End of the Nioban Kingdoms & The Age of Dusk

ith Nioba shattered and the last embers of resistance extinguished beneath the boot of undeath, Hephsut cemented his dominion with an empire forged not from life, but from the cold, unyielding grip of fear and necromancy. What had once been the radiant Kiteshi Empire now lay beneath the shadow of the Eternal Domain—a realm where the living were mere husks, serving the dead, and death itself was no escape but a doorway to eternal bondage. The sacred temples of Amnut, once blazing with the light of the sun god, were razed, their golden spires melted into grotesque effigies honoring Hephsut’s twisted supremacy. Hallowed texts were defiled, rewritten with hollow praises for the Eternal Lich, their divine essence bled dry, leaving only the echoes of faith long betrayed.

The Merchant Princes, once the architects of Nioba’s prosperity, found themselves caught between the cold jaws of survival and treachery. Some bent the knee, trading loyalty for power, their houses absorbed into Hephsut’s new order. They became puppet rulers, governing provinces carved from the carcass of Nioba, their wealth and influence hollow facades masking their true servitude. Their dynasties flourished not through legacy but through betrayal, synonymous with both opulence and disgrace. Those whose ambitions dared outgrow their usefulness met swift and absolute annihilation—ambition tolerated only when it served Hephsut’s design.

Hephsut’s grip tightened through the establishment of a shadowy council of necromancer lords, each overseeing key regions with ruthless precision. Their loyalty was not earned but bound through blood magic, dark pacts, and the ever-present threat of annihilation. At the heart of this web of control lay the Infinus Maledus, clutched in Hephsut’s skeletal grasp—a reservoir of forbidden knowledge, its cursed pages whispering secrets of disease, decay, and dominion. From its abyssal depths, Hephsut drew endless power, crafting new horrors to enforce his will.

To crush any flicker of rebellion, Hephsut forged the Risen Legion, an elite cadre of undead enforcers whose fanaticism was rivaled only by their cruelty. Among them marched the twisted remnants of the once-revered Sun Ward, now cursed as his Ravagers—their sacred oaths corrupted, their souls shackled to eternal torment. These fallen warriors, once protectors of Nioba’s light, now served as instruments of its unending darkness, their identities eroded, their glory reduced to ash. Surveillance was absolute. Dissenters vanished without a trace, their bodies conscripted into undeath, their memories stripped, leaving only hollow shells marching under the banner they once opposed.

As the ultimate symbol of his victory, Hephsut mounted the shattered shards of the Sun Spear—once the radiant emblem of Kitesh’s divine legacy—above his Eternal Throne. Where it had once blazed with the light of Amnut, it now hung fractured, its broken pieces glinting like dying embers, a cruel reminder that even the brightest flames could be snuffed out.

Nioba, once the radiant heart of the Kiteshi Empire, now languishes beneath a sun that feels more like an afterthought than a god. The skies hang heavy with perpetual twilight, the weakened rays of daylight unable to pierce the suffocating pall cast by Hephsut’s dominion. The land itself bears the scars of conquest—cities broken, cultures erased, and histories rewritten with ink made from ash and bone.

Under Hephsut’s rule, Nioba is a kingdom of shadows. The living toil beneath the gaze of an undead aristocracy, their every breath measured and monitored, their existence reduced to servitude. Cities still pulse with activity, but not the vibrant hum of life—instead, they are hollow, mechanized, sustained only to feed the endless hunger of the necrotic elite. Grand boulevards that once led pilgrims to temples of the sun god now spiral toward towering statues of the Immortal Lich King, his visage carved into stone with an eternal sneer. These monolithic effigies cast long, suffocating shadows, blotting out the sun both literally and figuratively. Their oppressive presence looms over every crumbling street, a constant reminder that freedom is a relic of the past.

Whispers of rebellion flicker like dying candles, hidden in crypts beneath shattered temples. Forgotten prayers to Amnut echo through the underground, carried by the last remnants of faith. But above ground, the Eternal Domain thrives—a grotesque parody of empire, ruled by the dead, fed by the living, and haunted by the memory of a sun that once refused to die.