Malrik Ascends
The hall at the heart of the Onyx Dusk stronghold was a monstrous cavern carved deep into the mountain. Its ceiling disappeared into darkness, and jagged stone columns jutted upward like the teeth of some ancient beast. Malrik stood at the head of the room, the Moon Amulet resting heavily against his chest, its glow casting twisted shadows across his gaunt features.
Rogues filled the space, their restless movements betraying unease. This was not the gathering of a united pack—it was a den of wolves bound by fear and ambition. Malrik’s gray eyes swept over them, his lips curling into a smile that did little to ease the tension.
“Weakness,” he began, his voice steady and deliberate, “is the enemy.”
The murmurs quieted as all eyes turned to him.
“Crimson Fang clings to their outdated ideals—love, loyalty, tradition. They are chains, holding them back from true greatness. And like all chains, they can be broken.”
Malrik raised the Moon Amulet high, the ancient runes on its surface flaring to life. A wave of energy rippled through the room, washing over the gathered wolves. Several staggered, clutching their heads as their eyes flickered with a dull, unnatural glow.
One wolf fell to his knees, a low growl escaping his throat. Another’s claws extended involuntarily, scraping against the stone floor as he struggled to maintain control.
Malrik’s smirk widened as he lowered the amulet. “With this,” he continued, his voice rising, “I will unshackle us from the old ways. We will create a new order—one where the strong rule, and the weak bow or perish. This is the beginning of a new age.”
A single rogue, his eyes sharp with suspicion, stepped forward. “What if we refuse?” he asked, his voice steady but laced with challenge.
The room seemed to still as Malrik’s gaze snapped to the wolf. For a moment, there was no sound but the faint hum of the amulet. Then, Malrik extended a trembling hand.
The rogue froze, his body seizing as an invisible force gripped him. His claws scraped at his skull as if trying to rip something from within, a strangled cry escaping his throat. He collapsed to the ground, trembling violently as his eyes turned glassy.
Malrik released him with a flick of his fingers, the wolf crumpling into a heap. “That,” Malrik said, his voice calm once more, “is what happens to those who defy me.”
The remaining wolves shrank back, their gazes filled with a mixture of fear and awe.
Malrik turned his back to them, his sickly frame silhouetted against the pulsing light of the amulet. “We march soon,” he declared, his voice resonating through the hall. “Crimson Fang will fall. Draven will kneel. And I will take what is mine.”
In the shadows, a rogue muttered, “He’s mad.”
Malrik smiled faintly as if he had heard. “Madness is just another word for vision,” he said to himself, his words barely above a whisper.
