Magicka
15 years had passed since the Dark Lord fell.
In the deepest chamber beneath the continent, far below any city or settlement, Dagon sat in perfect stillness. His form—borrowed from the Dark Lord's preserved corpse—had stabilized over the decade, the dead flesh slowly transforming into something more suited to his divine nature. The features had shifted, sharpened, become less human and more... other.
He meditated.
Not in the peaceful sense that mortals understood. This was something else—a fierce, focused concentration that drew power from the very core of the world. The old bindings that had held him for five thousand years were completely gone now, dissolved by time and the chaos of the Dark Lord's death. But his strength was still depleted. Still recovering.
So he waited.
Fifteen years of drawing energy from ley lines, from the planet's molten heart, from the ambient magic that saturated Magicka's atmosphere. Ten years of rebuilding what had been lost.
