Korthrax
The rift was his canvas, and the kingdom was his masterpiece in progress.
Korthrax floated in the vast darkness of his domain, a colossal consciousness of writhing shadow and stolen light. His countless eyes blinked in perfect synchronization as he observed the Obsidian Throne through a thousand corrupted vessels — servants with tainted dreams, minor lords nursing grudges, soldiers who had lost too much in the last war.
He did not rush.
Rushing was for lesser beings. True consumption required patience, precision, and the exquisite art of timing.
The upcoming Festival of Embers was perfect.
The kingdom would be at its most vulnerable — relaxed, united in celebration, drunk on hope and Whisperwine. Defenses would be light. Attention would be scattered. The people would lower their guards, believing the worst was behind them.
He smiled with a thousand mouths.
