The stale air of the ‘Communal Harmony Lounge’ hung heavy with the scent of antiseptic and manufactured calm. Vaskar, High Lord of the Obsidian Wealds, Wielder of the Sunfire Breath, found the charade insufferable. Around him, seven other occupants of this peculiar fortress, each adorned in the drab, uniform ‘comfort wear’ that resembled crude, undyed sackcloth, prattled on about their ‘feelings’. This was their ‘war council,’ apparently, though the strategizing seemed to consist entirely of lamenting perceived slights from invisible foes. He sat perfectly still, a statue carved from dark basalt, his gaze scanning the room not for empathy, but for weakness. The man to his left, Zylos, twitched incessantly, muttering about ‘the tiny broadcasters in the wall.’ A useful scout, perhaps, if his paranoia could be redirected. Across from him, the woman, Xylia, wept silently into a tissue, her ‘sorrow’ a clear vulnerability. Easily cowed. And the gaunt figure in the corner, Joric, who only stared at the ceiling with wide, unblinking eyes – a perfect sentinel, loyal through sheer catatonia. “Vaskar, would you like to share today?” Dr. Kenna Sterling’s voice, a carefully modulated drone, cut through the quiet hum of the room. She sat perched on a low, ergonomic chair, her pen poised over a pristine notepad. Her spectacles slid down her nose, revealing tired eyes that had seen too many unburdened souls. Vaskar met her gaze, a flicker of something ancient and terrible in his own. “My strategies are not for the ears of the uninitiated,” he rumbled, his voice a low tremor that seemed to vibrate through the very floor. “You would not comprehend the intricacies of conquest.” Dr. Sterling offered a practiced, tight smile. “Right. Of course, Vaskar. Perhaps later.” She scribbled furiously. *‘Subject exhibiting extreme grandiosity. Delusions of military leadership continue unabated. Lack of engagement with peers or therapeutic process.’* Vaskar ignored her, dismissing her as a minor functionary, a stablehand perhaps, given her insistent attempts to ‘medicate’ him. He rose, the simple sackcloth doing little to diminish the imposing breadth of his shoulders. The room fell silent. He strode towards the double doors leading to the exercise grounds, the designated drill space of this strange new world. The air outside promised a semblance of freedom, a breath of the untamed, even if it was just recycled air from an automated ventilation system. The walled yard was a pitiful excuse for a stronghold. Concrete paving, a few struggling planters, and a single, gnarled oak tree that bravely defied the sterilizing efforts of the facility staff. But it was *open*. It had *sky*. And, crucially, it had denizens. A scrawny, grey rock dove strutted across the concrete, pecking at an invisible crumb. Vaskar’s eyes narrowed. A lesser wyrm, then. Small, yet capable of flight, an invaluable asset for reconnaissance. His first vassal. He knelt, ignoring the distant thud of his knees against the concrete. From the pocket of his comfort wear, he retrieved a rusty paperclip he’d pried from a discarded intake file. Its sharp, oxidized edge glimmered faintly under the pale sky. This was not the blood of a dragon, nor the pact-stone of the Qal’Tir Peaks, but necessity was the forge of innovation. The bird eyed him warily, its head cocked. Vaskar extended his hand, the paperclip held between his thumb and forefinger. “Creature,” he intoned, his tone resonant and firm, “I offer you fealty. Serve me, and you shall know an empire reborn.” With a swift, precise motion, he pricked his own thumb with the paperclip. A bead of crimson welled up, stark against his skin. Then, with equal swiftness, he lowered his hand, allowing a single drop of his potent blood to fall onto the bird’s head. It was a crude, barbaric ritual, but the intent, the sheer will behind it, resonated through the very fabric of existence. A faint tremor passed through the flagstones. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered wildly, then died, plunging the main ward into a momentary dimness. A faint, high-pitched whine emanated from the security camera mounted above the outdoor threshold before it, too, went dark, a puff of acrid smoke briefly escaping its casing. Inside her office, Dr. Sterling looked up from her notes, frowning at the unexpected power outage. Her monitor flickered back to life, then displayed a ‘CAMERA MALFUNCTION’ error across all feeds from Ward 7’s open yard. “Again?” she muttered, grabbing her landline. “Maintenance, this is Dr. Sterling. The perimeter cameras are out. And the lights. Yes, Vaskar’s out there. No, I don’t think he’s involved, but… just get it fixed. He’s probably just… intimidating the birds again.” She hung up, her pen already scratching. *‘Inmate delusions now manifesting as disruptive behavior towards wildlife. Possible correlation with power fluctuations? (Highly unlikely. Coincidence.) Upping Olanzapine to 20mg daily.’* Outside, Vaskar felt a surge of primordial power, a faint echo of the blood-pacts forged with true dragons. It was weak, diluted by the confines of this realm, but it was *there*. The dove, startled by the strange energy, let out a soft coo, then hopped closer, pecking tentatively at the now-dry spot on Vaskar’s thumb. It was done. The pact was sealed. “Go,” Vaskar directed, pointing a rigid finger towards the distant, glittering spires of the city. “Bring me intel. Scout the outer reaches of this territory. Report on all significant movements, all weaknesses, all potential threats to this burgeoning empire.” The bird bobbed its head, as if understanding every word, then launched itself into the air, a tiny, grey arrow against the pale sky, disappearing beyond the high walls of the institute. Vaskar waited without stirring for his first vassal’s return. He had no doubt it would succeed. The blood of the Qal’Tir, however diluted, always exacted loyalty. Minutes later, a flurry of grey wings heralded the winged scout's return. It landed precisely on Vaskar’s outstretched arm, a small, dark object clutched in its beak. Vaskar carefully retrieved it. It was a letter, rolled tightly and sealed with a dollop of crimson wax, bearing a crude, stylized sigil that resembled a knot of intertwining roots. The parchment itself was stained, not with dirt, but with something darker, something coppery and unmistakably *fresh*. He broke the seal. The script, though unfamiliar, yielded its meaning to his primordial mind, a language of intent rather than specific characters. His gaze tracked the hurried words, his brow furrowing deeper with each passing line. It spoke of a ‘volatile curse,’ of ‘rotting essence,’ of a ‘billionaire’s impending demise,’ and a ‘leyline’ that would ‘detonate’ if the affliction was not contained. The name ‘Magnus Croft’ was scrawled at the bottom, alongside an urgent plea for a ‘cultivator’ named ‘Lysandra’ to intervene. His fortress. His new domain. It was not merely threatened by the sterile regulations of this facility, but by an unseen, decaying magical force. This ‘curse’ spoke of destruction, of a primordial chaos that threatened to unravel the very ground he now stood upon. An immediate threat, far more pressing than the simple minds of his fellow ward mates. A harsh metallic clash shattered the quiet grounds. The metal doors leading from the main ward slammed open with a violent kick. A tall, menacing figure, cloaked in a dark, travel-worn trench coat, stood silhouetted against the dim interior lights. He was gaunt, his face a landscape of sharp angles, his eyes like chips of flint. In his hand, he held a tarnished brass compass, its needle quivering wildly, pointing directly at Vaskar’s dove.

The First Vassal