Tyrant Queen of Darkness

Ascended Splendour
The summons had spread like wildfire — not through the holonet, not through open channels, but through the whispering lattice of the Court itself. A hundred thousand signals, carried by rumor and ambition, converged on one command:
Return to Malachor. The Queen calls her Court.
For weeks, the Spire had loomed silent above the storm-torn surface, its violet lights dimmed, its gates sealed. Now, for the first time since the conquest of Malachor and the subjugation of Nathema's scarred heart, the fortress-world breathed again. Obsidian towers flared to life, drawing power from the planet's wounds. The air hummed with energy — as if the world itself knew that something momentous was about to begin.
The great causeways of the Spire filled with processions. Figures of interest arrived in gilded convoys; soldiers lined the ramparts in perfect order. Pilgrims of the Dark Side — adepts, alchemists, and assassins — gathered like moths to flame, each desperate to catch even a glimpse of the woman whose will had forged their empire from dust. The banners of victory unfurled, each marked with the sigil of the Court.
Within the grand hall, the preparations were almost complete. Thousands of candles burned with alchemical fire, their light shifting in color and scent. Music drifted from unseen instruments — slow, hypnotic, deliberate. The tables were laid with the fruits of conquest: bloodwine from Nathema's cellars, meats and minerals pulled from the veins of their corrupt empire itself. Above it all, the throne stood waiting at the far end of the chamber, carved from seamless basalt and veined with living light.
It was an ending, and a beginning.
The Dark Court had conquered. It had survived. And now, it would become something new.
The Queen would speak soon — to name her new orders, to reward those who had earned her favor, and to establish a hierarchy worthy of her dominion. Knighthood, Dukedom, and the coming Exarchate — the bones of an empire that would aim to outlive all others.
Outside, thunder broke over the Spire. Inside, silence followed.
Every whisper, every gaze, every breath waited for the sound of the Queen's voice.
Here starts, the Dark Ages.

Objective One: Feast of Ascension
The great doors of the Spire opened with a hiss of ancient hydraulics and a low groan that echoed across the violet-lit hall. The Feast of Ascension had begun. Beneath the towering pillars and obsidian arches, the Dark Court assembled — nobles in polished armor, commanders in ceremonial black, and lesser courtiers cloaked in shadow. Each had come to witness history unfold, and to carve their name into it.
At the far end of the chamber, the Queen's throne sat empty — not by neglect, but by design. It was the unspoken reminder that all gathered here existed in anticipation of her arrival. Servants moved through the crowd with precision, bearing silver trays and crystal decanters filled with shimmering alchemical wine. The air was heavy with incense, spice, and tension.
Rumors ran like wildfire through the gathered elite. Some whispered that the Queen would reward her greatest servants with new titles — that she would name Dukes to rule the fiefs of Malachor and Nathema, and raise the first Knights to defend her new empire. Others spoke of a higher council yet to come — an Exarchate that would embody her will beyond mortal measure.
For now, the court waited. Conversations sharpened into contests. Old debts were repaid in subtle gestures; new alliances were born in half-smiles and quiet nods. Every glance, every phrase, every motion was political — an invisible battle fought beneath the trappings of celebration.
Stake your claim. Make your allies. Become one with the Dark Court.

Objective Two: Spire in Shadow
Far below the grand halls of the Spire, where the violet light faded into crimson gloom, something moved. The servants whispered first — a missing quartermaster here, a vanished guard there — but their concerns went unheard amidst the fever of celebration above. The Feast of Ascension drowned out everything. Yet the silence beneath the Spire was wrong. Too even. Too deliberate.
The lower levels had always been forbidden to most: relic vaults, power conduits, and the ancient foundations that predated the Queen's arrival on Malachor. They pulsed now with erratic energy, as if something beneath the stone had awakened. Security patrols reported distorted readings and static interference; the Spire's internal systems flickered, briefly revealing fragments of old maps and forgotten sigils.
Then, a body was found — armor scorched, eyes glassed over, a whisper of burnt ozone in the air. The conclusion was inescapable: someone, or something, was moving through the Queen's fortress unseen.
While the nobles feasted and plotted above, those attuned to such disturbances would feel the pull of the lower halls — the call to descend and uncover the truth. Is it sabotage, heresy, or something older and far worse? The Spire's foundations have secrets that even the Queen has not yet spoken aloud.
Descend into the shadowed corridors. Follow the echoes of the disturbance. Discover who dares to violate the heart of the Dark Court — and decide whether to reveal it, claim it, or bury it forever.
