A large castle stood precariously on the edge of a cliff. It was built of a dark material that glistened with strange green accents. At the bottom of the cliff, the sea roared and slammed against the rocks as a storm tossed the waters violently. Lightning flashed in the sky, occasionally lighting up the castle in a sinister green hue as the accents shone through. Tall windows were placed on the side of the castle, exposing the stormy scene to a throne room. There were large solid gold pillars placed in regular intervals, supporting the tall ceiling of the throne room, and a red carpet ran the length of the room, covering a flight of steps and stopping at the majestic throne at the end. The throne was gilded with several precious stones and shone with magical energy. The tall windows were behind the throne, allowing the flashes of lightning to shine periodically into the room, reflecting off the gilded throne in a multicolored flash that shone briefly on the ground. In the throne sat a warlock.
He had his knobby elbows balanced on the arms of the throne and he sat up straight, with his eyes closed. He was short, his toes barely reaching the floor and he had wisps of black hair on his head. His skin was wrinkled and spotted and his arms and legs were as thin as sticks. He was mostly covered by an oversized cloak that flowed down to the ground, draped over him. Despite his weak appearance, he had a regal presence as he sat on the throne in concentration. He opened his eyelids to reveal solid black eyes as the air suddenly began to swirl around him. At the center of the throne room, particles of light appeared and began to gather. They clustered and formed a large pillar of light which flashed then disappeared to reveal another warlock.
This warlock was also visibly as old as the one who sat on the throne. He was much taller, however, his arms and legs long and stick thin. His skin was also papery and wrinkled and his posture was hunched over. He got down on one knee and knelt before the warlock seated on the throne, who looked on with an air of regality.
'My king Garlusen', said the kneeling warlock, with an icy cold drawl that sounded like a knife being scraped across one's spine.
'General Zenkolen', said the king of the warlocks, sitting on his throne. 'To what do I owe the pleasure of this personal visit?'
'I bring troubling news, my king.'
The king laughed. His voice was deep and booming, not at all indicative of his small and fragile form.
'What could possibly trouble you, Zenkolen. Zaleria Salor is dead! We must rejoice!'
'Her son is alive, my lord.'
Garlusen rose to his feet in a flash. An immense amount of energy flowed around him as he was beset with a purple glow. His eyes changed hue from black to a deep purple as his limbs slowly expanded. General Zenkolen looked up in surprise as the warlock king's arms and legs grew thicker. Muscles formed on his torso, abdomen, and back and his face became much larger. His appearance went from that of a malnourished old man to one of a hulking, muscle-bound warrior. His oversized cloak had suddenly become too small for him as he towered over Zenkolen, his rippling form oozing magical pressure and threatening to burst through his clothing.
'Choose your next words carefully, Zenkolen.', Garlusen snarled in his deep booming voice.
Zenkolen was surprised but remained calm in the face of the king's sudden transformation. He was all too familiar with this form of the king which was brought forth whenever he was overcome with rage or bloodlust.
'Her son escaped my lord, he lives.'
'Is he the inheritor of Sacred Heart?!', demanded the warlock king, vibrating the entire throne room with his voice and incredible magical pressure.
'I do not know my king, but we must assume so.'
Garlusen suddenly slammed his foot down, shattering a portion of the floor as he bellowed in anger. A deep, visceral scream that echoed around the throne room multiple times, causing the very ground to tremble.
'It was supposed to be Zaleria!!' He continued to punish the floor, creating a crater in the marble beneath the carpet, which was already torn to shreds beneath his feet. 'I was told Zaleria Salor would inherit it!'
Zenkolen remained kneeling as the room rattled with Garlusen's furious stomps. He sighed and looked up at his king.
'My lord, I have not yet confirmed that he is the inheritor. But if he is, then we must assume he is capable of drawing the Emberblade.'
Garlusen ceased his stomping and looked at Zenkolen.
'You are strangely calm, Zenkolen. Do you have a solution?'
General Zenkolen's expression twisted into a sneer as he looked up at the warlock king, who stared at him incredulously.
'He lives my lord, but not on Dragoncrest.'
Understanding slowly crept across Garlusen's face as he began to smile as well.
'He is holed up on the coast with the perabels, my king.', Zenkolen said in his icy drawl.
'That is certainly convenient…', said Garlusen as his form began to shrink. The muscles fizzled away from his arms and legs and his entire stature shortened until he stood before Zenkolen as an old, balding warlock with a much less imposing presence.
'But my lord, have you been chosen yet?', asked Zenkolen with a sinister glint in his deep black eyes.
Garlusen's face fell, and he turned back towards the throne. He slowly walked towards the throne then passed it, approaching the tall windows behind the throne that looked out at the storm-wrought cliff hounded by the roaring waves of the sea. He placed a hand on the glass and stared down at the tossing waters.
'No, Zenkolen. The Vengeful Lord is yet to choose his champion.'
Zenkolen clenched his teeth in disappointment. Before a champion was chosen, they could not safely destroy the remainder of the perabel community. If perchance the champion was among them, the Vengeful Lord would never forgive Garlusen and his subordinates. Suddenly, a thought occurred to the warlock general. He stood and walked over to Garlusen, who still stood at the window, staring longingly at the waters tossing in the storm below. Zenkolen stopped a few paces before the throne and his face twisted into a vile sneer once again.
'My king. Perhaps I can... Instigate Salor to leave the stronghold.'
The king turned to face the general, his expression quizzical.
'The boy must want revenge. I killed his mother after all.'
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