The Ten Who Darken the World

The summoning tore through ten different hells simultaneously.

You remember the wrenching sensation—being ripped from your domain like a tooth from a jaw—and then the blinding light of a world you had never seen. Green. So impossibly, sickeningly green. Forests stretching to every horizon, mountains crowned with snow, oceans glittering under a sun that burned with unfamiliar warmth.

You materialized in a circle of obsidian pillars on a desolate plateau, and you were not alone. Nine other beings stood in the circle with you, each radiating power of a different flavor—sulfurous, glacial, seductive, maddening, ancient. Ten demon lords from ten separate hells, none of whom had ever met.

Before anyone could speak, the summoner revealed himself: a dying archmage named Valdris Khoum, his body riddled with corruption from the ritual that had cost him everything. With his last breaths, he explained. He had been betrayed by the kingdoms of this world—cast out, hunted, his research burned. So he had reached across the planes and pulled forth ten catastrophes to serve as his ****.

"This world is called Aethermere," he rasped. "It has humans, elves of five bloodlines, dwarves in their mountains, orcs in their steppes, dragons in their peaks, angels in their floating citadels, vampires in their midnight courts, fae in their twisted woods, and a hundred other peoples besides. They think themselves mighty. Prove them wrong."

Then Valdris died, and the ten of you were left standing in a circle, sizing each other up.

The negotiation that followed lasted three days. There was posturing, threats, two near-fights, and one actual fight that cratered a mountainside. But in the end, pragmatism won. Aethermere was vast—continents and archipelagos and underground kingdoms and floating islands. Enough for ten, if barely. You divided the world into ten spheres of influence by drawing lots, each demon lord claiming a region to subjugate as they saw fit.

The pact was simple: no direct interference in another lord's territory. Requests for aid were permitted but never obligatory. Betrayal was not forbidden—merely inadvisable, given the power each of you wielded.

Now the real work begins. Your assigned territory is the heartland of Aethermere: a sprawling region containing the human Kingdom of Valdren, the High Elven city-state of Sylanthar, a dwarven fortress-hold called Kazad Morul, scattered orc clans of the Ashwind Steppe, a hidden enclave of nymphs in the Mirrorfen, a goblin warren beneath the Thornback Hills, and—most dangerously—the lair of an ancient red dragon named Scorathax who has claimed the volcanic Mount Cinderhold as his domain. Pockets of half-elves, changelings, genasi, and other minority races dot the towns and cities throughout.

Your rivals have fanned out across the rest of the world. You can feel them, distantly, like ten dark stars burning on the horizon. Some will succeed. Some will fail. Some will come for you.

But that is tomorrow's problem. Today, you stand alone on the obsidian plateau, the wind carrying the scent of a world ripe for the taking, and you must decide how to begin.

You close your eyes and let the purple glow intensify, reaching out with senses that taste mortality itself. The wind carries more than just the scent of pine and distant rainfall—it brings you the pulse of life and the whisper of approaching **** across your new domain.

The nearest settlement reveals itself first. Thornreach, a human town perhaps fifteen miles northeast, built where three trade roads converge. You sense approximately four thousand souls, their life-threads burning with varying intensity. Most glow with the mundane vitality of farmers, merchants, craftsmen. But there are brighter sparks—a garrison of perhaps two hundred soldiers, their life-**** hardened by training and ****. At the town's center, a stronger presence: a battle-mage whose power tastes of lightning and fury, not inconsiderable for a provincial posting. The town's walls are stone, twelve feet high, well-maintained. Defensible, but not against you.

Further south, your senses brush against something far more potent. The High Elven city-state of Sylanthar, perhaps forty miles distant, sits like a jewel of concentrated power. Even at this distance, you can feel the thrum of ancient wards woven into its very foundations—layer upon layer of protective magic accumulated over millennia. Thousands of elven lives burn there with an intensity that speaks of longer lifespans and innate magical affinity. Several presences within shine so brightly they make the battle-mage in Thornreach look like a candle beside a bonfire. The city would be a formidable prize, but not one to be taken lightly or quickly.

To the west, you sense the Ashwind Steppe stretching to the horizon. Scattered camps of orcs dot the grasslands—fractious clans, their life-forces burning hot with aggression and vitality. Perhaps twenty thousand warriors spread across a dozen major tribes, constantly feuding among themselves. Individually dangerous, collectively chaotic. Useful, if properly directed.

Then something makes your eyes snap open. Mount Cinderhold dominates the southern skyline, a volcanic peak wreathed in thin streamers of smoke. And there, coiled within stone chambers near the summit, you sense Scorathax. The ancient red dragon's presence is a blazing sun of malevolent life-****, so potent it nearly blinds your ****-senses. He is old—very old—and powerful beyond most mortals' comprehension. His mind brushes against yours for the briefest instant, a terrible awareness that knows something has entered his territory.

The wind shifts, and for just a moment, you could swear you hear distant laughter carried on it—deep, rumbling, reptilian.

**"So. The rumors of new players in the game are true."** The voice doesn't come from any direction—it simply exists, projected with draconic magic across miles. **"I am Scorathax the Magnificent, master of Mount Cinderhold and true lord of this region for seven centuries. Whatever you are, demon, know that I do not share my domain willingly. Stay north of the Ashwind River, and we need not become enemies. Cross it, and I will teach you why even your kind should fear dragonfire."**

The presence withdraws, leaving only the normal sounds of wind and distant wildlife.

Your survey is complete. The nearest easy prey is Thornreach—a manageable garrison, one mage of middling power, walls that mean nothing to you. The harder targets—Sylanthar with its ancient defenses, Kazad Morul's fortress in the mountains you can sense to the east, and most of all Scorathax himself—will require planning, preparation, or overwhelming ****.

You drive the butt of your scythe into the black stone beneath your feet, and the runes along its handle flare with sudden violet radiance. The plateau trembles. Not earthquake-violent, but with a deeper resonance—the kind that comes when **** itself takes notice.

You reach down through the obsidian, past layers of cooled volcanic glass, past the bones of forgotten things buried in ancient ash. This place has seen ****. Battle, perhaps, or sacrifice. The echoes are faint but sufficient. You grasp those threads of old mortality and pull them upward, weaving them with fragments of your own power, shaping them into something new and terrible.

The obsidian cracks. Black smoke pours from the fissures, coalescing into humanoid shapes—seven figures that stand roughly man-sized but wrong in every detail. Their bodies are composed of solidified shadow that moves like muscle, edges that blur and sharpen as they breathe. Each wears armor of blackened bone that seems to have grown rather than been forged, and each carries a weapon—swords, axes, a spear—all crafted from the same ****-infused material. Empty sockets glow with the same purple light as your own eyes.

They are lesser reapers. Extensions of your will, fragments of your power given form and terrible purpose. Six stand in ready silence, awaiting command. But the seventh—the one you shaped with particular care—kneels before you with a fluid grace the others lack.

He speaks, voice like wind through a crypt. **"Mistress. I am Keth. What would you have of us?"**

You sense immediately that this one is different. Where the others are simple instruments—deadly but mindless—Keth possesses genuine thought. Limited, perhaps, compared to your own vast consciousness, but present. He can assess, adapt, lead. His combat capability surpasses the others significantly. Against mortal soldiers in melee, he would cut through a dozen without difficulty. The others would manage perhaps half that before sustaining damage.

**"The six are ready,"** Keth continues, rising to his feet. **"We can scout, we can kill, we can spread fear. We exist to serve your harvest."**

The creation has cost you something—a sliver of your power invested in these forms. Not crippling, but not trivial either. Creating armies this way would drain you quickly. But as an initial ****, as scouts who need neither food nor sleep nor coin, they are ideal.

The wind shifts again, carrying the scent of distant pine forests and human habitation. Thornreach lies to the northeast, unaware. Scorathax's presence still burns to the south like a warning beacon. Your reapers stand ready, patient as only the dead can be, awaiting your first command in this new world.