The Great Hall of zhalver was a place where light came to die. High above, the vaulted ceiling was lost in shadows, supported by pillars carved in the likeness of weeping demons. Instead of torches, the hall was lit by basins of "Ever-Flame"—a magical, violet fire that burned without wood, casting an eerie, cold glow over the hundreds of generals and lords gathered in the room.
At the far end, atop a staircase made of the skulls of fallen kings, sat Draeven Zareth.
He was a giant of a man, his skin as pale as marble and his hair a shock of bone-white. He wore no crown; instead, two jagged horns of black diamond grew directly from his temples, a mark of his corrupted ancient blood. His eyes were not eyes at all, but two glowing embers of pure malice.
The heavy iron doors of the hall shrieked open.
A collective gasp rippled through the court as Malakor Zareth staggered in. The lords, dressed in silk and fur, recoiled at the sight of the Prince. He looked like a beggar, a ghost, a failure.
Malakor walked past his father's generals, his boots leaving trails of black Abyss-dust on the polished floor. He reached the base of the skull-throne and collapsed to his knees, his forehead touching the cold stone.
"Speak," Draeven's voice boomed. It wasn't a human voice; it was the sound of mountains grinding together. "Did you pass the Zarethian Trial? And where is your brother, the Prince of Zhalver?"
The silence that followed was suffocating. Malakor did not look up. "Vane... Vane is dead, My King. The shadows took him. I am all that remains."
Draeven did not flinch. He did not cry. Instead, the violet flames in the basins flared up, turning a violent shade of crimson. The air in the room became heavy, making it hard for the lords to breathe.
"My son is dead," Draeven whispered, and the whisper was more terrifying than a scream. "And the trial? Who holds the power of the Zarethian blood?"
Malakor's voice trembled. "I failed, Father. But... the son of Aetheron survived. Azeal has passed the Zarethian Trial. He has conquered the Shadow Abyss. He returns to claim the Seven Kingdoms."
At the mention of Aetheron's son, Draeven stood up. The ground beneath the throne cracked.
"He lives?" Draeven's roar shook the very foundations of the citadel."I waited for so many years! I killed Aetheron's father, King Eldric! I burned cities! I slaughtered thousands so that one day the throne would belong to Zhalver! And you tell me a boy—a mere boy—has walked through the Abyss and taken what is mine?"
Draeven descended the stairs, his heavy cloak of raven feathers trailing behind him. He stopped in front of Malakor and grabbed his son's chin, forcing him to look into his burning eyes.
"Vane died for nothing," Draeven hissed. "You returned with nothing but a warning. You are not a Prince; you are a messenger of my failure."
He threw Malakor aside like a piece of trash and turned to his High General.
"Prepare for war." Draeven commanded, his voice reaching every corner of the kingdom.
"Send a message to all the kingdoms.I will not let Aetheron's son, Azeal Vaeltheron, become the King of the Seven Kingdoms—even if he has passed the Zarethian Trial.
Those who stand with me should begin preparing for war."
He sent a message to Xeraphyn, Mordaen, and Tharzakir.
Draeven looked toward the dark horizon, where the mist of the Abyss was still visible.
"Game of Thrones has ended," he muttered to himself. "Now, the War of the End begins. I will turn the Seven Kingdoms into a graveyard before I let a 'King' sit on that throne again."