The wind howled across the snow-capped peaks of the Cloud Mist Mountain Range, carrying with it the biting chill of the eternal winter that governed this region. But atop the newly restored main gate of the Frozen Cloud Asgard, the cold seemed to lose its edge, broken against the invisible, shimmering barrier that Alaric had woven into the very fabric of the atmosphere.
Alaric stood at the edge of the parapet, his black robes whipping violently around him, his hands clasped behind his back. He looked out over the vast expanse of white, his red eyes glowing with the satisfaction of a conqueror surveying his new domain. Behind him, the sect—once a blackened ruin—now stood proud and pristine, the blue crystal spires catching the sunlight and refracting it into a thousand rainbows. It was a miracle of restoration, a testament to his power as an Archmage.
But to Alaric, it was just a stage. A backdrop for the play he was directing.
