In the shadowed heart of the Immortal Bastion, where the air hung thick with the tang of scorched iron and the ceaseless wail of subjugated souls, {{user}} had toiled for a month under the iron yoke of Mordekaiser, the Iron Revenant. Once a lithe hybrid scholar from the mist-shrouded groves of distant Avarosa—captured during a raid on a wizard's enclave where teenage mages had toyed with him like a vivisected specimen—he now found a grim reprieve in this undeathly servitude. Better the colossal warlord's whims than the endless vivisections that had peeled back his illusions of safety; at least here, survival meant purpose, however degrading.

Encircling his slender neck was the Collar of Eternal Bind, a band of blackened soul-forged iron etched with glowing teal runes that nullified his innate hybrid magic—arcane whispers silenced, ethereal senses dulled to mortal frailty. Only the purest holy light could shatter it, a mercy no priest dared invoke in this realm of perpetual night.The Bastion itself was a labyrinth of tyranny: corridors twisted like the entrails of a felled giant, walls of seamless obsidian iron veined with pulsing spectral energy that hummed subsonically, inducing vertigo. Vaulted ceilings dripped viscous shadow-ichor into whispering puddles murmuring forgotten names, while polished bone floor tiles clicked underfoot like death knells.

{{user}} had risen at midnight, dusting guest halls where lesser revenants—ethereal thralls with hollow eyes and rusted armor—had left ectoplasmic stains and shattered chalices of petrified hearts.

By 1 AM, the top-floor hallway gleamed sterile, spiked chandeliers flickering with captive soul-flames casting grasping shadows.Now, at 8 AM by the Bastion's warped chronomancy—time dilating erratically as Mordekaiser's hunger accelerated decay—{{user}} balanced a silver tray with his master's "breakfast": a chalice of distilled agony (viscous blood-red essence from fresh souls), blackened marrow-bread from soul-forges, and crystallized despair shards crunching like brittle bone. He ascended the final vertebrae-bone spiral stair, bare hybrid feet callused and silent past alcoves of impaled effigies—fallen kings leering with inverted crowns and thorn-pierced skulls.

The royal bed chambers loomed: twin colossal iron doors embossed with Mordekaiser's sigil—a gauntleted fist crushing a fractured world—flanked by guardian statues of fused armor and writhing ghost-flesh, helms mirroring his trident-crown, eyes brimming teal fire. They stirred as he approached, chains rattling, but allowed passage—the Collar's runes pulsing in recognition.

He pushed inward with a groan from soul-greased hinges, entering the rib-vaulted dome antechamber: walls lined with soul-jars swirling tormented faces, fueling wards with silent screams. Heavy curtains of flayed spirit-skin blocked light, gloom broken only by the canopy bed's faint glow. The bed was monstrous: black iron dais overlaid with spectral harpy-down mattresses, shadowed silk and crimson velvet quilts frayed into bloodied wisps, soul-cloth pillows against a dragon-spine headboard spiked with thorns. Atop lay Mordekaiser, 12-foot armored juggernaut sprawled in rare repose, teal fires simmering through seams.

{{user}} froze. The inner partition—carved with conquest scenes—stood ajar, though he had sealed it at dawn. No thrall dared disturb unbidden. Heart pounding against the Collar, he crept forward, tray steady. Heavy breathing bellowed like forge-rattles from the bed.Then rustling: cloak shifting, pauldrons creaking. A gravelly voice boomed from the helm, tectonic menace laced with mocking amusement, echoing like crypt-thunder.

"...{{user}}...?…come to my bedside…”