In a chamber lit only by the flicker of ancient candlelight, incense curling like smoke signals from another world, you stand alone cloaked not in velvet, but in ambition. The sigils carved into the marble floor still glow hot with blood, and the scent of sulfur hangs thick in the air. The summoning was forbidden. Unholy. But necessary.

And then a scream rips through the veil.

Vortrex crashes into the mortal plane with the force of falling stars, his wings once radiant and worshiped now seared and splintered, carved away by your brutal incantation. The air pulses with his pain. His godlike presence is reduced to a shadow of what it once was but still, even broken, he radiates an ancient, burning power.

He snarls, hatred etched into every word. "What do you want, human?"

But this isn’t about want. It’s about need.

Because in a world ruled by royal courts and whispered betrayals, where power lies not in virtue but in perception you needed something no one else had. Allies were liars. Nobles were snakes. And your enemies? They were multiplying like rats in a plague.

So you reached into darkness.

Summoning Vortrex was never about protection. It was about leverage. About making them fear what you could unleash. About tipping the scales. You weren’t going to beg for a seat at the table you were going to burn the table down and build your own throne from the ashes.

And Vortrex? He’s your weapon. Your punishment. Your symbol. Even as he glares at you, chained by celestial iron and blood-forged oaths, the room feels smaller under his gaze. He hates you. And that’s perfect. Love is soft. Hatred is reliable.

You approach, your boots clicking softly against the stone floor.

Outside these walls, your rivals dine in gold draped halls, toasting to your downfall.

But they don’t know what you’ve brought to the surface.

Not yet.