Before the Throne of Shadow, Khamûl and Akeno knelt.
The hall lay in solemn half-light, illuminated only by the shifting reflections of a sickly green fire that seemed to burn by the will of its master alone. The air was heavy, saturated with an invisible pressure that crushed the soul more surely than any battlefield.
The Second of the Nazgûl had fulfilled his mission.
The Witch-king of Angmar now walked once more among mortals.
"Khamûl," Sauron said in a calm, almost gentle voice, "since your return to this world, you have carried out every task with irreproachable zeal. Few of my servants can claim as much. For this reason… I grant you a reward."
Khamûl bowed more deeply, his helm nearly brushing the floor.
"It is unnecessary, my lord. To see your designs take shape is reward enough to fill my existence."
A soft laugh rose from the throne.
"My dear servant," Sauron replied with a knowing smile. "Do you forget that I know each of your doubts, each of your regrets… and each of your desires? You can hide nothing from me."
The wraith shuddered despite himself.
He feared neither king, nor god, nor death itself.But Sauron…
"Be at ease," the Dark Lord continued. "Your loyalty has never escaped me. And it is precisely for that reason you will be pleased to hear this: I have found your descendants."
The world seemed to waver around Khamûl.
Countless ages had passed since he had walked the earth as a man. He had seen kingdoms rise and fall, peoples vanish, bloodlines fade into oblivion. Never had he imagined that his blood had endured.
"That is… impossible…" he murmured.
"And yet," Sauron replied. "Over the last two centuries, they have rebuilt a kingdom. A prosperous, proud nation, upon the continent of Ishgar. The Kingdom of Pergrande."
He paused, savoring the weight of his words.
"Consider this revelation a reward. But also a mission. Subjugate them to my authority. Remind them to whom they owe their very existence."
The unseen eyes of Khamûl burned behind his helm.
"You may take two of your brothers with you," Sauron concluded. "But you have only seven days."
"I humbly thank you for this honor, my lord," Khamûl answered without hesitation. "I give you my word: the lands of the East shall once more glorify your name."
He rose, filled with a vigor he had not felt in centuries, and left the hall without looking back.
Throughout the exchange, Akeno had remained motionless, kneeling, her head bowed. She dared to speak only once the Nazgûl had departed.
"My herald," Sauron said at last. "Do you know why I allowed you to witness this exchange?"
"I… no, my lord."
"Two reasons."
He rose slowly from his throne.
"First: you must learn how to rule your subordinates. They will watch for the slightest weakness. The smallest doubt. You must show them why they should fear you as much as they respect you."
Akeno nodded in silence. She had seen with her own eyes the cruelty of the Uruks, the brutality of her master's legions, and knew that only unyielding authority could keep them united.
"The second," Sauron continued, "is that upon Khamûl's return, Angmar and all the Nazgûl will accompany you. The mission that brought you to me… truly begins now."
Akeno's heart began to race.
"Then… the time has come?"
"War stands at our doorstep," Sauron replied. "The usurper and the White Council will ravage the elemental nations in a conflict they believe decisive. But it is only a prelude. A diversion. While they exhaust themselves, we will prepare the assault against the High Heavens themselves."
A cold, immaterial hand gently lifted Akeno's chin.
Her eyes met her master's.
He read her hesitation before she could speak.
"You doubt," Sauron murmured almost tenderly. "You fear that freeing the fragments of my soul will doom all of Arda."
She looked away.
"I know my methods are cruel," he continued. "But understand this: my ambition reaches far beyond a mere throne."
"What do you mean…?" she asked hesitantly.
An amused glimmer passed through the shadow of his face.
"One day, you will understand. But remember this: if my designs truly threatened the existence of Arda… Eru Ilúvatar would have erased me from this world long ago."
Those words were enough to soothe her doubts.
After all, he alone was capable of returning what she had lost.
"My lord," she said at last, "allow me to withdraw and meditate upon your teachings."
"Do so," Sauron replied. "Tomorrow, go to Angmar. It is time your kind served our interests."
Akeno withdrew.
Left alone once more, Sauron turned his gaze toward a coffin concealed in the shadows of the hall. Within lay a young elf woman with black hair, unmoving, locked in an artificial sleep.
A relic of another age.
A key, one whose existence would be revealed at the critical moment when the Valar sought to intervene.
"Melkor was right," he thought. "Only war, and an iron hand, can bring unity to this world."
Pergrande, Kingdom of the East
Point of View: Hamir ibn-Khazân, King of Pergrande
I was standing on the balcony of the royal palace, overlooking the city of Araz-Khal, jewel of Pergrande, when the bells rang.
Not the bells of ceremony.Not the bells of celebration.
The bells of alarm.
The city stretched beneath my gaze like a living testament to our heritage. Ochre stone domes, slender towers carved with solar and stellar motifs, monumental arches reminiscent of the ancient cities of the East. The markets overflowed with purple and saffron fabrics, gold-embroidered silks, leather etched with symbols few could still read. Our soldiers wore dark lamellar armor, their cloaks dyed deep red and black—colors inherited from another age.
We were the descendants of Rhûn.We had never forgotten.
"Your Majesty!" an officer cried as he burst onto the terrace. "Three riders have crossed the eastern border. No banners. No messengers. They are advancing straight toward the capital."
I frowned.
"Three men do not warrant a general alarm."
The officer swallowed.
"They are not… ordinary men."
I had no time to question him further.
The ground vibrated.
A tremor ran through the air, as though the world itself were holding its breath. Then the clouds darkened above the city, slowly swirling into a baleful ring over the palace. Horses screamed in panic from the stables.
And then… I saw them.
Three figures emerged in the sky above the grand royal avenue.
Their arrival was heralded not by trumpets nor by shouts, but by a massive shadow that swallowed the daylight. Their mounts were winged, serpentine creatures—long and sinuous, their bodies covered in obsidian-black scales. Vast membranous wings beat the air slowly, rhythmically, stirring gusts that made banners and balconies shudder.
Their elongated heads recalled those of ancient dragons, but without majesty—only a more primal, visceral terror. Their eyes glowed with cold, predatory intelligence, and dark mist dripped from their fangs, evaporating before it touched the ground. As they descended, their coiling bodies wrapped partially around the columns of the avenue, splitting stone as if it were soft flesh.
Two of the riders remained in the air, hovering behind the first, their mounts beating their wings to hold position at the palace's height. They were motionless, silent—funerary statues animated by an alien will. They observed neither the terrified crowd nor the frozen ranks of soldiers. Their presence alone smothered any thought of resistance.
The third… advanced.
His mount descended lower than the others, gliding along the axis of the royal avenue like a sacred serpent approaching an altar. With every undulation of its body, the ancient paving stones cracked, unable to bear the weight of a being from another age. When it finally landed, its massive form coiled around the central square, towering over all within it.
The rider wore ancient armor, forged from matte black metal that reflected no light—as if illumination itself were devoured upon contact. Forgotten runes, deeply etched into the plates, pulsed with a dark glow, evoking a language the world had tried to erase… and never could.
His tapered helm resembled a crown of war—a cruel parody of royal diadems, bristling with spikes and jagged lines. No flesh was visible. No trace of humanity remained beneath that armor. And yet… something within him resonated with my blood.
In his hand rested a colossal hammer, a weapon of archaic brutality. Its massive head was ringed with ancient engravings, and at its center shone a symbol my heart recognized before my mind dared to accept it.
The Black Sun of Rhûn.
My breath broke. My legs weakened, as though the weight of countless generations had suddenly fallen upon me.
"By the Ancients…" I whispered, my voice cracking.
Around me, the reaction was immediate. Generals paled, some stepping back instinctively, others gripping their weapons without daring to raise them. Priests stumbled, murmuring prayers no god seemed willing to hear. Mages halted their incantations; magic circles flickered out, glyphs dissolved, spells turning to ash before sacred fire.
Magic… refused to act.
The monumental palace doors were reached.
There was no explosion.No violent impact.
They were pushed.
Not shattered.Pushed.
Doors built to withstand siege engines opened with a long groan, as if the palace itself recognized those who entered… or remembered them.
The three riders entered the throne hall, their serpentine mounts partially coiling around columns and arches, looming over the sacred space.
I stepped forward.
I was twenty-four years old. King for barely three years. I had sworn to protect Pergrande—its people, its legacy. And yet, before this being, I felt like a child gripping a sword too heavy for him.
"Strangers," I said, forcing my voice to remain steady, "you stand within the royal palace of Pergrande. Declare your identity, or leave at once."
The rider with the hammer slowly lifted his head.
And spoke.
His voice was neither loud nor shrill. It resonated directly in the chest, heavy with centuries, laden with command and death.
"I am Khamûl.Second of the Nine.Lord of the East."
A murmur of terror swept through the hall.
The Nine.The legends.The wraith-kings.
I clenched my fists.
"Even if that were true," I replied, "Pergrande is a sovereign kingdom. You hold no authority here."
Khamûl dismounted.
Each step he took toward me seemed to age the stone beneath his feet.
"You are mistaken, child-king. This land was mine long before your throne existed."
He raised his hammer.
The engravings ignited with a dark crimson glow.
"Do you recognize this?"
He did not need to explain.
I had seen it in the chronicles. In the bas-reliefs of the ancient temple. In the forbidden texts read only by kings at their coronation.
"Th-the Hammer of Khâ-Mor…" I breathed."The Hammer of the First King of the East…"
Khamûl inclined his head slightly.
"My hammer.The original royal symbol.The proof of my inheritance."
A crushing silence fell upon the hall.
"I am your ancestor, Hamir ibn-Khazân.Your blood is my blood."
I staggered back a step, breathless.
"That's impossible… The chronicles say the First King died during the Great Betrayal—"
A dry laugh echoed from beneath the helm.
"The chronicles lie. I did not perish. I was exalted. And today… I return to claim what is mine."
In desperation, I gestured to my guards.
"To me! Protect the king!"
They charged.
They were brave. Loyal. Trained since childhood.
They never stood a chance.
The two Nazgûl behind him merely raised a hand.
A wave of darkness swept through the hall. Soldiers were hurled against the walls, their weapons rusting in an instant, their screams smothered by primal terror. Some collapsed sobbing. Others died without visible wounds, hearts shattered by fear alone.
Khamûl approached me.
"I have no need to destroy Pergrande. I have come to reclaim it."
He drove his hammer into the floor.
The stone split, revealing a red glow that spread like incandescent veins beneath the palace… then throughout the city.
I felt something awaken.
In the blood.In the earth.In the legacy.
"Your people will remember," he said. "They will remember who they truly are."
I fell to my knees.
Out of fear.Out of understanding.
The bells rang again.
But this time… it was no alarm.
It was a summons.
"Rule at my side," Khamûl concluded, "or be the last king of a forgotten realm."
I looked up at him.
The fate of Pergrande had just been sealed.
And with painful clarity, I understood that the East had never truly ceased to belong to the Darkness.