Dominion

29th of Lunis, 986 A.D.

The last light of the sun caught on the high spires of Velas Citadel, turning the blackstone towers of the Ascillian capital to shimmering blades against the violet sky.
From the Grand Plaza to the Legion yards, the city throbbed with a pulse of restrained energy. Black-armored soldiers marched in columns through the streets. Caravans hauled crates of steel and spellglass to the Citadel storehouses. Priests of the Crimson Doctrine lit incense in the temples, praying not for peace, but for conquest.

Ascil was stirring.

Not because it was in decline - for Ascil did not believe in decline.
Decline was weakness. Decline was surrender. In their own minds, the Ascillians had only been delayed - by treacherous external forces: the interference of the dragon elves, the cataclysm of the Demon Wars, the lingering rot of the Spellplague.

But now, the skies were clearing. Now, they would finish what history demanded of them.

In the Hall of Triumphs, Zhoron Chaemoira stood alone before the great marble statues of Ascillian emperors. Each one had taken something - land, wealth, cities, crowns and each had enshrined themselves in the eternal story of the empire. Zhoron, born a slave in the Underdark, now stood as the greatest general of the age. Yet even he knew his legacy was not yet complete.

The memories gnawed at him.

The war after the Demon Crisis. The Northern Alliance. The Reaches. He had stood on the cusp of total victory, commanding the battered but determined armies of Ascil against a crumbling coalition of men, orcs, goliaths and elves.
Another year. Two more Legions. One fresh host of siege engines. If the Emperor had not recalled me, if the court had not flinched at the sight of foreign banners massing beyond the horizon…

He could have crushed the North. He could have ended it then. Instead, treaties were signed. Borders were drawn and enemies that should have been broken were allowed to rebuild.

Zhoron turned from the statues, cloak billowing behind him. A messenger waited at the threshold, bowing low.

“The council is assembled, my lord.”

The Grand Strategium was a vast, circular chamber of black marble and silver veins. Floating lanterns lit a map of the known world etched into the floor, every province and fortress marked with cold precision. The highest figures of the Ascillian Empire - generals, dukes, admirals, magisters - ringed the room. At their head stood Emperor Armand Vorcallis, the embodiment of Ascillian will, draped in robes of crimson and muted gold.

Zhoron entered without fanfare, his very presence enough to silence the room. Across from him, seated low among the minor commanders, sat Darius Vortemar - the once-heroic general, now disgraced for his alliances during the Demon Wars. Though necessary in those dark years, Darius’ decision to fight alongside foreign powers had stained him forever in the minds of the imperial court. Zhoron acknowledged him with a glance and nothing more. Darius was a weapon dulled by scandal, kept only until another took his place.

Emperor Armand spoke with the voice of command:

“For too long, the Naerisians have clung to lands that should be ours. For too long, we have been forced to turn our strength inward. That time is ending.”

He gestured to the map, where Naeris’s battered territory sprawled out like a defiant scar against Ascil’s western borders.

“General Chaemoira. Speak.”

Zhoron stepped forward.

“Naeris,” he began, voice measured, “has spent the last thirty years preparing for this war. Their armies are disciplined. Their cities are fortified. Their rulers have poured every coin into survival.”

He swept his gaze across the gathered commanders.

“They will not fall easily. But fall they will.”

He moved a blackstone marker across the map to the Kaeneris Principality, now larger and wealthier than Naeris itself.

“Kaeneris is the key. Their loyalty to Naeris is paper-thin. Offer them autonomy. Power. Titles. If they accept, we will isolate Naeris and end this swiftly.”

“And if they resist?” asked Grand Marshal Selvine.

Zhoron’s silver eyes glittered.

“Then we break them apart - city by city, trade road by trade road - until they have no choice but to kneel or perish.”

The murmurs of approval were immediate.

Turning to the east, Zhoron pointed toward the Holy Kingdom of Esneya. Though weakened by the demon incursions and still plagued by internal rebuilding, Esneya’s armies were zealous and numerous.

“We avoid them. For now,” Zhoron said. “Let them rot in their sanctity. Let them bury themselves in the past. We cannot fight two fronts against such a power yet.”

Lastly, he traced the northern coasts where the Thaeca Alliance sprawled.

“The Thaecans are mercenary in spirit. Appeal to their greed and their fear. Promise trade. Promise protection. And if they refuse - then we send the fleets and the fire.”

The council spent long hours in hard debate - supply lines to establish, new legions to raise, old border fortresses to expand. It would not be a campaign of months, but of years. The full force of Ascil would not be ready to move before two full winters had passed.

Even so, the plans were set in motion.

Recruitment edicts would be issued. Blacksmiths and siege architects would be summoned. Envoys to Kaeneris and Thaeca would be dispatched before the end of the season.

When the council finally broke, the commanders filing out into the darkened corridors of the Citadel, Zhoron remained behind. He stood again before the great window overlooking Velas, where the crimson and black banners of Ascil fluttered high above the towers.

He thought again of the Reaches. Of the armies he had lost because the court had grown nervous. Of the victories denied because others had feared the cost of true dominion. Not this time_,_ he promised himself.

The dragon elves were gone and the demons were banished. The spellplague still festered, but Ascil had endured worse and still thrived. Now, there were no excuses left. Only a destiny waiting to be seized.

Zhoron Chaemoira, once a nameless slave, now the greatest general of an empire built on conquest, smiled thinly at the coming storm.

This time, he would carve his name into history so deeply that even the gods would remember it.