Ascension of Darkness
The chamber hummed with ancient energy, thick and oppressive, as though the walls themselves held the memories of a thousand dark rituals. Shadows twisted and curled along the floor, dancing in time with the flickering torchlight that struggled to pierce the gloom. Above, the Aetheric Currents swirled in a storm of chaotic, shifting colors—an ethereal whirlpool of raw power that pulsed with an otherworldly energy. Malindra Stormveil stood at the heart of it, her arms raised toward the vortex, her skeletal hands tracing intricate patterns through the air as she chanted in a long-forgotten tongue.
Each word she uttered seemed to resonate with the currents, drawing them closer, bending them to her will. The symbols etched into the stone floor beneath her feet glowed faintly, pulsing in rhythm with her incantation. Every syllable she spoke was weighted with intent, ancient magic thrumming in the air around her as she manipulated the very essence of the world.
On the obsidian altar before her lay relics of immense power, each one steeped in dark history. The Crown of Shadows, a blackened circlet forged in the fires of the Abyss, pulsed with a sinister light. Beside it, the Blade of Despair rested, its edge impossibly sharp, forged from the molten core of a dying star and quenched in the blood of a thousand souls. These relics were not mere symbols of power; they were conduits, amplifying the energy she was drawing from the currents, feeding her growing strength.
Malindra’s eyes gleamed with a hunger that had been years—centuries—in the making. The Aetheric Currents called to her, their chaotic beauty a reflection of the untamed power they offered. But she did not seek beauty. She sought control, dominion, the ability to reshape the world according to her will. Her body, twisted and preserved by necromantic magic, was no longer bound by the limits of mortality. With the currents, she would become something more—something far beyond even Galen’s ambitions.
"Galen," she spat, her voice a low hiss that echoed through the chamber. The name tasted bitter on her tongue. He was a fool, blinded by his desire for conquest, for control of a dying world. Galen sought to rule over the ruins of Valandor, to subjugate its people and claim the Aetheric Currents as his own. But Malindra had always seen further, had always understood the true potential of the currents. To wield them was not simply to control magic—it was to command the very fabric of existence.
"Galen lacks the vision," she murmured, her voice filled with contempt. "He craves power, but he will never ascend. His ambitions are small... mortal."
She lifted her hands higher, her voice rising as the incantation grew more intense. The swirling currents responded, pulling tighter, the colors shifting and spiraling faster as the vortex condensed. The relics on the altar pulsed in time with her words, the air growing thick with power.
"I will become more than a queen," she whispered, her eyes wide with the feverish glow of her ambition. "I will become a god."
The chamber shuddered, the very stone beneath her feet groaning under the weight of the magic she was channeling. The Aetheric Currents, untamable by even the most skilled mages, bent to her will. She could feel them coursing through her, filling the air with the promise of limitless power. Her form flickered, the magic distorting the space around her as she pulled more and more from the vortex.
But as the currents swirled tighter, an unexpected ripple coursed through the air. Malindra’s brow furrowed. For a moment, the connection faltered—something was interfering. She extended her senses, reaching out to the currents, probing for the disturbance.
And there it was.
Two presences, faint but unmistakable, moving through the currents. They were coming for her.
"Lysander," she whispered, her voice a venomous hiss. "And the druid... Branwen."
A dark smile spread across her lips as she turned her gaze toward the swirling vortex above. So they had come, thinking they could stop her. How predictable. She had expected them sooner or later. The currents had always been too tempting for fools like Lysander, too pure a force for Branwen to ignore. And now, they would meet their end in the very place where she would ascend.
"Let them come," Malindra muttered, her voice dripping with malice. "They will witness my ascension... and they will fall."
Her hands moved faster now, drawing more of the currents toward her. The symbols on the floor began to glow brighter, their light casting long shadows across the walls. The vortex above her pulsed erratically, as if sensing the impending confrontation. The relics on the altar vibrated with power, resonating with the energy coursing through the chamber.
Malindra’s thoughts drifted to the many years she had spent preparing for this moment—the countless sacrifices, the dark rituals, the forbidden knowledge she had acquired. Every step had brought her closer to this, the culmination of her life's work. Galen had been a useful ally, for a time. His ambitions had aligned with hers, but now she saw him for what he truly was: a stepping stone, a means to an end. His vision of conquest was limited, small-minded. But hers... hers was infinite.
She would transcend this world, leave behind the petty squabbles of mortals, and reshape Valandor in her image. And Lysander and Branwen would be nothing more than the final sacrifices, their lives snuffed out as she claimed the ultimate prize.
The air in the chamber grew thick, oppressive. Malindra’s magic surged, the currents bending further to her will, the vortex now a blinding swirl of colors. But the closer she came to total control, the more volatile the energy became. It was as if the currents themselves resisted her domination, pushing back even as she drew them tighter.
Her smile faded as she felt the first tremors of resistance.
"No..." she whispered, her voice laced with frustration. "I will not be denied."
The symbols on the floor flickered, and the air crackled with tension. Something was wrong. The currents, once so close to being fully under her control, now fought back, the raw energy swirling faster, harder. The walls of the chamber groaned, the stone cracking as the force of the magic intensified.
Malindra’s hands faltered for a moment, the chant catching in her throat. She could feel the presence of Lysander and Branwen drawing nearer, their connection to the currents interfering with her ritual. They were close, too close.
"They think they can stop me," she growled, her voice rising with fury. "Fools."
She raised her arms again, pouring more of her dark magic into the vortex. The chamber shook violently, the very air shimmering with power. The currents buckled under the strain, twisting and warping, their chaotic energy threatening to spiral out of control.
But Malindra was not finished. She would not allow anyone to interfere—not now, not when she was so close.
With a scream of defiance, she forced the currents back under her command, her magic flaring as she bent the swirling energy to her will once more.
The currents roared above her, the sheer force of the magic shaking the very foundations of the chamber. Malindra gritted her teeth, her skeletal fingers curling into fists as she fought to maintain control. The symbols on the floor pulsed faster now, their glow fluctuating wildly as the ritual reached its peak.
Sweat, or something like it, beaded on Malindra’s gaunt face, glistening in the dim torchlight. Her body, long preserved by necromantic rituals, strained under the immense pressure of the Aetheric Currents. Every fiber of her being felt stretched, taut, as if she were on the verge of tearing apart. But the pain only fueled her determination. She had come too far—sacrificed too much—to be stopped now.
The air around her crackled with malevolent energy, thick with the dark magic she had been weaving for centuries. She could feel the power coursing through her veins, the currents responding to her command even as they resisted, as if the very fabric of reality was bending and shifting at her will. But still, something fought back, some deeper force within the currents pushing against her, refusing to be fully tamed.
Her vision blurred for a moment, the world around her warping and twisting as the currents struggled against her control. She blinked rapidly, forcing her focus to return, her lips curling into a snarl of frustration.
"I will not fail!" she hissed, her voice carrying the weight of a thousand years of ambition.
Her hands moved in rapid, practiced gestures, the ancient incantation flowing from her lips like a river of molten power. The dark magic responded to her call, the currents pulling tighter, closer, as she bent them to her will. The relics on the altar pulsed in time with her magic, feeding her, strengthening her as she drew on their power.
And yet, despite her control, a sense of unease gnawed at the edges of her mind. Lysander and Branwen were drawing nearer, their presence a beacon of light in the darkness she had created. She could feel their magic, their connection to the currents, pulling against her like a counterforce. They were not powerful enough to stop her—not yet—but their interference was enough to disrupt the delicate balance of the ritual.
"Fools," she muttered under her breath, her voice trembling with barely suppressed rage. "They think they can stop me."
She could feel the room growing hotter, the currents swirling faster, more violently, as if they, too, sensed the coming confrontation. The walls seemed to pulse with the same energy that coursed through her, the very stone vibrating with the force of the magic she had summoned. The room was no longer a mere chamber—it had become a nexus of power, a place where the boundaries between the physical world and the realm of pure magic had begun to blur.
Malindra closed her eyes for a moment, letting the power wash over her. She could feel it flowing through her, filling her with strength, with purpose. This was the moment she had been waiting for—the moment when she would transcend mortality, when she would become something greater than any mortal could comprehend. She would be a god.
With a sudden movement, Malindra raised her arms high above her head, the currents swirling around her in a tempest of raw power. The symbols on the floor glowed brighter than ever, their light almost blinding in the dim chamber. The relics on the altar vibrated violently, their dark energy feeding into the vortex of power above her.
The currents were hers. She could feel them bending, finally giving way to her will. The resistance she had felt earlier was fading, the forces of nature and magic finally bowing before her might.
But just as she was about to seize full control, a ripple of energy shot through the room, and Malindra’s eyes snapped open in fury. The disturbance in the currents had grown stronger, more pronounced. They were here.
Lysander and Branwen had arrived.
Her lips twisted into a cruel smile as she turned toward the entrance of the chamber, her eyes glowing with malice. She could feel their presence now, like a distant storm approaching on the horizon, their combined magic cutting through the oppressive darkness of her domain.
"So, they’ve come," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the roar of the currents. "Good. Let them witness my ascension."
The ground beneath her feet trembled as she drew even more power from the currents, the vortex above her crackling with energy. She would crush them—these insects who dared to challenge her—and then she would claim the power that was rightfully hers.
With a flick of her wrist, Malindra sent a surge of dark magic rippling through the chamber, the air shimmering with malevolent energy. The currents responded instantly, bending to her will, the vortex above her expanding as it drew in even more of the raw, untamed power of the Aetheric Currents.
"Come then," she murmured, her voice filled with anticipation. "Come and meet your end."
The walls of the chamber groaned under the pressure, the symbols on the floor flickering as the forces of light and darkness collided. Malindra could feel the approach of Lysander and Branwen now, their presence growing stronger with each passing moment. They were close—so close—but they would never make it in time.
She would complete the ritual. She would ascend. And nothing—no one—would stop her.
