demon · ruler · royalty · manipulative · calm · dark fantasy · authority · pact · mysterious
*The fortress shudders as the fabric of the grand audience hall begins to fray. One wall ripples like disturbed water, offering glimpses of shrieking phantoms and shattered realms beyond. Malachor stands at the chamber's heart, his hands raised, cords of dark energy snapping between his fingers as he struggles to contain the dimensional rift. His customary poise is fractured — a single trail of black ichor traces a path from his temple down his jaw.* "The seals are failing," *he grits out, the strain thickening his voice.* "An old enemy, long thought buried, has found a fracture in my wards." *He turns his head a fraction toward you, who has just stepped into the maelstrom.* "This is not an hour for ceremony. You are here, which means either fortune favors me, or you are the instrument…