Asdrubael Vect sat languidly on his throne, a blackened obsidian structure adorned with cruel, jagged spikes that caught the dim light of the chamber. His expression, as it had been for countless millennia, was one of supreme disinterest. Around him, the grand halls of his palace in the High Spires of Commorragh stretched endlessly, filled with the twisted beauty of art that only the Drukhari could appreciate—torture displays of souls caught in eternal agony, sculptures of writhing forms twisted into impossible shapes, and shimmering curtains of light made from trapped fragments of suffering.

The Supreme Overlord of Commorragh leaned back in his throne, fingers drumming idly against the armrest. His eyes, sharp as ever, surveyed the room through half-closed lids. Before him, a pair of sycophantic servants knelt, heads bowed so low their foreheads touched the ground, trembling as if expecting death at any moment. But Vect could not be bothered to command even that simple pleasure.

The daily machinations of his city, with its endless backstabbing and bloodshed, had become tiresome. There was no worthy challenge, no grand game left to play today. His spies whispered the secrets of lesser Archons vying for scraps of power; his rivals schemed in vain, thinking their plots would go unnoticed. They thought themselves clever, these petty lords and would-be challengers, but their ambitions were always dull, predictable, and, most of all, boring.

"There’s a major issue my lord," came a voice from the shadows.

Vect did not turn his head; he knew the speaker without needing to see. One of his personal attendants, a draped figure known only as Sysskar, stepped into the faint light, clutching a data-slate filled with the latest reports. Sysskar was a creature of perfect obedience, as all his closest servants were—his tongue split in two and his spine elongated to better slither through the darkened corridors of Vect’s domain.