Warlock

While Nimrod lay in deep sleep, his body began its silent work. The wounds he had suffered began to seal and close at a rate far beyond that of any ordinary human. Flesh knit itself, bruises faded, and even the deepest cuts appeared to recede, leaving only faint, pale scars. Had any passerby glanced in through the half-closed window, they might have thought it was the work of sorcery. But Nimrod slept on, and the secrets of his healing remained his own.

Across the kingdom, in the heart of the wizard council's high fortress, two wizards sat before a glowing bowl. They had each sensed a disturbance that stirred the winds at dawn, and neither would rest until the matter was resolved. The elder of the two extended his wrinkled fingers, summoning his focus. As he chanted under his breath, the bowl's soft light began to take on a shape, growing sharper until the faintest features of an ancient face emerged: hollowed cheeks, eyes like embers, and a beard that seemed woven of mist and flame. This was Warlock Magma, the lore leader of the wizard council and one of the most powerful figures in the Five Kingdoms—a figure who answered to none save the king himself.

With a gruff voice crackling through the magic, Warlock Magma addressed them, his irritation clear. "Who dares disturb my work at this hour?" His voice had the sharpness of flint, the tone of a man who loathed interruption.

The two wizards exchanged uneasy glances before the eldest spoke, his voice quivering slightly under Magma's gaze. "Honored Warlock Magma, forgive us, but we bear grave news."

"Oh, do you?" Magma's eyes narrowed, clearly unimpressed. "Get on with it, then. Speak your piece."

The wizard bowed his head, choosing his words carefully. "At dawn, we sensed a presence—an energy we have not felt in many years. It was… the old blood. There is one among us, in the Sun Kingdom, who bears the blood of the ancient line."

Magma's eyebrows raised, his face softening, but only by a margin. "Is that all?" he asked, his voice still dry but edged with newfound interest.

The wizard hesitated. He cast a wary glance at his companion, who nodded, then said, "No, Lore Leader, that is not all. In the wind, we caught the unmistakable scent of a wraith."

The words had scarcely left his lips when Magma's expression changed, the irritation fading into shock. His beard quivered, and his hand rose instinctively to his mustache, stroking it as his mind began to race. "You are certain?" he asked, his voice low and grave.

"We would not mistake it, Lore Leader," the wizard affirmed. "The scent was clear in the morning air."

Warlock Magma's hand fell away from his mustache as he considered this news. Then, with a wave of his hand, the bowl's light blazed white, and a magical pulse emanated from it, fanning outward in waves across the kingdom. In every tower, every hall, and every secret chamber of magic within the Sun Kingdom, wizards would feel this call, bidding them to convene. The council would gather, and swiftly.

Yet Magma's mind was not at ease. He let out a long, troubled sigh as he gazed around his chamber, where objects floated in a constant hum of arcane energy. His study was a labyrinth of scrolls, ancient texts, and enchanted relics, all suspended in midair as though weightless. Everything about the room hinted at power—and chaos.

As he mulled over the news, his thoughts darkened. The wraiths… Could their return signal the approach of the fabled End of Time? Was the prophecy finally unfolding? He had not dared to believe such a day would come within his lifetime. Perhaps it was time to consult the king. But first, he needed someone who could face whatever dark force had unleashed a wraith upon the land.

His gaze shifted toward the door, and with a flick of his wrist, he summoned a fiery sigil that flashed briefly before vanishing. He had called for Prince Drighter, the formidable wardlock and brother to the Sun King.

Moments later, the sound of crackling magic filled the chamber as Prince Drighter arrived, his presence unmistakable. Fire danced across his back, casting flickering shadows upon the walls, and with each step, a brief flame sprang up beneath his feet, dying as quickly as it came. His gait was controlled, his posture rigid, the embodiment of deadly precision and practiced restraint.

"Ah, Drighter," Magma said, allowing himself a wry smile. "Still leaving burn marks everywhere you go, I see. I used to think it was a lack of control… but now I think you rather enjoy the spectacle." His tone was light, but beneath it lay respect; he knew better than anyone that the prince's command of magic was unparalleled, as finely tuned as the floating relics around them.

Drighter gave a curt nod, his face as unyielding as ever. "What do you require of me, Lore Leader?"

Magma's humor faded as he related the morning's events. "There was an encounter on the eastern outskirts. The scent of a wraith was in the wind. Tell me, Drighter—when was the last time you caught the scent of one of those cursed beings?"

Drighter's face tightened, and he remained silent, his gaze darkening. After a pause, he said, "It has been many years, Lore Leader."

Magma nodded. "Indeed. That is why I suspect something… unsettling. Either a kingdom has ventured into forbidden magic, or we are dealing with a rogue dark mage whose power exceeds anything we have encountered."

Drighter's fists clenched. "You want me to investigate?"

"Yes. But take care," Magma warned, "there are forces in play here that could threaten even you." He fell silent for a moment, as though weighing his next words, then added, "There is more. The old blood is in the wind. One of the ancient line is near."

Drighter's face showed a flicker of surprise, but his control returned swiftly. "You are certain of this?" he asked, his tone almost skeptical.

Magma nodded. "I am, Drighter. This blood is no mere legacy. It carries the weight of the ancient line—one of royal descent, though from where, I cannot say."

Drighter's eyes darkened, and he pondered in silence, the lines of his face unreadable. A royalty… someone of the ancient bloodline. His thoughts drifted to figures he had heard of only in legend, warriors and kings of old whose names still whispered through history.

Magma, watching him closely, softened his voice. "Perhaps there is some connection between this old blood and the wraiths. Either way, the council must know. And if the ancient line has returned, we cannot leave its power unchecked."

Drighter nodded. "I will seek this figure of ancient blood. And if he is somehow tied to the wraith, I will see to it."

With that, he turned, but before he could take a step, Magma called out, "And remember, Drighter—there is strength in restraint, not just in flame."

Drighter inclined his head, his expression unwavering, yet Magma noted the faintest hint of something in the prince's eyes: a trace of acknowledgment, perhaps, or of understanding. And with that, Drighter strode from the chamber, his figure blazing for a moment as the fiery sigils of magic trailed in his wake.

Warlock Magma watched him go, the weight of his years pressing upon him. Whatever lay ahead, he knew that the fate of the kingdom—perhaps even the world—rested upon the shoulders of a few. He only hoped they were prepared for what awaited.

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