The secret alliance of Demon Lords had been formed out of necessity, fear, and ambition.
After the last Walpurgis, what Varvatos displayed still haunted their minds.
Leon, cold and calculating, had summoned the group under illusionary wards. Luminous, elegant and venomous, joined through a divine projection. Dino, pretending to be uninterested, lounged nearby with one eye always open. Clayman, of course, was eager—too eager.
And though Carrion and Frey attended more out of self-preservation than suspicion, even they couldn't deny the power Varvatos had unleashed.
"We need information," Leon had stated, his voice unyielding. "We don't move against him—not yet. But we must understand what he truly is."
"Agreed," Luminous said, her arms folded elegantly. "A creature that manipulates reality as if it's a mere illusion is not someone I want near my territory."
A plan was formed—quiet, surgical.
A Shadow Envoy would be dispatched. No assault, no violence. Just observation. The envoy was not of flesh or blood but magic and will, sculpted from the deepest folds of space—an intelligence equipped with divine cloaking and nullified presence. Crafted in Leon's sanctum, blessed by Luminous' wards.
It never even reached the borders of Nyvaris.
The moment it neared the edge of the ancient forest that shielded Varvatos' domain, it stopped.
Mid-motion, the creature froze.
It was as if the world itself refused its presence. No storm. No visible light. Just an overwhelming rejection of its essence.
From the trees, ancient runes glowed faintly across bark and stone, veins of silver light tracing through the land like a living nervous system.
A soft, low hum filled the air—not threatening, but resolute.
A message appeared within the envoy's mind, not spoken but declared by the land itself:
"You are not welcome. All who bear ill intent toward this land are denied entry. Leave. Or be unmade."
In a flash, the envoy was scattered into dust—its will erased by the Divine Sentient Barrier.
Back in the hidden chamber, Leon's projection shattered in anger, his eyes wide.
"It... it didn't even trigger a countermeasure. It was repelled."
Luminous leaned back, her fingers tapping the armrest of her ethereal throne.
"His barrier... it's not just a wall. It's alive. It judges."
Dino finally sat up, a hint of tension in his lazy posture.
"So... no spying. No peeking. And definitely no attacking."
"This changes things," Carrion muttered. "We're blind."
As the alliance struggled in the shadows, the skies above Nyvaris gleamed under the noonday sun.
Far in the distance, a formation of brilliant light soared across the firmament—six Pegasi, adorned in shining armor, rode the wind like spirits of legend. Their wings shimmered with runes, and banners trailing behind them bore the sigil of the Dwarven Kingdom of Dwargon.
At their head rode King Gazel Dwargo, firm as stone, eyes sharp beneath his helm.
The people of Nyvaris gathered below, awed by the sight. Pegasi were rare, and Dwarves were even rarer in this part of the world.
In the royal balcony high above the crystalline palace, Varvatos stood, robed in black and silver. Beside him, Velzard leaned against the polished stone, watching the sky with narrowed eyes.
"Dwarves don't fly for fun," she mused. "He comes with purpose."
"He always does," Varvatos replied with a faint smile. "And unlike others, he comes through the front door."
Moments later, the Pegasi circled once with trained precision before descending to the grand courtyard. Trumpets of light sounded from the towers, echoing like the voice of dawn across the mountains.
Gazel dismounted in a fluid motion, flanked by his most trusted generals—Garm, ever gruff but wise; Dolgor, the iron-eyed strategist; and Hildra, clad in ancient dwarven plate enchanted by the Rune-Fathers.
Varvatos descended the palace steps slowly, his presence making the stone beneath his feet hum with restrained power. He raised a hand in welcome.
"King Gazel Dwargo," he greeted, his voice strong yet calm. "Nyvaris welcomes you."
Gazel returned the gesture, his tone like granite warmed by fire.
"Varvatos. Your name has shaken even the oldest halls of my mountain. I come as a friend—and a king seeking clarity."
Velzard smirked. "Most who come seeking answers bring spies. You bring Pegasi and honor."
Gazel chuckled, stroking his beard.
"Spies have their place, but I prefer to see the truth with my own eyes."
Varvatos motioned to the gates.
"Then come. Let the halls of Nyvaris show you more than whispers."
As they walked through the palace, Gazel marveled at the architecture—not just for its beauty, but for the ancient magic woven through every archway and pillar.
The palace was alive.
The magicules moved with intent, the halls lit in tandem with their presence.
"This place… is not built. It's woven," Gazel said, almost reverently.
"Every stone sings a memory," Varvatos replied. "Nyvaris is not merely protected—it is bound to me."
They arrived at the central hall—a chamber of glass and stars, where the ceiling reflected the constellations above in real-time.
Garm whispered to Dolgor, "We walk inside a legend..."
"You do," Velzard said from behind, having overheard them. "And he hasn't even begun to show what he's capable of."
Gazel stopped, turning toward Varvatos fully.
"You're building more than a city. You're building... a sanctuary."
Varvatos nodded.
"For those who seek balance. Not domination. Not war."
Gazel extended his hand.
"Then perhaps Dwargon and Nyvaris have more in common than I thought."
Their hands met—two kings, one ancient, one divine. A pact unspoken, but clear.
Gazel, ever the seasoned king and warrior, had faced monsters, Demon Lords, and calamities—but this place… this man… felt unlike anything in recorded memory.
"This city is alive," muttered General Dolgor, his eyes scanning the pulsing runes embedded in the architecture.
"No. It's not just alive," whispered Garm. "It's watching us."
Gazel gave a sharp nod. "Remain respectful. We're not here as enemies."
As they approached the throne dais, Varvatos rose from his seat with a casual grace, his long coat fluttering behind him like living shadow. His presence was calm, yet filled the space like a divine storm held in stillness.
Varvatos.
" Allow me to introduce you to someone else who may interest you."
With a fluid motion, he turned his gaze to the side, and the grand doors of the hall opened without a sound.
Velzard, the White Ice Dragon, entered. Her stride was regal, her eyes calm but brimming with infinite power. The room's temperature dropped subtly—not into discomfort, but enough that frost gently kissed the corners of the walls.
The dwarven generals stiffened immediately. Even Gazel's throat tightened.
"That's… impossible," muttered Hildra. "That's not just a Dragon... that's a True Dragon!"
"You had Veldora before," Gazel said slowly, turning his gaze back to Varvatos. "And now Velzard. The ice dragon. Are we to believe that your influence now spans two of the Primordial Dragons?"
Varvatos offered a slight tilt of his head.
"I do not 'possess' them, Gazel. We walk side by side. By will. Not force."
Velzard's voice chimed in like distant bells frozen in crystal.
"Indeed. I do not serve him. I chose to stand by him. For what he is… and what he is not."
Garm whispered harshly to Dolgor, "If those two were to act together… they could freeze and shatter kingdoms in a heartbeat."
Gazel, breathing slowly to keep his composure, asked the question hanging in his mind:
"Who... are you, really, Varvatos?"
A heavy pause.
Varvatos merely smiled.
"I am what this world forgot it needed. Nothing more. Nothing less."
Far from the radiant halls of Nyvaris, in a dimension stitched together from dream and shadow, the Demon Lords' secret alliance met once again—this time cloaked in unease.
Leon Cromwell, sharp and calculating, stood before a magical projection of the jura forest. The glowing strands of ley lines and power nodes pulsed around an opaque black spot in the map—Nyvaris—the only place that refused to be seen.
"Every scrying spell fails," Leon said, his voice tight. "And not just fails—rejects us. Our intent is turned against us. I tried sending an empty vessel... it disintegrated at the border."
Luminous Valentine crossed her arms, frustration creeping into her serene features.
"It's not just a barrier. It's a judgment. Intent-based magic. We've never seen anything like this."
Dagruel, arms folded like twin pillars of stone, growled: "No records. No clues. No past."
Leon turned to them all.
"I checked. I dug. I called in every favor from the oldest libraries of the Elders, even consulted the sealed vaults of the Elven Highborn. There is nothing. No records. No myth. No trace."
A silence fell.
"That's not possible," Frey said. "No being of this power just appears."
Leon's eyes narrowed.
"Exactly. Which means one of two things. Either Varvatos is not of this world, or... he is older than history itself—and every record of him was erased by design."
Clayman, unusually quiet, shivered slightly. "A power beyond memory... terrifying."
Carrion, more pragmatic, spoke up. "Then what do we do?"
Leon stared at the void on the map.
"We learn his habits. His allies. His goals. He speaks of peace, but moves like a god. We have ruled through terror, balance, or dominance. But he—he walks with true dragons. And cities rise from his footsteps."
"Then we watch," Luminous said darkly. "And wait. Even gods bleed, given the right blade."