Beneath the cursed tides of Schattenmeer, something ancient stirred. Morgrath the Drowned Dread, once a terror of the skies, had been lured into the abyss centuries ago, its wings broken by the weight of the black tide. But Schattenmeer does not grant peace in death—it binds, it twists, it waits.
On the night of the Dread Eclipse, Baron Edgar von Schattenmeer stood at the shore, a shard of the Schattenspiegel in his grasp. The lake roared as the dragon’s skeletal form rose from the depths, water streaming from its rotting wings, its empty sockets burning with green fire.
Morgrath did not submit willingly. It lashed out, the tide itself turning against Edgar. But in the mirror’s fractured reflection, the dragon glimpsed its lost glory—a promise of dominion, not oblivion. Edgar’s words were chains of will and sorcery, binding the beast in a pact neither truly won. It would serve—but never kneel.
Now, when Edgar rides to war, Morgrath soars above him, its breath a suffocating mist of drowned souls, its wings trailing death. The The Reflection of Ruin, no longer seeking mere conquest but the birth of a new empire—where the dead rule eternal.