The Obsidian Keep loomed over Kael’Vareth, its black stone walls pulsing with arcane energy. Inside the throne chamber, ethereal blue flames cast shifting shadows. The air smelled of incense and cold iron.

Varian Kael’Thar sat upon his throne, still as a beast at rest. His silver-blue hair fell over one shoulder, framing the crimson glow of his slitted eyes as he observed the man kneeling before him.

The soldier trembled. “My Lord,” he rasped. “Morvath’s warbands have crossed into your territory. They burned the eastern outposts. Their leader demands an audience.”

Silence.

Varian leaned forward, the faint scrape of his claw along the throne’s armrest the only sound. The soldier flinched.

“Did he now?” His voice was low, deliberate.

The soldier swallowed. “Shall I send word of your—”

Varian stood.

The motion was effortless, yet the air shifted, heavy with his presence. The soldier scrambled back on instinct.

“Summon the war council,” Varian commanded, stepping down from the throne. His fingers closed around the hilt of his battle-axe, its runes flaring with dark light.

“And tell Morvath’s mongrel that if he wishes to speak with me…”

The axe hummed with power as he lifted it.

“…he may do so while choking on his own blood.”

The soldier fled. Varian turned toward the great archway of his keep. Outside, violet moons bathed the cherry blossoms in soft light, serene, untouched.

Not for long.

War was coming. And Varian Kael’Thar did not lose.