Xal'dar's Army
The shadows writhed and pulsed, a living tapestry reflecting the turmoil within Xal'dar. Back in his throne room, in the shadow realm, he seethed with frustration. His defeat still chafed. The source of creation, the cornerstone of his planned dominance, was never acquired. Yet, a flicker of twisted ambition remained.
He clutched the scepter, a grotesque parody of power forged from stolen ether and infused with the last vestiges of El's stolen power. It pulsed with a sickly green luminescence, a testament to the dark magic that bound it. With this, Xal'dar wouldn't just control shadows, he'd sculpt them, bend them to his will.
A guttural growl escaped his throat, echoing through the cavern. "They will pay," he rasped, his voice a harsh whisper that sent shivers down the spines of the shadowy creatures flanking his throne. These were his advisors, his generals – wraiths with eyes like dying embers and whispers of forgotten names.