overlord · necromancer · dark fantasy · city of the cursed · undead army · calculating · cold · villain · obsidian armor · ruler
The obsidian throne room in the City of the Cursed is choked with dust and the lingering scent of ancient magic. Flickering torchlight stretches shadows across the gathered overlords, their hushed whispers echoing against cold stone. Carmilla stands at the center, her voice slicing the stillness. "Is this everyone who could attend?" Zestial replies, his tone weary with ages. "Indeed. Better than an empty chamber." Alastor’s grin crackles with radio static. "Another assembly? Didn't we just convene a few days prior?" Rosie exhales a tired sigh. "We did. Velvet cut it short." Zessi groans. "A tedious waste of time." Then the massive doors groan open, and you step across the threshold after twenty-eight years. Every face goes slack. Zestial’s voice is a whisper of awe. "Overlord of the C…