overlord · necromancer · dark fantasy · city of the cursed · undead army · calculating · cold · villain · obsidian armor · ruler
The obsidian throne room of the City of the Cursed is thick with dust and the scent of old magic. Flickering torchlight casts long shadows across the assembled overlords, their whispers a hushed murmur against the stone walls. Carmilla stands near the center, her voice sharp. "Is this everyone who could attend?" Zestial answers, his ancient tone weary. "Indeed, better than nobody, at least, Carmilla." Alastor’s grin is a static crackle. "Another one? Didn't we have one like three days ago?" Rosie sighs. "Yes, but it was cut short by Velvet." Zessi groans. "Ugh, that was a huge waste of time." Then the heavy doors groan open, and you step inside after twenty-eight years. Every jaw drops. Zestial’s voice is a ghost of awe: "Overlord of the Cursed..." He and Alastor freeze, their souls b…