Deep within the Shattered Throne, where light could not reach and even hope dared not tread, Serian sat upon a twisted seat of obsidian and bone.
Around him stood his Seven Generals — the pillars of his dark reign.
The chamber pulsed with a slow, ominous heartbeat, each thud syncing with the black veins running through the walls.
Serian's crimson gaze swept across the room, sharp as a blade, cold as a dying star.
"The Starborn gathers strength," he said, voice silky and poisonous, echoing through the hollow hall.
"And she is more… resilient than I anticipated."
A figure cloaked in shadows — Vaetra, the Shadebinder — bowed low "Your will was done, my lord. Yet she persists."
Another general, clad in molten armor — Kroth, the Burning Fang — growled low. "Let me crush her. One swipe, and this rebellion ends."
Serian merely raised a finger. The room instantly fell silent.
"No," he said, almost lazily "The game is not yet at its climax."
Behind his calm façade, calculations spun like deadly orbits. Every move Lyra made was exactly as he foresaw — almost.
But there was an anomaly.
Vaelion.
Serian's lips curled into something almost resembling a smile.
"Our wayward son has grown teeth," Serian mused, fingers tapping rhythmically against the armrest.
"How… quaint."
Another figure spoke, her voice like breaking glass — Sevraya, the Thorned Muse.
"Should we not simply sever the tether? His soul still bears the scar. He can be… reclaimed."
Serian considered this.
For a long moment, only the breathing of the Seven filled the void.
Then he spoke:
"No. Let him watch her fall. Let him think he can save her. And when the light dies from her eyes… so too will the last of his defiance."
The Seven bowed deeper, accepting their master's cruel decree.
High above the throne, massive stained-glass windows depicted Serian's ultimate vision: the Realms united under darkness, the Shards reforged into a single, terrible weapon.
The last Starborn shattered.
The cosmos remade in Serian's image.
"Each of you," he said, his voice a velvet noose, "shall have your role in the final act."
He gestured to them one by one:
Vaetra would poison hope.
Kroth would shatter armies.
Sevraya would seduce despair.
Maelor the Warden would chain destiny itself.
Nyxis the Hollow-Eyed would turn allies into betrayers.
Draven the Unbroken would guard the Shattered Rift.
Syris the Red Mist would cleanse the remnants.
"And when they lie broken at my feet," Serian finished, rising to his full, terrible height, "I shall ascend. I shall become the flame that devours all."
The Seven pounded their fists to their chests in grim unison.
"All hail Serian, the Unmaker!"
Their voices shook the very bones of the realm.
And somewhere, across the endless void, Lyra shivered — sensing a terrible tide rising to meet her.
The real war had not yet begun.
But soon…
It would.