The news of Prince Azeal's birth did not just travel to Zhalver; it struck the dark kingdom like a cold, iron fist. Inside the obsidian spire of the Black Citadel, Draeven Zareth stood motionless. The report from his spy lay on the stone floor, crumpled and forgotten.
For a decade, Draeven had fed his soul on a single hope: that the Vaeltheron bloodline would wither away. He had waited for Aetheron to grow old and childless, leaving the Seven Kingdoms ripe for the taking. But now, a Prince had been born.
Draeven's hand tightened around the arm of his throne until the dark stone began to crack. His mind drifted back to the ShadowedAbyss—the memory hitting him like a physical wound. He remembered the suffocating darkness of the Zarethian Trial, and the moment he had fled, unable to face the demons within. Meanwhile, Aetheron had walked through that same hell and returned with a crown.
"A son," Draeven whispered, his voice like the scraping of bone against bone. "Aetheron thinks he has secured his legacy behind a cradle."
He paced the length of his chamber, his black cloak trailing like a pool of ink. He knew he couldn't kill the boy yet—the magical protection around Solthera was too strong. He needed a weapon of his own. He needed a bloodline that could match the Vaeltherons.
His eyes turned toward the map on the wall, landing on the territory shrouded in permanent mist: Xeraphyn.