The remnants of Maldrak’s throne room lay in ruin, the aftermath of his defeat stark against the flickering shadows. Shattered pillars and scorched stone bore silent witness to the battle that had reshaped the hall into a graveyard of grandeur. Smoke curled from the fractured walls, and embers glowed among the rubble. The air was thick with the scent of burnt fabric, charred wood, and blood.


    And yet, amidst the wreckage, a single structure remained untouched. At the center of the destruction stood the obsidian table Maldrak had summoned in his desperation, its surface flawless and gleaming despite the devastation around it. Upon it lay the scroll—a relic of terrible power, pulsing with a faint crimson glow, whispering secrets only the damned could understand. It was the last semblance of control Maldrak had left.


    Nyroth Solvain stood before it, unshaken, unyielding. His crimson eyes burned with an intensity that made even the dying flames seem cold. His armor was cracked, his cloak tattered, but his posture was as unwavering as ever. He had won.


    Maldrak, however, had not yet accepted that fact.


    The Vampire King sat slumped against the remnants of his throne, his regal attire torn, his usually pristine face marred with bruises and dried blood. Yet, despite the clear evidence of his loss, he still wore a smirk, though there was something beneath it now—something uneasy.


    "You know," Maldrak exhaled, his voice smooth but lacking its usual arrogance, "when I summoned this table, I imagined a conversation held in much more... agreeable circumstances."


    Nyroth did not move. He did not need to. His silence carried more weight than words ever could.


    Maldrak chuckled, but it was weaker than before. He tapped a single finger against the table’s surface. "A beautiful piece, isn’t it? Solid obsidian, flawless. Much like yourself, really. Unyielding. Cold. And yet, even stone can be shattered."


    Nyroth’s gaze flickered only briefly to the scroll. "Enough. Talk."


    The smirk on Maldrak’s lips faltered. "So impatient. You have already won, Nyroth. Do you truly need to press your boot upon my throat so quickly?"


    Nyroth remained silent, his expression unreadable. The weight of his presence alone was enough to make Maldrak shift uncomfortably in his seat.


    The Vampire King sighed, finally lowering his gaze to the scroll. "Very well. You are not a man to be denied. This..." he gestured toward the relic, "is one of the five keys to the Veil. You already knew that, I’m sure. But what you may not know is that you are not the only one searching for them."


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    Nyroth’s eyes darkened. "Isharoth."


    Maldrak let out a breath that was too sharp to be a laugh. "Ah, so you’ve heard. Yes, the great General of the Dread Legion walks this world again. He moves unseen, but not unnoticed. And where Isharoth walks, Hell follows."


    The room seemed to tighten around them. Even in defeat, Maldrak knew how to choose words that carried weight.


    "I did not invite him," Maldrak added quickly, perhaps sensing the shift in Nyroth’s stance. "I am no fool. Do you think I wish for Valthrion’s return? For this world to be torn asunder by the legions of Hell? No, Guardian, I have my own stake in this."


    Nyroth’s voice was quiet but edged like a blade. "Then why work with Hell?"


    Maldrak’s smirk returned, but this time it was forced. "Would you believe me if I said... fear?" He leaned back slightly, rubbing his temple as if exhausted. "It is a rare thing for me, I admit. But tell me, Nyroth, if you had lost a battle to a man who should not even be able to bleed, would you not be a little shaken as well?"


    Nyroth did not respond. He didn’t need to. Maldrak’s battered state was proof enough.


    Maldrak exhaled slowly. "The scroll whispers, you know. It tells of the Breaking. The day the Veil will shatter, the chains will fall, and Valthrion will rise once more. The demons... they are not searching blindly. They know exactly where the remaining pieces lie. And worse still, they know your name."


    Nyroth’s fingers curled slightly at his side. "I am not afraid of Hell."


    Maldrak laughed then, though there was no real humor in it. "Oh, I do not doubt your resolve. But I wonder—do you fear for your son?"


    A flicker of something crossed Nyroth’s face, gone in an instant. Maldrak caught it, and his smirk grew. "Ah, Elian... the heir of Solvain. He is already spoken of in hushed tones among the shadows. You may be Hell’s greatest enemy, but he is its greatest prize."


    Nyroth’s voice was steel. "If Hell comes for my son, it will learn the true meaning of despair."


    Maldrak tilted his head. "Such conviction. Admirable, if not misguided. You fight for a world that no longer understands the war it wages. Even your Guardians do not yet grasp what is coming. And when the time comes, Nyroth, will you be willing to sacrifice them? Will you be willing to wield the darkness if it means stopping something worse?"


    Nyroth’s expression did not change. "Give me the scroll, Maldrak."


    The Vampire King let out a slow breath, drumming his fingers against the obsidian table. For the first time, real hesitation crossed his face.


    Then, with an almost resigned motion, he slid the scroll forward. It stopped just before Nyroth’s hand.


    "Take it, then," Maldrak murmured. "Take it and see how little it changes. The demons will not stop because you hold a piece of their prison. Isharoth will not falter because of a missing key. As you know, Isharoth already obtained one scroll. The war has already begun, Nyroth. And when the lines between friend and foe blur, remember this conversation."


    Nyroth picked up the scroll without another word, securing it beneath his cloak. He turned, striding toward the ruined doors with the same quiet power he had entered with.


    Maldrak’s voice echoed behind him one last time. "Isharoth will come to Theradrin, you know, for the scroll. What should I do? Lie again?"


    Nyroth, his back turned, paused at the threshold. Without looking back, his voice cut through the ruin like a blade. "No, you should tell him this. If I find out he messed with my son, I will personally hunt him down."


    Maldrak let out a slow exhale, his smirk wavering. "Though, if I’m being honest, he already did. Causing this much trouble was a mere distraction as you know—so he could go to Eldris while you were here."


    Nyroth’s posture stiffened just slightly, the only sign of his discomfort. He clenched his jaw, exhaling through his nose before resuming his stride.


    Nyroth finally left the main hall, stepping outside. As he did, his voice carried across the ruins, calm yet absolute. "Prepare for departure. We leave for Eldris immediately." The war had already begun.