A gigantic blade, made from ethereal black, had been left lying in a high-held hill full of dark, miserable soil.
That hill was now known as Sword Grave.
The sky was a distant, obscure grey, and the forces at power were all in rather somber moods.
Juma Torren tousled his long, sly black hair behind his neck as his majestic green eyes expulsed mana every once in a while.
He wore the black gown given to all Elvish Emperors, and upon his head was a strange silver-blue-tinged crown that held more value than Juma himself.
A heavenly sheath had been placed by his hip, and a legion of his most trusted warriors gloomily walked behind him, cautiously checking the surroundings with twitching eyes.
The air was cold and grim. But Juma still felt rather sweet about the entire situation.
He had finally been given a true opportunity to prove his worth as Emperor.
