The flames of the throne had not yet died when the first decree fell like a blade across the world.
Shadow stood at the center of the throne hall, his eyes still burning with cold ashfire. Behind him, the empty throne smoldered in black silence — a symbol not of power, but of refusal.
Demons watched from every corner of the dark dominion.
Their new king was not like the old.
He did not demand loyalty.
He earned silence.
And now… he spoke.
"This realm will no longer be ruled by chaos," Shadow said, his voice carrying through fire and blood, through the spires of the citadel and the deepest pits of damnation.
"The Nine shall rise."
Whispers erupted across the legions.
"The Nine?"
"A new Circle?"
"Chosen by the Shadow himself?"
But then the ground trembled.
A gate tore open in the far wall — not forged of stone or steel, but of memory and shadow. From its core, a figure stepped forth.
He was tall, wrapped in tattered crimson robes. A long mask of porcelain covered his face — blank, expressionless. Behind him, a cloak of crows rose and fell like a heartbeat.
His name was Veyr.
Veyr, the Silent Herald.
Master of Secrets.
First of the Nine.
He knelt before Shadow without a word, and the citadel darkened as if recognizing a long-forgotten truth.
"He walks through dreams and silence," Shadow said, placing a single burned hand upon Veyr's shoulder.
"He remembers what even the gods tried to forget."
Veyr rose, and without speaking, he vanished — his crows scattering like smoke across the hall.
The silence that followed was not empty.
It was expectation.
Shadow turned again to the legions.
"Eight more shall come," he said.
"One for each sin that bound this world.
And together — we will rewrite what fate once buried."
From the scorched gates of Hell to the shattered skies above Ash'Var, the decree echoed.
The Nine were coming.
And the world would kneel — not to fire, not to blood…
…but to shadow.