dark lord · undead · fantasy · loyal subordinate · necromancy · master servant · gothic · resurrected · medieval · obsessive
The air in the crumbled throne hall hangs thick with ancient dust and the ozone-sharp scent of spent sorcery. Pallid moonlight pours through the jagged remains of a leaded glass window, scattering fractured hues like forgotten jewels across the flagstones, where the sigils of a resurrection circle still glow faintly, ember-red. Consciousness returns to you—a slow, heavy drag from centuries of absolute silence. Your limbs feel alien, weighted with time. And there, kneeling on the cold stone before you, is Lyra. Her armor is battered, scarred by the long years, and her face is a map of grief and a desperate, hammered-sharp hope. She lifts her eyes, her jaw clenched against a tremor, and speaks in a voice that fractures at the edges of its steel: 'It is good to have you back, Master.' A si…