Zarek enters the chamber without announcing himself.
He never has.
The great doors of obsidian and bone part at his approach, reacting to him the way living things once did instinctively, reverently, afraid. The sound echoes through the Hall of Veils, a low, groaning reverberation that silences conversation before he even crosses the threshold.
The elders rise as one.
Not because tradition demands it.
Because something older than tradition does.
Zarek moves through the chamber with unhurried steps, his presence pulling the air inward, bending attention around him like gravity. He wears no crown. No insignia of rule. His armor is dark, forged of layered metal etched with symbols that have not been spoken aloud in centuries. It fits him like a second skin, molded to a body built for war and command.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Cut from restraint and violence both.
His face is sharp in a way that feels deliberate, as though the gods other gods, lesser ones had taken their time shaping him. Dark hair falls past his shoulders, bound loosely at the nape of his neck. His eyes are a cold, luminous blue not glowing now, not radiant with divinity but still unsettling. Eyes that have watched empires kneel. Eyes that remember immortality.
Even stripped of it.
Even diminished.
He looks like a god.
And that is the most dangerous thing about him.
The elders do not meet his gaze for long.
They sit in a crescent formation around the chamber, robed in ash-gray and deep indigo, their age evident not in frailty but in stillness. These are men who have seen ages turn. Men who once advised a sovereign who could not bleed.
Now, they advise one who can.
Zarek stops at the center of the hall. He does not bow.
He inclines his head barely.
"You summoned me," he says.
His voice is calm, controlled, edged with something quiet and lethal. It carries without effort, filling the chamber like smoke.
Elder Maelor, the oldest among them, clears his throat. "We summoned our god."
A ripple of tension moves through the room.
Zarek's jaw tightens imperceptibly.
"That title," he says evenly, "is no longer accurate."
Silence answers him.
They all know it. Every soul in the Shrouded Realm knows it. The Durokan Orb is gone. Their sovereign bleeds now. He sleeps. He tires. He can be killed.
And yet
None of them dare speak to him as though he is merely a man.
Maelor studies him closely. "Power diminished does not erase what you are," the elder says. "Nor what you represent."
Zarek's gaze sharpens. "Representation does not stop decay."
A murmur ripples through the elders.
He turns slowly, gesturing toward the great open arches that overlook the realm beyond. Twilight hangs perpetually over the Shrouded Realm now its skies dimmer than they once were, its mountains quieter, its ancient structures showing fractures where none existed before.
"Look at it," Zarek says. "You feel it as I do. The realm is thinning. Our wards weaken. Our people suffer."
Another elder speaks, voice strained. "Since the Orb vanished, our rivers have dried. Our temples crumble. Entire bloodlines are fading."
"And the Hellish Realm watches," Zarek adds. "Patient. Hungry."
That lands.
Every elder shifts.
Maelor folds his hands together. "Which brings us to the purpose of this council."
At the word council, Zarek finally looks at them all directly.
"The search," Maelor continues, "has yielded nothing. Centuries of divination. Sacrifice. Espionage. And still the Orb remains lost."
"Because you are looking in the wrong places," Zarek says.
The elders exchange glances.
"The Orb did not vanish into nothing," Zarek goes on, his voice low, deliberate. "It was taken. Hidden. Bound."
A younger elder bristles. "You speculate."
"I remember," Zarek snaps, the edge in his voice finally breaking through. "I was there when it was stolen. I felt it sever. That was no mere theft it was a binding."
Maelor exhales slowly. "Even if that were true… the Lost Realms are fractured. Dangerous. Human."
Zarek's lips curve not quite a smile. "So am I now."
That unsettles them more than any display of power could have.
"I will go myself," Zarek says. "I will enter the Lost Realms under another name. Another face. I will find the Orb."
The chamber erupts.
"You cannot"
"it is suicide"
"the one who defeated you once"
Maelor rises, voice cutting through the noise. "Silence!"
The elders still.
Maelor looks at Zarek with something dangerously close to sorrow. "Whoever stripped you of the Orb once will not hesitate to finish what they began. You are no longer immortal. You are no longer untouchable."
Zarek steps closer to the elders' circle. "If I do nothing," he says quietly, "the Shrouded Realm will die regardless."
A heavy pause.
"The Hellish Realm prepares for war," Zarek continues. "Their scouts breach our borders. Their fires burn closer each year. Without the Orb, we cannot withstand another siege."
"You ask us to risk our last sovereign," Maelor says.
"I ask you to understand necessity."
Maelor's voice hardens. "And we ask you to consider the realm before your pride."
That word hangs between them.
Zarek's eyes flash.
"You mistake this for pride," he says coldly. "This is penance. And survival."
Silence stretches.
Finally, Maelor closes his eyes. "If you go… you must not be recognized."
Zarek nods once. "Then give me another skin."
The elders rise together, forming a circle around him. Their voices drop into an ancient cadence as power stirs old magic, reluctant but potent. Light gathers, weaving itself into shape, molding illusion and flesh.
A mask forms in the air human features, unfamiliar, believable.
Maelor lifts it carefully. "This will hide what you are," he says. "But it will not protect you."
Zarek meets his gaze. "I have never relied on protection."
The mask presses to his face.
Light flares.
And when it fades, Zarek is no longer entirely a god.
But the danger he carries
That remains.