In the forgotten age of the Mystical Kingdom, nestled beyond the reach of time, a serene land flourished under the protection of The Gleam. This ethereal force bathed the world in golden light, its brilliance illuminating even the darkest corners of human hearts. People lived in harmony, unaware of the shadows stirring beneath their feet.
Yet deep in the bowels of the earth, beneath the pastoral hills, a dark art festered—necrosorcery, the forbidden magic of death. It whispered among the roots of the trees, coiling around the bones of forgotten beasts. Its practitioners were few, driven mad by the craving for immortality. They sought to harness life’s final breath, to twist it into a power greater than any The Gleam could offer.
One such sorcerer, Malreth, descended into the catacombs with a purpose. He clutched a relic of power, A Golden Bough, which once belonged to the ancient kings who could speak with the dead. Legends spoke of its ability to open the door between life and death, and Malreth was determined to wield it for his own dark purpose.
But as Malreth stepped into the cold embrace of the underworld, he did not find merely restless souls awaiting his call. Instead, an ancient, forgotten force greeted him—one born of the very first slaughter. It was a Seraphic Slaughter, the massacre of angels during the kingdom's creation. Their divine blood soaked into the earth, giving rise to unspeakable horrors. Malreth now stood face to face with them, the shadows of their wings casting long silhouettes across the cavern walls.
With a twisted incantation, he raised the Golden Bough, but the angels, corrupted by their fall, tore through his defenses. Their once-pure essence had become dark and terrible. The gleam in their hollow eyes promised a fate worse than death—eternal servitude to their wrath.
As Malreth fell, pastoral impalement began. From the very earth, roots and vines, innocent and thriving above, pierced through his body in a grotesque display of nature reclaiming its own. It was not just his life that was taken but his soul, forever tethered to the undead angels he sought to control.
And so, The Gleam flickered above, casting one last spark of light on a peaceful land, unaware that beneath their feet, the dark tides of necrosorcery and Seraphic Slaughter were rising. The Mystical Kingdom stood, but its golden era was slipping away, inch by inch, into the grasp of the shadows.