Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Chapter 1384  Turbulent Alliance

The chamber was built for permanence.

Black stone walls rose in clean angles, etched with runes that marked treaties older than several mountain ranges. These were mostly treaties between tribes of the same race, for the Elvardian Alliance between the dwarves and elves was a more recent event, only a couple of tens of thousands of years old. A circular table of pale rootwood sat at the center, its surface unmarred by blades or cups. It was a place meant for decisions, not comfort.

Queen Myrasyn sat at its edge with her hands folded within the sleeves of her robe. Blonde hair fell straight down her back, bound by a simple clasp. Her gaze rested on the sigil circle carved into the table, calm and distant, as if the world beyond it moved on a slower rhythm.

King Ragnar remained seated on his raised throne. Broad shoulders filled the carved chair that had been shaped with him in mind.

The two rulers were in the strategy room, surrounded by their most trusted generals and advisors, overlooking the board as the invasion occurred in real time, using dwarven artifacts to signal the locations of each army.

Suddenly, the communication circle flared.

Light sank inward instead of spreading out, folding space until four shapes resolved across from them. Cold rot clung to the air, heavy and damp, like the breath of deep caverns and flooded crypts.

The first voice tore through the chamber before any greeting could settle.

”He keeps stealing!” the Drowned King screeched. ”Stealing, lying, denying, smirking, and stealing again! On repeat! Again and again!”

”We, at the Covenant of Eternity, find the attitude of that man unacceptable,” Archlich Vozen spoke up. ”And the attitude of Elvardia even more unacceptable.”

”Thatʼs right! Are you in cahoots with them, you snobby-”

”Silence,” Queen Myrasyn ordered.

The word cut through the chamber like a blade laid flat against a throat.

The Drowned King froze mid-breath. His hollow sockets flicked sideways, as if testing whether he had truly heard her correctly.

The pause stretched.

Then Archlich Vozen leaned forward, which made the gems along his chain chime softly. His voice scraped out, dry and carrying the echo of burial chambers.

”You are not to order us around, elven queen.” His skull tilted, empty eye lights flaring brighter. ”Do not forget that your predecessor, who underestimated us, suffered a truly unfortunate accident. Kekeke…”

The Drowned Kingʼs laughter followed in the form of ear-scraping, raspy sounds.

Myrasynʼs gaze sharpened. The calm distance drained from her eyes, replaced by something narrow and focused. Her posture did not change, but the air around her felt thinner, tighter.

”So you accept responsibility?” she asked.

Vozen waved one skeletal hand dismissively. ”Me? Of course not. It was the work of a rogue lich, as weʼve been telling you for thousands of years. A tragic incident, really. The Covenant had nothing to do with it.” His head tilted again. ”But perhaps they learned of your predecessorʼs… horrible attitude toward our kind.”

The temperature in the chamber dropped another degree. Several advisors shifted their footing. A dwarven generalʼs jaw tightened.

King Ragnar spoke up at last.

”What do you want? Who keeps stealing?”

Vozenʼs jaw creaked as it opened again. He did not need to move his mouth to speak, for he had no vocal cords to make use of. All of it happened using his undead core, the unholy magic that kept his bones and soul together. Despite that, some liches retained habits of their old lives, which led some of them to make human-like motions out of instinct. Parting their lips when speaking, articulating words, was one such instinct. ”I did not know the firm King Ragnar had become such a great actor.”

Ragnar exhaled slowly through his nose. ”The Primordial Villain.”

The silence that followed was brief and brittle.

”Indeed!” the Drowned King snapped, surging to his feet. He stalked forward until his hollow, lifeless face filled the projection circle, water sloshing violently from his armor. ”That thieving scum has the gall to steal our spoils of war from right under our noses! It is so obvious, and he still has the gall to deny it!”

Myrasynʼs voice slipped in, soft and cold.

”Isnʼt that called karma?”

The Drowned Kingʼs head jerked toward her. ”Shut your foul mouth—”

”Sit yourself down.”

The command did not come from the elven queen this time.

It came from behind the lich.

The Blind Grave Oracleʼs voice was pale and flat, carrying none of the laziness it had held earlier. The Drowned King stiffened. He leaned back from the artifact slowly, disbelief rippling through his posture.

He turned.

The third figure came into focus.

She had been sitting motionless on her throne since the call began, spine straight, hands resting atop a staff grown from fused bone and black crystal. Her crown was simple, angular, set low against a skull etched with deep, deliberate runes. There was no excess adornment, no idle motion. Yet immense power clung to her nonetheless. Just looking at this undead monster was unnerving, enough to make seasoned warriors tremble and abandon their comrades as they ran in the opposite direction from her.

The Drowned King recoiled half a step, then bristled. ”You do not get to order me around either!” he snapped. ”Do not forget yourself. We are equals!”

The Blind Grave Oracle remained still as she decreed, ”Equals in rank, perhaps.”

Then her gaze lifted. ”But in strength…?”

The Drowned King recoiled.

It was not a dramatic step. His foot slid back a fraction while his shoulders drew in despite himself. It had been a very long time since he had seen that lich direct anything resembling animosity at him.

”I-Iʼm powerful,” he declared, forcing the words out with a rasp that scraped raw stone. ”You know that. I have drowned cities under the weight of my mighty armies! I have-”

His voice faltered.

He stared into her face.

There was nothing there. No flare of ego. No irritation. No threat sharpened for display. Just an empty skull held perfectly still, runes etched deep enough that even time had failed to soften them. The sensation crept in without warning. Weight. Pressure. A sense of scale so vast it made his own years of corrupting this plane of existence feel thin and poorly justified. ”The origin of your moniker. Have you forgotten?”

Unlike younger liches, she carried none of her past self. No lingering instincts made her act even remotely like a living being. She was a cold, unfeeling creature that should not be.

”!!” Suddenly, the memory of a human king leading his forces down a river surfaced. The boats carrying his mighty armies were drowned in the water when a single, horrible monstrosity stood in their way and showed him the power of corruption.

Itʼd been so long ago that the Drowned King had forgotten how he became an undead in the first place.

He felt small.

”Youʼre an embarrassment,” the Blind Grave Oracle added.

The words landed stronger than any punch couldʼve.

The Drowned Kingʼs jaw worked soundlessly. His hands curled, then unclenched. After a long, grinding second, he turned away and lowered himself back onto his throne with stiff, jerking movements.

”This isnʼt over,” he hissed. ”I wonʼt forget this.”

The Blind Grave Oracle did not look at him again.

Her attention shifted through the projection, past the Covenantʼs chamber, and into the strategy room of Elvardia. Her unseen gaze settled on the two rulers across the table.

King Ragnar straightened. ”A voice of reason, finally.”