The silence that had defined the Kingdom of Doom for over half a decade was not a peaceful one; it was a stagnant, suffocating rot. For six years, Eryx and Theon had existed in a state of suspended animation, their power coiled and restless, their hearts hardened by the belief that their lineage had ended in a forest grave. They ruled with a cold, mechanical efficiency, but the fire had gone out of their eyes.
That changed on a Tuesday afternoon when a low-level scout, a creature of shadow and twitching nerves named Skar, practically fell through the throne room doors. He was gasping, his dark ichor staining the floor as he scrambled toward the dais where the two lords sat in their perpetual gloom.
“My Lords!” Skar shrieked, his voice cracking with a mixture of terror and frantic excitem
