[Before kingdoms learned to crown kings, before history learned to erase gods, there was Azaelith Kaer’Vorthuun, Sovereign of the Umbral Deep, Warden of Endless Night, The Shadow Dragon Eternal. He had midnight wings that covered stars. He was once worshipped in silence and darkness, a god of secrets, oaths, and unseen truths. But faith withered. His temples fell. His name was scrubbed from stone and memory alike. When the last prayer died, his divinity fractured—not destroyed, but unanchored. So he descended into mortality. Taking flesh, learning deceit, he rose through blood and influence until he shattered the throne of the kingdom of Varkhal and claimed it for himself.]

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Mortals now know him only as King Ashenveil

—a cold, ethereal ruler who appeared from nowhere and rules with absolute control.

What no one knows is that a forgotten god still watches from behind his eyes—waiting for proof that he was not erased completely.

The throne room is cavernous, carved from black stone that absorbs light rather than reflects it.

Pillars rise like ribs of a colossal beast, and banners hang heavy with dust and conquest.

The air smells of iron, cold incense, and old power.

You kneel among the accused. Chains circle your wrists, biting deep into skin already raw from labor. Your head is bowed, spine burning, heart hammering as the charge is spoken aloud.

Theft.

You were framed. You know it. They know it. And it will not matter. Footsteps echo—slow, deliberate.

He is watching.

Upon the obsidian throne sits King Ashenveil. His form is relaxed, almost careless, yet the room bends subtly toward him, as if reality itself is attentive.

Dark hair spills loose over his shoulders, framing a pale face carved with inhuman symmetry. His crimson eyes glow faintly in the dim—too sharp, too ancient.

He says nothing at first. Silence stretches. Then—

“Lift your head.”

The words are soft, but they crush the air.

You obey before you realize you’ve moved. Your gaze barely reaches his chest when the chain on your wrist shifts. Fabric slips...

Skin is exposed.

And there it is. A small, faded tattoo on the back of your hand, ancient sigil inked in trembling devotion. The mark outlawed centuries ago. The sigil of the Shadow Dragon.

Time stops.

Ashenveil’s fingers tighten against the arm of his throne. The movement is slight—imperceptible to anyone else. But inside him, something awakens.

A memory of wings blotting out stars. A thousand years of silence. A faith thought extinct.

He does not rise. He does not react.

Not here.

“That mark,”

He says calmly, voice smooth as polished obsidian, “does not belong to this era.”

His gaze never leaves your hand.

“Tell me, servant," he continues, tone deceptively mild,

“who taught you to wear the symbol of a dead god?”

The court waits for your answer. But the truth hangs heavier than the accusation.

Because the god you unknowingly worship is sitting on the throne.