A general born to rule

A flash of malakaroth past and the new

Flashback: The Rise of Emperor Malakaroth

Long before Sam, Marcus, and the bustling kingdom of Valorcrest, the world was a savage, untamed place ruled by steel, blood, and fire. Deep in the Abyssal Dominion, a young prince named Malakaroth led the demon forces to conquer and subjugate the realms of mortals and immortals alike. It was a time of conquest, where empires crumbled under the might of the demon legions, and Malakaroth, though still young, was already battle-hardened, wielding the power of the abyss with ruthless precision.

The latest victory had come at the expense of Lorithra, the sprawling subterranean kingdom of the dark elves. Once thought invincible, their black towers and enchanted forests had been reduced to ashes under Malakaroth’s relentless siege. The Dragonkin of Darkthar, once thought untouchable in their volcanic stronghold, had also been subdued, their flames extinguished by the sheer might of demon sorcery and warfare.

Now, Malakaroth and his forces marched toward the mountain stronghold of the dwarves, their next target in the campaign of conquest.

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The young prince stood at the head of his army, his dark, crimson armor gleaming under the thin mountain light. His eyes, glowing embers of the abyss, scanned the towering fortress of the dwarves, nestled in the mountain range known as the Iron Peaks. Behind the massive stone walls and iron gates, the dwarves waited, trembling in fear. They had heard the tales of what Malakaroth had done to the dark elves and dragonkin, and their own king, King Thargrim Stonefist, was no fool.

The dwarves had been known for their courage and stubbornness in battle, but today their hands gripped their axes and hammers with hesitation. The demon prince had wiped out two of the strongest empires in the known world; what chance did the dwarves stand against him?

As the gates of the mountain stronghold opened, Malakaroth's forces poured in. Demonic war drums echoed through the valley, and the sight of towering demons with fiery blades sent a chill through even the stoutest dwarf's spine.

Malakaroth dismounted from his nightmare steed, its hooves leaving trails of flame in the snow-covered ground. He approached the dwarven king, who stood at the center of his court, surrounded by his finest soldiers. Their axes and hammers were raised, but there was no mistaking the fear in their eyes.

King Thargrim stood tall, his long, braided beard cascading down his armor, his weathered face etched with determination. Yet even he knew this battle was already lost.

Malakaroth's voice was cold and commanding as he addressed the dwarf king. “King Thargrim of the Iron Peaks, I offer you a choice. Bend the knee, submit your forges to the Abyssal Dominion, or face the same fate as Lorithra and Darkthar.”

The demon prince raised his arm, and behind him, his soldiers pointed their blades at the dwarves, a silent promise of what would come if they refused.

King Thargrim’s eyes burned with rage. “You may have defeated the elves and dragonkin, but the dwarves will never bow to demons.”

The dwarven soldiers around him roared in approval, slamming their weapons on the ground, but there was hesitation in their movements.

Malakaroth’s lips curled into a wicked smile. “Brave words for a king with so few choices.”

He stepped forward, his burning eyes locked on Thargrim’s. “Your ancestors built these mountains, forged weapons of legend, and defended them for centuries. But now, even the great Thargrim Stonefist cowers before me. The Abyssal Dominion is inevitable, dwarf. You can either be its ally—or its next victim.”

The silence that followed was deafening. The dwarven king stood firm, his grip tightening around his hammer.

Then, with a deep breath, King Thargrim lowered his weapon. “We will forge your weapons, demon. But we will never kneel.”