Upon four peaks with seats, there were figures upon each chair. These beings had entered the session as manifestations rather than as their physical forms. Yet their presence manifested, no less powerful than the original body. During past ages when Lilith laid dormant, it was also by projecting a likeness of herself she had shown attendance.
They were as noble as Lilith, entities of like stature, yet all of them now stood, slightly bowing toward Lilith in greeting, an act not one of subjugation but reverence — thankfulness rather than tribute.
Through their gratitude, the dark gathered in awe: it was she — Lilith the Nightbringer and Sovereign Eternal — who had awakened from the slumber too deep for any ordinary dream, who stood as bulwark to keep at bay the Celestial Haunt.
Only through that sacrifice were over a dozen shards of Primordia’s essence claimed; in time, these would allow more than an equal number of lords to rise, nobles equaling Dukes by force in might, each bearing dominion like living siege engines, or the power level thereof.
Once Lilith settled herself on the high throne, then only did the lords of the council dare descend to their own seats of power: thus was called into motion this session of the Eclipse Chamber.
Among the peaks numbered seven, four bore thrones belonging to elder bloodlines — Vampire Sovereigns,魔裔 (Mayi, descendants of恶魔 (Malign Spirits)), Spiderkin Wyrms and Wolfblood Chieftains — the present Pillars of Black Dominion. Though now came a moment of hush: where it was once the Wolfclan Chieftain who occupied throne-right, now only vacancy stared from polished onyx thorns — a declaration neither of absence nor defiance, simply an unspoken truth: since their previous Alpha fell into obscurity long forgotten ages earlier, no Wolfblood King arose worthy to claim the seat among these Eternal Thrones.
Thus convened the Session of Shadows.
To begin, they addressed lingering questions after the war: within the battlefield’s ruins yawned a bottomless abyss now named ‘Leviathan’s Sleep’ — after probing this region for countless days, the chambered consensus deemed it the second ossuarium of a voidborne colossous. Beyond its swirling threshold ‘The Prism Tempests’ lay a maze of ancient pillars that wound beyond time.
A second communiqué arrived: Lin Xitang, Prime Warlord of Man’s Dominion — together with Oracle Weebo, foreseer to the Council of Perpetual Eclipse, each sought to fathom “Leviathan’s Dream.” Yet both attempts failed, yielding to nothingness their visions.
Even yet came the report; a secret so guarded its very discovery would’ve ended spies by sunrise. According to intercepted correspondence, Lin Xitang departed that selfsame evening, unseen by eyes, his ship already halfway to the Dominion homeland.
Rumoured reason was familiar: “a recurring wound from past conflicts”. This caused rumbles of debate instantly spreading across every tier of the assembly.
Most among this chamber doubted the pretext as hollow.
Certainly, they all agreed: Empire knows truths it hides behind its silence — secrets it fears even we should learn.
Subsequent reports further deepened this speculation: within Qin Imperial dominions, signs of unusual activity emerged in the capital. Although Lin Xitang’s personal location remained undetermined, the first unusual occurrence began in Capital City. Its source: a strange gathering of a hundred and eight Skyreader sages suddenly summoned by Royal Edict — all were to take up residence within the palace’s inner sancta, forbidden to depart; soon thereafter, units from the Emperor’s Imperial Bodyguard began wide arrests of death-bound alien captives across frontier provinces from surrounding states.
Such actions were masked by public claims this assembly would prepare for the Empire’s once-in-three-year Great Sacrificial Rite Ceremony, held every sol of equinox. However even fools recognized this pretext — for any who saw this ritual’s nature: preparation for the most powerful form of Dominion Magic known as “The Rite of Apotheosis” had begun. In essence: Blood Transfiguration upon celestial scales.
After days of arguments that burned with inferno fury through dark corridors of power, resolutions were finally cast and sealed:
First — Weebo shall be assigned to pursue his divinations until the truth was unraveled. Additionally, multiple experts from various breeds, all noted for their prowess in magical foresight, shall join to peer upon “The Slumbering Titanic Graveyard”.
Then — The Chamber of Eternal Conclave broke its enforced neutrality: it issued the sacred decree, “To strike, we must claim dominion over ‘Leviathan’s Nescient Maw’; all Man’s Dominion champions present within that sacred zone must be expelled by superior military presence and blood-bound territorial rites.”
The Nightborne Empress seated herself in the Sovereign Spire, eyes glowing the endless red akin oceans drowned eternally in scarlet tempest — a churning sea of blood without horizon.
As discussion surged beneath her — matters that could shake worlds and even herald new total war — to this sovereign they remained dust. Even as matters of Primordial Shatter-essence or the rise of new Dukedoms through blood, she neither moved, blinked, nor even stirred the breath of thought.
Then — while the chamber devolved into quarrels, bartering of secrets both whispered beneath breath and sealed by magic — suddenly, she spoke.
“…I require two additional shards.”
Her command fell with the crack of thunder; silence spread across the hall’s infinite halls.
Promptly and in perfect synchrony arose the High Arbiter: Grand Seer Xelvar the Twilight Elder.
Bowing lowly and with full majesterial deference he answered thus, “…by the will of the Empress Eternal, as her breath commands… thus shall fate be restructured.”
Then arose his pale gauntleted hand, sweeping twin fragments from all considerations as if unexisting. No record, no history of such fragments would remain.
He then, continuing onward with the mundane affairs of allocation between the Clans, dismissed from discussion what to most present represented vast tectonic shifts worth centuries in shaping their futures. Yet for the willful, no argument raised; none would counter what no shadow dared oppose. Such was the manner things unfolded…
As the debate resumed, tensions climbed higher.
Yet to all this turmoil, the Empress offered only absence — a silence so immense that in moments between heartbeats she no longer perceived this chamber, nor felt the tremble of ancient truths. Through her will, consciousness stretched vast across leagues of abyss, crossing void oceans to reach the Deep Realms.
In particular — an ancient castle belonging to the House of Sablekind.
There sat within a chamber of grand dimensions a certain noble figure: Hubris — reclines, his chair massive enough to serve a lesser king; from a tall glasspane behind him he watches the starwashed eternal dark.
At the sudden ripple, he stirs gently — standing up from his velvet seat in smoothness, a gentleman of the old era.
Bowing with elegance to a random spot within that dark room he greets solemnly.
“…We are honored, Great Queen.”
Out from nothing solidified the shadow of a black-attired, black-haired woman of indeterminate age—her very presence rippled across magic frequencies like thunder.
When she lifted her hand lightly—this was a gesture indicating equality.
Not just an apparition — though it was but Her Majesty’s Phantom Projection that arrived, in that gesture and ritual it was complete; it confirmed second-born ancestors’ acceptance, formal recognition of this noble scion as worthy scintilla — thus sealed it, her anointment of him.
The entire meeting lasted merely minutes.
Yet between their mutual wills no lesser beings could sense even a hint’s fluctuation.
When a knock sounded at the mahogany desk, knocking gently against the ancient wood as an aristocrat’s knuckles pressed, Hubris remained seated, ever-greeting that same star-drifted horizon he always watched.
The woman walking in behind his seated form: Countess Wagner, noblewoman of noble line — she carried a smile as light as spring steps on stone tiles.
Approaching the prince from behind gently she walked toward Hubris. The sound of her silk skirt sweeping floor behind made soft music of silken rustling—pairing it then as white-gloved hands encircle lovingly around his neck and shoulder armor.
Lady Wagne had golden-hued locks; her gaze was deep and wide like finest emerald’s gleam—fabled across vampiric line to hold unmatched loveliness among all Elders.
Her voice carried youth and vivacity in equal parts — soft, lilting as a woodwind chorus.
“My darling prince… you’ve finally chosen to journey toward Twilight Domain this coming morn?” Her smile deepened: “What excellent news! Evernight can sometimes be… rather dreary, if you understand!”
Hubris did not deny the warm contact. Only asked a query:
“…And what new happenings?”
The Countess whispered secrets like a temptress. “The Conclave meets at this moment!” The glint that entered her jade pupils became the sparkle of jewels and of red gold: “Had Your Grace chosen to return a few weeks earlier? We suspect you might have caught the event — if timing was perfect, I daresay your chair would have moved inward into The Inner Ring itself.”
In the dark realms, the Conclave represented more than governance; to reach The Inner Ring was akin to gods among mortals sitting in circle.
For each of the seats, all occupied by Dukes or entities mightier than — each voice, a decision able to shake the entirety of Eclipse Domains and ripple across its realms.
As one newly crowned as Prince, Prince Hubris now claimed his natural birthright position — no ordinary step.
For it didn’t merely elevate the Standing of House Spark; it reshaped, forever the vampire voice within dominion politics.
The noble, however, answered merely:
“Only subjects to do with Celestial Demon and War?”
She laughed in delight.
“The diviner masters Weebo and even Lin Xitang attempted visions of… The Leviathan’s Rest…” Her expression took amusement’s mask, laughter dancing like candlelight, then dropped into intrigue: “And yet they… both returned blind, unable to pierce that future veil.”
“…The rumor claims that even the great Lin fell into wounds resurging from his distant yester-years! So suddenly did he leave, departing toward Dominion’s Capitol!”
At this precise moment, the door raps again—opening this the figure of a certain man strode within.
It was Lord Gaard, a man of lean efficiency and silent precision: Hubris’ personal aide these recent centuries past.
Though only of Viscount-level prestige, his efficiency was unparalleled; the reasons, the silent and meticulous hands of Lord Gardener Xelnerd. His voice — sharp, clipped.
“The information checks — Prime Strategist Lin left the Dominion. He has traveled beyond Northern Host and now entered the capital itself.”
Unexpectedly perhaps—Hubris smiled gently, even chuckling.
“…Magic Born always take their art as holy grail… The elders would never permit Man’s superiority.”
Xelnerd remained impassive even as Countess Wagne turned to Hubris with sudden curiosity — her touch still upon his chest, her arms rubbing against his silk-clad shoulders, as she inquired gently:
“…Do you mean Your Highness… that Empire arranged the loss in visions — that their intent was to force wastage to drain our diviners dry through endless failed prophecies.”
In response Hubris, leaning slightly into her closeness… gently placed his hand atop hers — a simple yet strangely effective gesture.
She stiffened at once.
Motion denied — arms that once wandered freely now petrified, suspended; her beautiful emerald eyes widened from surprise to alarm.
Even then, it was clear — speech stolen from tongue, mind imprisoned in flesh by silent decree.
And thus — Hubris finally posed what lay within his soul:
“Who leaked the tale — concerning my elevation to Prince?”
Xelnerd did not even flinch; but from the frozen Countess’ gaze came a brief, flickering glance—intending toward the steward behind.
“…No need to eye Xelnerd.” Hubris explained tonelessly, “That is… My Sown Flesh. My First Generation Descendant.”
A hush — a truth never revealed.
None expected this.
Among Vampire Elders, all assumed: pureblooded scions may bear noble blood, yet a Prince must spend decades at minimum, hundreds at maximum to condense Source-Essency Drops into existence forming a Vampire Noble — each step marked painstakingly. To have Sired progeny — an act of time wasted upon those unable to produce worthy offspring.
Yet this was how they thought he was… until today.
But none expected Prince-Hood.
And certainly never believed a scion so young as this one already sired a Lord’s heir — and one who nearly reached Marquessa Threshold.
She slumped into the prince’s leg — as all her woman’s beauty was helpless and powerless under him. A red mass of coiling light hung above; from her back were visible strings of bloody essence drawn out by unseen force and into the floating gem-like mist.
Eyes once luminous with vitality… became darkening pools, filled with madness, with panic.
Drained entirely alive of Bloodpower equaled a torment no worse than a thousand centuries of dying, one that only Vampirarchs might imagine and few would enact.
Xelnerd broke the pause to ask simply:
“She serves the Council?”
“Likely — and from how easily this betrayal slipped past me and how little of the rest can be pulled past her memories, I doubt she works alone.”
A pause; cold calculation in eyes that glint with crimson fire.
“But… she is not the only one.”
A flick of wrist: the drained Countess fell with limp grace to the carpeted floor.
Above remained a hovering heart, a sanguinum crystal the size of two closed fists — essence equal to that of Count-level nobility.
Without even turning to observe his former lover’s corpse upon the cold stone floor of the library chamber, Hubris merely gestured — passing over the precious blood-gem to his servant.
He spoke: “You’ll follow up on the investigation — I ordered you to investigate the third iteration concerning ‘Eden 3 Laboratory’ — and I suspect Lin has reason to hide that.”
“Yes Your Grace; already under observation.” Xelnerd said curtly.
Hubris continued — voice like distant drums: “When I asked him, he flinched — a response that came far too slow, like when he was caught lying in front of his son’s funeral casket. We all were used. Someone must’ve pulled strings behind imperial lines.”
At this — a new intensity sharpening Lord Xelnerd’s stare: grave nod acknowledged understanding.
From the seat, Hubris slowly rose upright.
From where his back rested stood tall, as if nothing had ever occurred between himself, Countess, blood and sacrifice of loyalty and pain.
A thought, whispered like secret between comrades in shadows…
“What would Lin’s face become should he learn — that during the original battlefield cleansing mission, the remains recovered were not complete.”
“I myself visited. And remembered clearly…” he whispered, voice turning distant, eyes reflecting memories — a boy’s hand half-shattered; upon it — only an emblem of the 10-year-old warrior boy’s dog tag marked ‘Lin Qianye’.
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