When Thrones Split Between Light and Void

[Verse I — As the Empyrean Titans entered the room]
The Lunar Emperor strides first, moonlight cracking under his feet,
Stars bending back as if refusing to witness this war.
Beside him, the Fallen Archangel descends, wings aflame with ruin,
His halo fractured, rewriting hymns into warnings.
Then comes the Monarch of Destruction, every step a collapsing fate,
And the Hollow Sovereign, silent as the grave between worlds.
Yet the one who sits before them?
Dark Lord doesn’t even blink.
Just… exhales.
A sigh older than creation.
“Vaar—syl’kaar… aelun na’var.”
[Chorus I — Fragments of light + darkness clash like a galactic war]
Rise, o broken champions,
Cross the rift where day and night converge.
Rise, though your glories scatter,
He speaks—and destinies purge.
“Kael’thuun… vara suun…”
[Verse II — Dark Lord moved his body a little, universe immediately apologized]
The Dark Lord shifts his posture slightly—
just a lean, a subtle tilt,
and the entire throne room trembles like a dying sun.
His left hand dangles in boredom,
obsidian gauntlet humming with primordial law.
His right fist rests upon his cheek,
crimson irises half-lidded,
judging gods as if they were misbehaving children.
“Eri’thaal… lunarae… thun vel dra’khir.”
The squad charges—
moonlight, divinity, destruction, hollow breath—
their powers roar, colliding into a cosmic symphony.
But the Dark Lord?
He doesn’t stand.
Not yet.
Not for them.
[Chorus II — Two worlds cracked, the chorus screamed as if they were about to be swallowed by a black hole]
Fall, o trembling heroes,
Your blades break upon fate’s stone.
Fall, for his silent boredom
Outweighs empires you once owned.
“Shaar vek’laa… dun’reth saar…”
[Bridge — When they successfully touched dark lord armor… a little]
The Lunar Emperor’s strike grazes his armor—
just a spark.
Just a flicker.
But it is enough for the throne to awaken.
The dual-realm gate tears open behind him,
light screaming, darkness roaring,
the galaxies in between begging for mercy.
He rises at last.
Slowly.
Gracefully.
Like the end of time stretching its limbs.
“Aesh’khora — velun… tha’raen… UL-KAARA.”
[Final Chorus — Both realms immediately uninstall]
Kneel, o lunar crown,
Your moonlight dims beneath his gaze.
Kneel, o fallen wings,
Your hymns dissolve in shadowed haze.
Kneel, destruction’s monarch,
Your wrath is but a dying flame.
Kneel, hollow sovereign,
For emptiness remembers his name.
“VAA’THORR—SUUN AER’KHAAL.”
[Outro — As the Dark Lord stands fully, reality throws up its hands in surrender.]
And as he steps forward,
the two realms crack like fragile glass,
their lights, their voids,
their histories—
bowing in terror.
For the throne does not crown him.
The throne fears him.
And even united,
they are nothing before the one
who grew tired of eternity
long before they learned to wield it.

A towering war-opera with godlike dual vocals, crushing bass, and apocalyptic choirs shaking all reality