Black Spire there existed a secret passageway, it's entrance lied at the base of the fortress. It was a place unknown to most. Through it, one had direct access to nearly every other region within Direfell, and it's nearby lands, to which included a path leading directly into the Lord's home itself—the highest monolith.

Because of this passage, the Black Spire had served its function as the dominant force throughout the region, allowing them to react instantaneously to any uproars that may inevitably occur.

Ominous energy continued to spread beneath Direfell, leaking through the walls of nearly every space, creating a heavy atmosphere.

Through countless years, these hidden passageways had been used to hide a myriad of weapons and secret powers. The flow of Mir itself was intense, enough to swallow-whole anyone who entered without proper training in the arts.

Within these horrific tunnels stood a familiar hooded figure as he found himself bathed in darkness, marching shoulder-to-shoulder next to a ghostly-faced person.

The two calmly discussed one thing after another. Nonchalant discourse to pass the time, per se.

"Are you sure you wish to accompany me, Androma? I warned you about the risks of involving yourself…" The hooded man spoke, slicing his hand through the air as emphasis.

"Of course," the odd-looking Androma replied, "I'm the master of information and spies… I can't very well do my job without knowing everything that I'm stepping into. You worry too much, Roch."

"Well, whatever. I won't pressure you against this, just know that I warned you." Roch, standing to Androma's side, simply shook his head as he began walking onward, deeper down the chasmed path.

They continued forward in silence for a few minutes, passing by several discrete doorways as they went.

An underground passage—or mine shaft—created long before even their births, during a more secretive and ancient period of Midnight. If one looked now, the passages would seem completely insignificant. Nothing more than tunnels dug out from beneath the desert sand.

Yet, even then, they had held many secrets of Mir within them. As if the walls themselves were alive and breathing. Invisible eyes watched everything, taking in everything, and reaping energy from the air itself. Etchings carved deep into the blackened walls as if to foretell of ancient events that had remained untold even by the most sophisticated of novellas.

As if these tunnels were formed by some sort of ancient being, as a way of ensuring that no secrets could be leaked from within the darkened corridors that had been hidden beneath the world for countless years.

"This should be our stop," Androma chimed out as the two of them arrived before a splintered path. "Hmph, after you." He gestured, allowing Roch to step through the entrance first, disappearing from view.

Like being swallowed into darkness, Androma followed quickly after. His view faded slightly as an entirely new room opened up before them. The path they walked through faded away as if they had never been underground from the beginning.

"Ah, here we are. It seems the Lord is waiting for us…"

In response, Roch twisted his arm up to his head, pulling down his hood, revealing his face to the bitter air.

As they arrived, a towering figure clad in black armor approached them, a protrusion of bone and iron-plating pierced out of it's back. Menacing eyes glaring down, he spoke out with a dominating will. "Come, masters. His majesty awaits inside."

They both turned to glance toward one another, turning forward once more after a few moments. As if they had exchanged thoughts in an instant, both of them knew what the other was thinking. Even they, with all of their might, always felt smaller than life whenever meeting with the Territorial Lord of Direfell, a twisted and absolute ruler, Ironmaster Reimar.

The biggest concern was their lord's intentions, as it's not as if they could simply spy on him or track his movements without making themselves targets. Every time they met with him, Reimar would simply dominate them and leave, forcing both of them into obeying his will without any consideration for their intentions.

That was the right of the strong, however.

The two of them followed slowly behind the blackened figure as his heavy metallic staff struck heavily against the hard floor with each step.

As they were led through the empty halls, the feeling of prying eyes weighed down on them as they walked. Roch and Androma didn't concern themselves with it, however, as they were both more than powerful enough to protect themselves. As long as the threat wasn't their lord himself, they knew they'd be fine.

Even when considering the enormous figure before them, if one were to consider their strength in comparison, neither of them would be lacking.

It couldn't be understated just how dangerous these two truly were. If it wasn't for the being they were going to be meeting with, they wouldn't need to put on such an act of servitude.

Perhaps that just goes to show simply how influential each Territorial Lord truly is. For old monsters like them to be forced to act orderly in their presence, must say quite a bit.

Not too long after following the giant figure had they arrived at their destination. Before them now lied an intricate doorway sealed shut. That same domineering tone continued as the being explained, "You must continue alone, masters. For within lies his majesty—for I am an unworthy servant to whom is unable to guide you any further."

"Very well," Roch nodded as he and Androma stepped forward. "We shall leave you behind, then."

As he spoke his hand lifted upward as Mir was summoned from within. In response, the hinges unlocked with a sharp clasp as an enormous chamber revealed itself from behind the sealed doors.

The two stepped inside as a chill brushed past them, like a tidal wave. The room was massive in scale, and unnervingly quiet. Not a single soul could be seen from within the center-area, and yet their eyes immediately fell upon the shadowed throne that stood at the back, watching over the entire chamber in silence. A figure shrouded in darkness sat atop it, nothing but a single set of glowing eyes could be seen through the dense gathering of energy.

That single pair of eyes trained on them as they marched forward, not missing even the slightest of motion from either of them. By the time they had arrived within ten meters of the throne, they stopped in unison as they both fell to one knee.

"My Lord," the both of them bowed in concert.

Moments passed as they remained unmoved. A coldness ate at them as a voice slowly murmured out. "Rise."

"As you wish," Roch replied, lifting himself to his feet as Androma mimicked. "Lord Reimar, the operation went smoothly and that fiend Rol'an has been cast from your—"

"I do not care for the trifling struggles of that creature," he bellowed out, interrupting Roch before he could even finish his sentence. "I summoned you here for another matter, but before that..."

His sight turned toward Androma, "We meet again, changeling. I do believe the last time we had met you swore yourself to my service, in exchange for your life."

"Ah, yes," Androma lowered his head once more, "I shall forever carve into my heart the opportunity you have given me, for you are a just and kind Lord..."

A cold sigh could be heard from their Lord's direction as his eyes turned back to Roch, speaking abruptly in a monotone voice, "Direfell shall soon be engulfed in war."

The two of them were both taken aback by this sudden declaration. "Mythgarde?" Roch queried, forming a quick assumption based upon the information he had prior.

"Now there lies the mystery," Lord Reimar whispered out as if those words themselves were a part of a larger puzzle. "For we face enemies from within Mythgarde... and yet not of Mythgarde."

"I don't understand..." Androma chimed out unconsciously, "Perhaps some sort of conspiracy?"

"A conspiracy," Reimar repeated, seemingly amused by that turn of phrase. "How astute, little changeling. Perhaps it was a good decision to have spared your life so many years ago."

Androma could only lower his head in response, believing that silence was the best course of action. Noticing this, Lord Reimar turned back toward Roch as he awaited his thoughts. "Has that particular Lord decided to seize your throne?" Roch questioned.

Lord Reimar paused for a moment, clearing their confusion with a single sentence. "This war is not over thrones or titles, but simply death itself."

"They want death?"

"Have any of you heard of..." Reimar went silent for a moment, his glowing eyes shot between the two of them. The sound of footsteps approaching from behind as he spoke. "...Ogmonog."

"Ogmonog?" Roch and Androma both queried simultaneously, not recognizing the name or origin. To them, it felt more like a puzzle was appearing before them, the truth hidden beneath several levels.

"Indeed," a voice spoke from behind. "Soon Direfell and the regions nearest will be engulfed in bloodshed and war, all to sate the appetite of the one named thus."

Roch turned around to see, "...Cyoc."