A convocation of sovereigns

In the grand council chamber of Dravenheart Kingdom, King Alaric, the Lycan King, sat at the head of the long obsidian table. His piercing golden eyes, a hallmark of his noble bloodline, swept over the assembled rulers of each supernatural race. This was no ordinary gathering—this was a Convocation of Sovereigns, a rare and formidable meeting where the fate of the supernatural world was decided.

Each ruler commanded respect, their presence carrying the weight of centuries of power and history.

To Alaric's right sat King Damius Voss, the ruler of the vampires. With his pale, statuesque features and crimson eyes that gleamed like liquid rubies, he exuded a quiet but undeniable menace. He was dressed in finely tailored black robes embroidered with silver filigree, his regal bearing unshaken by time.

Standing directly behind him, like a living shadow, was Lord Jeremiah Noctis, the enigmatic leader of the Sanguis Noctis—an ancient and elite vampire clan sworn to the protection of the monarchy. Their warriors were feared even among their own kind, their loyalty unwavering. Jeremiah's face remained unreadable, his long, dark hair falling over his shoulder, his hand resting idly on the hilt of a ceremonial dagger.

Seated next to Damius was Queen Althea, the ruler of the witches. She was a vision of eerie beauty, her long hair cascading down her back, shimmering with an unnatural glow. Her deep violet eyes held unfathomable knowledge, a reflection of centuries of arcane mastery. Althea rarely attended such meetings—witches were notoriously aloof, existing outside the politics of other races. The fact that she was here sent a silent message: something significant was about to change.

Her presence unsettled the room, and even the most hardened warriors stole glances at her, wary of the unknown magic she wielded. The very air around her seemed charged with an unseen force, as if the fabric of reality itself bent in her presence.

Opposite Althea sat King Eryndor Ironshade, ruler of the gnomes and Alaric's dearest friend. Eryndor was a stark contrast to the others—short, but with an undeniable presence that filled the room. His sharp green eyes twinkled with intelligence, and his elaborate clockwork robes, woven with enchanted gears and intricate sigils, hinted at the gnomes' unparalleled ingenuity.

Unlike the vampires and lycans, who relied on raw strength, or the witches, who wielded magic, gnomes thrived on intellect and invention. Their technology and alchemical advancements were crucial to the supernatural world's progress. His presence wasn't just that of a ruler but also of a trusted advisor, especially since his son, Theron, had close ties to the Lycan prince.

The remaining rulers, each as influential as the last, completed the gathering, their distinct auras clashing and mingling in the grand chamber.

Queen Lysara Vaelwyn of the Fairies sat in regal splendor, her iridescent wings folded elegantly behind her, her emerald gown shimmering with natural magic. Fairies were both enchanting and dangerous, their alliance with the other races often dictated by the whims of their unpredictable nature.

King Thalorien Starfire of the Elves, his silver-blond hair cascading over his shoulder, wore an intricately woven tunic that mirrored the night sky. His sharp blue eyes radiated wisdom, his posture exuding the poise of a race known for its longevity and mastery of both combat and magic.

Empress Seraphina Pyreclad of the Elementals was a striking figure, her very presence shifting between states—one moment wreathed in flames, the next rippling like a current of water. She was unpredictable, her race existing in perfect balance with the natural elements, making alliances with them both a necessity and a risk.

King Vaerus Tideborn of the Water Creatures, a towering merman with a humanoid upper body and gleaming sapphire scales covering his arms and shoulders, observed the room with unblinking seafoam-green eyes. His people commanded the vast oceans, their domain almost impenetrable to outsiders.

Lord Gravemorne of the Gargoyles, his skin the color of darkened stone, sat with an almost statuesque stillness. His race, ancient and bound to the highest peaks and sacred ruins, spoke little but were unmatched in their silent vigilance.

King Xyros Irontusk of the Minotaurs, a behemoth of muscle and raw power, rested his massive arms on the table, his golden nose ring gleaming in the dim light. Minotaurs were warriors first and foremost, their empire forged in the fires of conquest and sheer brute strength.

Each ruler brought with them centuries of knowledge, power, and political intrigue. Allies, rivals, potential threats—all in one room.

As the chamber doors closed, sealing the rulers within, King Alaric's voice cut through the tension, deep and commanding.

The chamber, once alive with quiet murmurings and shifting gazes, now felt like the heart of a storm—silent, suffocating, and waiting to explode. King Alaric Velarys, the Lycan King, sat unmoving at the head of the obsidian table, his golden eyes surveying the rulers assembled before him.

And then, like a shadow stretching over the room, King Damius Voss, ruler of the vampires, spoke, his voice smooth yet cold, like the whisper of a blade being unsheathed. He leaned forward, hands steepled, crimson eyes flickering with intrigue as he turned his attention toward Queen Althea . "You did not come here out of whim, Althea. Witches do not meddle unless the world itself is on the brink. Tell us—what horror have you seen?"

Every ruler in the room turned to the Witch Queen, their expressions varying from curiosity to dread.

Althea sat still, her violet eyes glowing with an eerie, otherworldly light. Even the dim candle flames that lit the council chamber seemed to flicker toward her, drawn in by the pull of something beyond mortal comprehension. The air itself grew charged, humming with a strange energy.

And then, she spoke.

A whisper at first—soft, slow, yet carrying the weight of something terrible.

"It begins with fire."

The words were simple, yet they sent a ripple through the chamber, like the first crack in an ancient wall before it crumbles.

Althea 's lips parted again, her voice shifting, layered with echoes of something beyond the present.

"Fire in the sky. Shadows falling. Creatures unlike anything that walks this world."

She lifted her gaze, and for the briefest of moments, the rulers swore they saw something in her eyes. A reflection of another time—another future.

And that future was drenched in blood.

"They are coming."

The air in the chamber grew heavier, as if unseen hands were pressing down upon them all. Even the strongest among them—kings and queens who had ruled for centuries, who had waged wars, bathed in blood, and conquered lands—felt an unsettling tightness in their chests.

"Who?" King Thalorien Starfire of the Elves demanded, his sharp blue eyes narrowing. "Who comes for us?"

Althea's fingers trailed along the edge of the obsidian table, her nails barely touching its surface, yet the very stone beneath her hand cracked.

"Not gods. Not demons. Not men. But something worse."

A deep, rumbling growl came from King Xyros Irontusk, the Minotaur King. "Speak plainly, Witch Queen."

Althea finally straightened, her gaze sweeping over them all, her voice no longer whispering but rising, sharp as a dagger.

"They are not of this world. They are not bound by our magic, nor by our laws of life and death. They do not tire. They do not feel pain as we do. And worst of all—" her lips curled slightly, almost as if the very thought disgusted her, "they cannot be killed. "

A heavy silence followed.

Then, a slow, amused chuckle.

King Damius, always the predator, smirked. "Nothing is invincible, Althea. If it can bleed, it can die."

Althea 's expression did not change. Instead, she lifted her delicate hand—and with the flick of a wrist, the room shifted.

Suddenly, the candle flames burst, rising unnaturally high before vanishing completely, plunging the chamber into darkness. Gasps and growls echoed in the shadows. The rulers could still feel the table beneath their hands, the stone beneath their feet, but the world around them had changed.

And then—they saw it.

The vision struck them all at once.

The sky split apart, not like a storm, but like the heavens themselves were being ripped open. A gaping wound in the fabric of the world, a portal that should not exist. From within, they saw them—shapes descending, hulking figures wrapped in blackened, armor-like flesh, with no eyes, no mouths, nothing to give them familiarity.

They moved with inhuman speed, covering ground in seconds, tearing through warriors like paper. They could hear the screams—soldiers being torn apart, blades shattering uselessly against their unyielding forms. Blood painted the ground. Entire kingdoms burned. The air itself was thick with death.

And then—they turned.

The creatures turned their faceless heads toward the rulers. Though they had no eyes, they were looking at them. Seeing them.

Marking them.

And just as suddenly as the vision came, it was gone.

The chamber returned to normal. The candles reignited, flickering weakly. The air was cold. Too cold. Some of the rulers had paled, others gripped their weapons instinctively.

Althea exhaled softly, as if she had just wrenched herself out of a nightmare.

"That," she said, voice barely above a whisper, "is what comes for us."

King Alaric's hands clenched into fists. The great Lycan King, who had led armies and crushed rebellions, found himself unnerved for the first time in decades.

Even King Vaerus Tideborn, ruler of the vast seas, sat unnaturally still. His deep, sea-green eyes darkened. "How do we fight something that cannot die?"

Althea turned to him slowly. "They are not sending their armies yet. They will send scouts first. A few of them."

King Xyros grunted. "Then we crush them before they return."