Heir of the Shadow

As the last remnants of the dark fog that clung to Shayol Ghul began to dissipate, Naravoss made his way down the rugged terrain, his steps almost instinctual. The landscape was barren, a reflection of the desolation that had consumed his own soul over the countless years of his imprisonment.

Upon encountering a band of Trollocs, Naravoss paused, a sinister smile playing on his lips. With a flick of his wrist he wove a complex pattern of Compulsion around the creatures. Their eyes, initially filled with mindless hunger, now glistened with a dark purpose directed by Naravoss's will.

"Serve," he commanded simply, his voice carrying the weight of undeniable authority. The Trollocs nodded, their brutish forms now tools at his disposal.

The journey continued, and as the familiar yet altered landscape of the world stretched before him, Naravoss contemplated the peculiar call of Saidin. It rushed to him, not with the whispers of madness as it did for so many others, but like a long-lost friend, eager and welcoming. This connection, reinforced over his sealed centuries, now felt like an extension of his very essence.

Upon reaching a small village, nestled quietly at the foot of a mountain, Naravoss paused to admire the simple beauty of it. Here, he thought, would be where he laid the groundwork for his new empire. As he entered the village, his presence seemed to cast a subtle shadow over the place, his dark aura seeping into its very foundations.

With the meticulous care of a weaver at his loom, Naravoss began to manipulate the threads of this community. He introduced himself as a traveler seeking refuge from the chaos of a world in turmoil. His story, rich with fabricated details of sorrow and loss, tugged at the hearts of the villagers, who were none the wiser to the Compulsion woven into their minds.

In the quiet of his newly acquired quarters, Naravoss sat by the window, his gaze fixed on the distant peaks of Dragonmount. His lips curled into a smile, not of contentment but of anticipation.

"A new beginning indeed," he whispered to the night, his voice a chilling promise of the storms to come. "The Dragon will know my wrath."

In the quiet of the early morning, Naravoss stood overlooking the village that lay nestled beneath the towering peaks of the mountains. His reflection in the small mirror showed a man who could command attention in any court of the world alabaster skin, raven black hair, and eyes as dark as a moonless nights. He adjusted his cloak, the fabric falling perfectly over his tall, muscular frame, every inch the nobleman he pretended to be.

He had chosen his new identity with care: a young noble from Malkier, a land lost to the Blight, whose family had perished under a Trolloc attack. His mother, supposedly an Andorian noble, had died when he was an infant, leaving him a legacy he was now poised to claim.

As he made his way through the village, his regal bearing did not go unnoticed by the villagers, who whispered among themselves, speculating about the identity of this striking newcomer. Naravoss approached the widow who owned considerable lands and a minor title, a distant relation to his fictitious mother.

"Good day, Madam," Naravoss began, his voice smooth and commanding. "I am the last of my family, come to seek my heritage and to honor the memory of my parents."

The widow, taken aback by his presence, invited him in. Over tea, Naravoss wove a compelling tale of survival and loss, subtly weaving threads of Compulsion into their conversation, ensuring her sympathy and acceptance of his story.

Within weeks, Naravoss had not only secured his place in the widow's home but had also begun the legal processes to adopt him formally as her heir. His plans were unfolding perfectly, each step meticulously planned and executed.

As he signed the last of the documents, Naravoss allowed himself a rare smile. He was now officially a noble of Andor, with lands and titles to his name. But this was just the beginning. From this position, he could influence, manipulate, and control the very threads of power that ran through the nation.

As he gazed out towards the horizon, his thoughts turned towards the Dragon Reborn. Naravoss knew that his path would eventually lead him to confront the man who bore that title. But for now, he was content to build his strength, gather allies, and weave his dark plots under the guise of nobility.

"Let the Great Game begin," he whispered to himself, a glint of ambition flashing in his pitch-black eyes.