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Sayron's heart was racing. He strode onto the balcony and peered south, though he knew he would not be able to see Faiden through the gloom. Storm clouds rolled through the valleys, leaving a few black daggers protruding up through an ocean of churning gray. Faiden was talking to him. He could feel it pleading for his intervention. Since the destruction of the Cerulean Crystal eight hundred years before, Sayron had not felt the will of the fallen high kingdom. Now he could feel its need, felt its demand for action.
The whispers of the orb quickly drowned it out, flooding his mind with distraction. He could use this, the kingdom connecting with him again. He could pull the thread of its energy and sap strength from Faiden, from the heart of the high kingdom. Sayron grit his teeth against the suggestion. He was strong enough. With the well of sorcery below his tower and his own strength, he didn't need to steal power from Faiden. To what end would he use it?
The Power of the orb washed over him, demanding he follow its orders.
"No," the dark lord hissed. "I do not need it. I won't sap strength from the land to needlessly bolster my own." The whispers became shouts, and pain lanced through him, through his mind and his chest, bringing him to his knees. "No!" he shouted, curling in on himself. "Not unless you tell me why!"
A quiet calm fell over him as the orb relented for a moment. It wanted the strength, needed it, because a great change was coming. The dark lord had been thinking as much for nearly two decades, but with the waking of the kingdom, he was now certain the orb was right. "Between your strength and mine, it will be enough," he assured it.
The orb was not pleased with his refusal to use Faiden's energy, but it relented and offered a parlay. He would be more vigilant, study all the events and signs from the lesser kingdoms in Faiden. He would dedicate his days and nights to uncovering what had happened to bring about the change in the high kingdom. He would redouble the protections of his fortress and prepare for war.
The dark lord rose to his feet and leaned on the railing for support, his body still weak from the Power's attack. His flesh was still healing. "You are certain there will be war?" It didn't answer his question. It never did. This time, however, the silence was more foreboding than usual. Was it possible that the orb didn't know what to expect? "The Oracle has been sowing seeds," the dark lord thought aloud. "And you think this is her? You think she's making her move?" He laughed softly and shook his head. "As if you have any hope. She will anticipate your every move, in spite of your chaos."
The orb lashed out at him for his insolence, and for the pleasure he took in the idea that the Oracle might destroy them both. The dark lord screamed and collapsed to the stone again. Angry rain clouds tore open and dumped sheets of murky rain down on him as he writhed in agony. This time, the Power did not relent. It ripped through him over and over, pausing only moments at a time to allow his body to heal just enough to survive. It was merciless and unrelenting, and time fell away to the torment that consumed him, each moment stretching into unbearable eternity.