The Veil of the Umbral Sovereign
Night draped itself across the city of Ebonreach like a velvet cloak, swallowing light, sound, and secrets with equal appetite. To most, the shadows meant danger. To a chosen few, they meant purpose. And to one boy—though calling him only a boy would be a disservice—they were a stage.
His name, to the world, was Lorian Vale: unremarkable, polite, the kind of young man who gladly held doors open and quietly passed unnoticed in crowds. But beneath that veneer lay the persona he had crafted with obsessive precision:
The Umbral Sovereign.
He wasn't acknowledged by the world. Not yet. That was fine. Sovereigns did not demand recognition—they orchestrated it.
Every night, Lorian honed the arts no one else cared to understand: the whisper of cloth against stone when moving at impossible speeds; the silent strike of a blade that existed only to threaten but rarely to kill; the subtle dance of presence and absence. To him, life was a script, and he was both the ghost and the puppeteer.
He knelt atop the cathedral spire, black coat fluttering around him like wings of broken night.
"Tonight," he murmured, "the curtain rises."
A soft rustle answered him.
From the shadows beneath the gargoyle's arch, a girl emerged. She wore a dark mantle whose layers shimmered like midnight water. Her violet eyes glowed faintly.
"Master Sovereign," she whispered. "The Crimson Shroud has resurfaced."
Lorian tilted his head just enough to acknowledge her. Seren—the first of the Seven Duskwalkers, a group he may or may not have intended to be real when he invented them. But they had become very real indeed.
"What have they taken?" he asked, voice smooth, oblivious to the thrill running through Seren at being addressed.
"A relic," she said. "The Heartshard Sigil. They intend to awaken it at the old catacombs."
So they had moved faster than expected. Perfect.
"Summon the others. Tonight, we descend."
Seren vanished into smoke.
The catacombs beneath Ebonreach smelled of dust, ancient grief, and long-dead whispers. Lanterns flickered against moss-eaten walls as cloaked figures chanted in a harsh, guttural tongue. Their leader, a man whose mouth twisted like a broken hook, lifted the crimson-etched relic above his head.
"The Sigil stirs," he hissed. "And with it, the old power awak—"
A chill cut his words in half.
Lanterns extinguished themselves without a sound. A single droplet of water echoed across stone—slow, deliberate, like a heartbeat.
Then a voice rolled through the dark.
"You play with forces you neither understand nor deserve."
The Crimson Shroud members flinched. One raised his torch; its flame sputtered, then died again as though terrified.
A cloaked silhouette materialized at the far end of the chamber, walking slowly, arrogantly, as if the very darkness parted for him.
The Umbral Sovereign.
Lorian had rehearsed that entrance a dozen times on rooftops and alleyways. Seeing it land with such impact was deeply satisfying.
"W-Who are you!?" the hooked-mouthed leader spat.
"A shadow," Lorian said. "One that answers when darkness is misused."
He lifted a hand. From the ceiling, from the cracks in the walls, from the corners no human eyes could reach, six figures descended, their footsteps making not even the whisper of sound.
The Six Duskwalkers surrounded the cult.
Seren stepped forward. "The Sovereign has given you one chance. Surrender."
But of course they wouldn't.
They screamed battle cries, raising blades, daggers, rusted relics.
Perfect.
Lorian lifted his arm; the Duskwalkers moved like a single breath of wind. Seren flicked her fingers—needles slipped into the leader's hand, disarming him. Another Duskwalker struck with a staff that produced a pulse of violet energy, knocking two enemies back. A third spun upward and kicked a lantern, showering sparks that spelled panic in the cult's ranks.
Lorian, meanwhile, walked forward at a calm, absolutely infuriating pace.
He didn't need to fight.
The Sovereign ended battles by existing in them.
But as fate often enjoys improvisation, one cultist—braver or stupider than the rest—lunged at him with a jagged blade.
"Master!" Seren called.
Lorian didn't look.
He could have dodged. He could have countered. But the theatrics demanded something else.
The blade stopped a breath from his chest.
Because Lorian had raised two fingers and caught it between them.
Silence.
Gasps.
Someone dropped their weapon.
Lorian tilted his head lazily. "Reconsider."
The cultist fainted.
Within minutes, the Crimson Shroud was subdued. The Duskwalkers bound them with spectral cords. Only the leader remained conscious, glaring venom.
"You meddle in matters beyond your sight," he spat. "The Sigil is only the beginning. The Obsidian Crown is awakening. You cannot stop what comes."
Lorian paused.
The Obsidian Crown?
He had absolutely made that phrase up months ago during one of his dramatic monologues while practicing in front of a mirror.
That meant…
They believed it was real.
He almost laughed.
But Sovereigns did not laugh. Sovereigns brooded.
He stepped closer, letting his presence fall upon the man like a collapsing star.
"Then pray the Crown is not disappointed in you," he murmured.
The leader trembled. "Y-You know of it…"
"I know," Lorian said, lowering his voice to a whisper designed to haunt dreams, "everything."
He absolutely did not. But they didn't need to know that.
Seren retrieved the Heartshard Sigil and knelt. "What are your orders, my Sovereign?"
Orders.
A simple word, but one that fueled the story he'd been crafting for years.
"We follow this thread," he said. "If the Crown stirs, we must move in shadows deeper still."
The Duskwalkers bowed in unison.
As they escorted the cultists out, Lorian looked at the Sigil glowing faintly in Seren's hands. Its pulse beat like a living heart—ominous, ancient, very real.
Lorian blinked.
He had assumed the cult was delusional.
Now he wasn't sure.
Had his theatrics… stumbled into something genuine?
He smiled beneath his hood.
Excellent.
Even better if reality wanted to play along.
He vanished into the darkness, cloak billowing like a curtain falling at the end of a scene.
The Umbral Sovereign did not merely exist within shadows—
He authored them.
And a new chapter was beginning.
End of Chapter 1
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