A distant land – inside a small castle where the secret council was held,
In a small hall inside a distant castle, where the secret council was held, Marquess Leon Cypher sat alone in his chair, leaning against the golden armrest, effortlessly swirling the wine glass between his fingers, as if time itself had no meaning to him. The hall was empty of visitors, and the darkness surrounded him except for the faint light filtering through the high windows. On the surface, he appeared calm and indifferent, but inside… his thoughts raced, tracing the memory of what had transpired the previous night.
He closed his eyes for a moment, then spoke in a quiet, almost detached voice, as if the words were meant more for himself than anyone else.
Leon, in a calm voice, almost distant: "We are prisoners of our destinies."
His words echoed in the quiet space around him, as if they were an expression of his complete surrender to the web of fate from which there was no escape. His voice carried a depth of regret, or perhaps indifference. He knew that the decisions he had made had led him to a place from which there was no turning back.
Then he looked out the window, gazing at the distant horizon, as if wondering about the consequences that would follow his actions.
He sighed deeply, as if the very air had become heavy upon him, then returned to gazing into the distant horizon through the window, continuing to ponder what lay ahead, without daring to define anything.
After a few moments of silence, memories began to flood his mind before he attended the funeral ceremony. They were blurry images, blending reality and fantasy, carrying with them exhausting details.
Before attending the burial ceremony, while the crowds gathered there, he had gone elsewhere… to the Duke Vanheim's palace.
Vanheim Palace - Behind the door of Duke Blatir's chamber
He stood before the door of Blatir's chamber. Slowly, he opened it, and the creaking sound tore through the silence, as if the very walls were protesting his entry.
And there, in the darkness of the room, Blatir was not the man he knew… but a broken, shattered figure slumped in his chair, his eyes wild, his hands trembling.
Leon stepped inside, walking directly toward him.
Blatir slowly raised his head, his eyes meeting Leon's. Then, the sound rang out… that sharp sound that struck like a dagger to his chest.
Leon: "What have you done with your own hands, Blatir...?"
As if the air had been cut off. Blatir was stunned by the words, a tremor coursing through his body like a deadly frost, as if the blood had frozen in his veins.
Leon, in a low voice, but heavier than a scream: "I'm asking you… what did you do to her? How dare you unleash your anger on my sister?"
Blatir's face turned pale, his eyes flashing with panic.
Blatir, whispering in madness: "I... I didn't mean to do that!!! I never wanted this!!"
Leon, He felt his blood boiling in his veins, but he tried to control himself.
Leon, in his mind: ["So... he really did it..."]
He clenched his fists tightly until he felt his nails almost piercing the flesh of his hands. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the turmoil that surged through him, then slowly released his grip, as if every step to avoid an explosion required immense effort.
A moment. This was the only chance. He wouldn't waste it.
He smiled, a faint smile, and whispered in a sharp voice, as if cutting through the air around him.
Leon, his tone dripping with disdain: "But you did. You killed my dear sister, Blatir… I will never forgive you."
Blatir gasped, his body convulsing as if invisible chains had wrapped around him. But suddenly...
Leon, with a sharp, mysterious tone: "But… I might forgive you… if you do this."
Blatir immediately raised his head, like a drowning man spotting a lifeboat in the ocean. He didn't know why, but those words were like a hidden key, unlocking a door to an exit that had never existed before.
Leon moved closer, then whispered in a deep voice, but with the chill of hell within.
Leon: "Take revenge."
A heavy silence fell, so thick that even their breaths could be heard. Nothing but the beating of their hearts, sounding like war drums echoing deep inside.
Leon, with a weight heavier than mountains: "Take revenge on those who made you reach this state, who caused the death of your wife...
those who took your right… your right to the throne"
And in that moment, Blatir Vanheim was no longer the same man.
Leon Cypher returned to the present. He steadied the wine glass in his hand and drank it all at once.
In the Dreamcrown Palace – Inside the Throne Hall.
The bright lights danced across the surfaces, and laughter scattered in the air like false notes. The attendees moved among the dancers and the drinks, thinking they were celebrating a happy ending to a bright future, but deep within those lights, the shadows quietly curled around the walls, as if avoiding being drawn on the faces. The shadows watched them in silence, as if they knew something that no one else did. The air was heavy, as though each breath was coming from a weary heart bracing for something terrible, while the words of the guests melted into the void, talking of grandeur and power, of the Kingdom that would reign.
Inside the grand hall, Marchioness Atris Starkov stood near a small round table adorned with exquisite dishes, fine appetizers, and glasses of drink reflecting the dancing lights. The atmosphere was lively, yet threads of tension weaved through the air among the gathered nobility. Atris held her glass, moving it slowly between her hands in hesitation, her eyes scanning the crowd, observing the features of those present. There was something odd in the air, something that hinted at a conspiracy or an impending change.
Suddenly, Earl Julian Hartley approached, walking with confident steps toward her, his eyes holding a calm gaze that shifted across the crowd before settling on her. He bowed slightly in respect, his hands making an elegant gesture.
Julian: "My lady... may I?"
Atris turned her head towards him, offering a light smile before nodding gently.
Atris: "Of course, Lord Hartley."
Julian approached slowly and stood across from her, reaching for another glass of drink from the scattered table. They raised their glasses together in a synchronized motion and took a few sips.
Julian: "Not bad... but our family's wine in Caleri will always be the best. Haha."
Atris chuckled softly, as if recalling something, then let her gaze rest on him for a moment. She was thinking beyond his words, then spoke in a calm and balanced voice.
Atris: "I've known Duke Lucas for a long time... but you, Lord Hartley, have known him much longer than I have. What do you think of him... how do you see him performing in his role as king?"
Her voice was soft but carried a precise tone. Earl Julian looked at the drink in his hands for a long moment, as if deep in thought, before lifting his gaze to her with a sharp, confident look.
Julian: "I believe he will be worthy of it... A man of his caliber, he is the right one for the position."
A few moments of silence passed before Atris looked at him with surprise, then smiled with a side grin.
Atris: "But... how did you know about this news? As far as I know, no word from the council is allowed to leave the room."
Julian smiled as he raised his glass, taking a slow sip, briefly turning his gaze away, as if trying to hide some secret. Aties had figured something out.
Atris, with a slight smile: "Baron Kimri... isn't it? Perhaps that's why a man like him is in the council..."
Julian returned his gaze to her, smiling mysteriously, then spoke in a low voice, as if commenting on his way of life.
Julian: "Always leave an eye behind you in every place you depart..."
He chuckled softly, then continued.
Julian: "Not because I don't trust anyone, but because I know how this world works."
Their conversation continued in a calm rhythm while the hall was crowded with nobility discussing the upcoming king and the surprising choice that might come from this occasion. The conversations intertwined throughout the room, each person speaking in pure diplomatic language, with eyes watching every movement and gesture.
In a corner of the hall, Katrina Rosefield stood holding her glass, her face marked by confusion and anxiety. Her eyes searched through the crowd, stopping at Isabel Windsword, who stood far away, her hands clasped in front of her, frozen in deep silence.
Those eyes that despise everything in front of them, that smile that belittles those around it... She wasn't there... replaced by blank stares, as if she didn't care about anything anymore.
The throne hall buzzed with nobles, their voices blending into a tapestry of hushed laughter, murmured conversations, and the clinking of raised glasses in celebration of the coronation. In the far-right corner stood Ser Darren Castro, an air of mystery surrounding him despite the lively atmosphere.
He sipped his drink slowly, as if watching time dissolve with every drop. Then, he lifted his glass once more to take another sip... yet suddenly, he stopped.
His gaze was drawn to the window on his right, where the outside world was laid bare. In the distant horizon, he saw it... thick, dark red smoke rising slowly, as if the sky itself was exhaling its final breath.
A strange unease crept into his mind. Something about this sight was... wrong. He didn't understand it, but the mystery slithered into his thoughts, whispering something he had yet to grasp. Quickly, he turned his sharp eyes toward Raymond, Talia, and Dion... the members of House Vanheim, present in the hall. Their faces betrayed nothing, only a composed, practiced calm.
With measured steps, Darren moved toward the window, his pace deliberate, his body unwilling to accept what his mind already suspected. As he stood there, the full scene unfolded before him.
The sky… had turned crimson, as if it had been stained with blood. And in the midst of this ominous shift, he saw a knight standing firm, his emblem unmistakable... the sigil of House Vanheim. The knight raised another weapon toward the heavens, unleashing a burning flare, "Call of Fier"... a signal that carried a thousand meanings.
Darren's hand clenched into a fist, the searing anger spreading through his veins. Through gritted teeth, he muttered under his breath, his words laced with simmering disdain.
Darren: "Those damned fools… They're already here. So why are they indulging in their wretched traditions now!? They can't even restrain their foolishness on the day of the coronation…"
A heavy sensation settled in his chest, as if the very air around him had thickened. He took a step back, scanning the faces in the hall until his eyes locked onto the Vanheim nobles once more.
There was… something. A look, a feeling… Something he couldn't quite define.
But he ignored it.
On the opposite side, in the middle of the hall, Duke Satheron Blackmirth stood with Viscountess Silvia, his eyes scanning the crowd with clear disdain. He paid no mind to the discussions around him.
Satheron, in a low voice: "I never imagined I'd kneel before that silent phantom in my life... I can imagine what he'll say then...
Nothing... just silent, icy stares from his eyes."
He paused for a moment, then looked at the glass in front of him, closing his eyes slightly, before taking a sip. When he lifted his gaze again, his features were more intense, as if commenting on something far beyond their sight.
Satheron: "But at least... he's a man who knows what he's doing. The most suitable to lead this kingdom toward a better future... for now."
In the left corner at the start of the hall, Talia stood near her brother Dion, whispering in his ear.
Talia: "Any news about our father?"
Dion, who had been looking at the crowd without lifting his head, turned slowly to her. His expression showed concern, but he didn't hide his frown.
Dion, in a low voice: "No one has seen him, not even my guards or my agents. He disappeared after the funeral ceremony ended."
Talia sighed, her expression reflecting deep concern.
As the royal guards moved toward the large door, as if walking through other worlds, Lucas Nightover stood in the center, his heart pounding with intensity, but his eyes were lost in something else. It wasn't the crown that moved him, nor the power he was about to possess, but something invisible surrounded him. Something ancient, mysterious, carrying within it countless bloodlines. His feet dragged him toward the throne, but his soul was searching for a way out.
And in that moment, when light and shadow intertwined, and eyes were drawn toward the closed entrance door in awe, everyone felt something strange creeping into the atmosphere of the hall. It wasn't just the sound that changed, but existence itself seemed to be on the brink of rebellion. Suddenly, as the sound in the throne hall shifted to tense silence, something unexpected descended from the ceiling of the entrance.
In that fateful moment, as the first beats of drums echoed and the sounds of instruments rose, Blatir Vanheim descended from the ceiling of the hall as if falling from a bottomless abyss. His fall was not just a movement; it was a brutal strike, silent as a divine judgment. His inverted sword sliced through the air like a muffled scream before piercing Lucas Nightover's skull in a killing blow, shattering the bone, driving the blade through his chin, as if he wanted to tear apart his soul before killing his body.
An explosion of blood. Hot droplets filled the gap between the royal guards, falling like red rain, landing on their faces, clothes, and their mouths wide open in horror. Everyone stood frozen, as if time itself refused to move after that catastrophe. Lucas's body fell to the ground like a lifeless doll, trembling without life, his head striking the floor, and his eyes still bearing the trace of astonishment, disbelief, and the terror that had no chance to escape.
But Blatir didn't stop.
In the blink of an eye, Blatir turned toward the guard on his right. The flash from the sword's blade reflected the faint light from the torches before it disappeared into the body of the first guard, splitting his head in two with a clean, swift cut. His eyes were still blinking, as if his mind hadn't yet realized that he was already dead. There was no scream, no chance for panic, only death, raw and brutal, executing its judgment in complete silence.
The second guard wasn't any luckier. He didn't meet a merciful death but received a deep stab to his guts, not killing him immediately, but leaving him staggering, gasping, his trembling hands trying to hold his entrails, futilely attempting to keep them inside before they collapsed through his fingers. The air around him froze, his body betrayed him, and his vision began to fade, but he heard footsteps... heavy steps approaching him, with them came the voice, cold as the sword that had been driven into his body.
Blatir, in a faint voice, as if it were a passing phrase among the murmurs of the wind.
Blatir: "How awful it is to die while trying to stay on your feet."
He lifted his foot and shoved the fallen guard's body, causing it to crash to the ground, lifeless.
Then, in the end, there was the third guard… but he did not move. He didn't draw his sword. He didn't take a single step back. He stood there, silent, as if time had frozen around him.
But Blatir didn't need to look into his eyes to understand the truth. He knew. This was no ordinary guard...
This was Ser Elliot.
A silent moment passed between them. One glance was enough to understand everything. Blatir didn't ask him, didn't threaten him, didn't raise his weapon. All he did was approach, slowly, then place his heavy hand on his shoulder, pressing gently, as a sign… or as a judgment.
Elliot didn't move at first. That was his dividing line… the moment that separated what he had been from what he would become. He was a noble knight, a man who had lived his life by principles, and now, he stood above the corpses of those who were supposed to be his brothers in arms.
Slowly, he took a trembling breath, then exhaled as if expelling something from deep within.
Then, without a word, he moved.
He bent, took the bodies one by one, and dragged them out, where the prying eyes of the curious could not see them. His hands, which had once carried the flag of honor, now carried the blood of betrayal. And when he finished, he looked at his hands for a moment… then wiped them on his cloak, as if he could erase the truth.
But he wouldn't be able to.
He had crossed the line, and he would never return to what he once was.
Then...
Then came the silence.
It wasn't an ordinary silence, but a void, a deep abyss that seeped into the hall, absorbing everything. The laughter that was, the music that had played, the whispers that preceded the crime. Nothing remained but the sound of slow footsteps.
Blatir, with a chilling calmness, began to remove his black cloak, as if shedding an old skin. Beneath it, the royal attire gleamed, stained with the blood it had absorbed. He paused for a moment, inhaling the air thick with death. The door opened slowly. He lifted his head and looked ahead.
He gazed it...The Throne of Arcadia.
The Throne... of 'Newfear'.
At the heart of the grand hall, where light fades before it touches the ground, rises the Throne of Newfear... a creation beyond a mere royal seat, more akin to an eternal sculpture that commands both awe and reverence. This throne is not made of gold or silver but of obsidian stone, polished to a mirror-like surface, fractured as if holding within it the secrets of past ages.
Its back extends upward like twisted branches of living black metal, stretching as if trying to embrace whoever dares sit upon it.. yet never quite touching them. These branches are not chaotic; they intertwine with deliberate artistry, resembling veins of power coursing through the throne, or frozen tongues of fire caught in a moment of defiance. If one gazes long enough, they might discern faint faces hidden within the entwined structure... not faces of agony, but of souls staring toward the horizon, searching for something forever out of reach.
The armrests extend forward in the form of two massive hands, sculpted from black onyx veined with fine threads of gold, as if bearing the weight of the world itself. Upon touching them, one might feel a faint pulse... not the cold stillness of stone, but the subtle hum of something alive, watching, judging, determining who is worthy of the throne.
The seat itself is not a mere smooth surface but crafted from a metallic fabric, soft to the touch yet unyielding, reflecting a faint glow as though preserving the lingering presence of past rulers. Sitting upon it does not bring absolute comfort but rather a strange sense of balance, as if the throne demands vigilance, forcing its occupant to remain ever aware, ready to decide at any moment.
At its base, four pillars extend outward in the shape of meticulously carved fangs... a symbol of the throne's unbreakable power and the inescapable fate it carries. Each fang is engraved with ancient inscriptions, not in any known language, yet to those who sit upon the throne, the meaning becomes clear... not through reading, but through an understanding that resonates within their very soul.
Before the throne, there is no royal carpet... only a black glass floor, its surface reflecting the image of the seated ruler, though distorted, sometimes even twisted... as if reminding them that power does not show our true selves, but rather reveals them.
The Throne of Newfear was not traditionally beautiful, yet it stood as a masterpiece... darkly enchanting, a blend of majesty and mystery, of artistry and fear. Everyone who beheld it felt an unshakable urge to reach out and touch it, yet not all had the courage to sit upon it… for those who did had to be ready to become a part of it.
Then Blatir took slow, deliberate steps forward, each movement carrying the weight of the thousands of feet that had walked before him on this path, every step echoing like the slow toll of a death knell.
As soon as he passed through the door, he turned to the guards and gave them a quiet but firm command.
Blatir: "Close it."
They immediately obeyed, and the heavy doors slammed shut with a sound like the end of one chapter and the beginning of another.
He continued walking. The sound of his footsteps filled the vast hall, as if the marble floor itself was listening to him alone. The assembly clapped warmly, their eyes glowing with excitement. To them, this was a day of celebration, the day of the new king's victory, Blatir Vanheim.
No one realized the truth.
No one understood that this moment was not a coronation... but the end.
Krevius, the old sage in a purple robe, stood before the throne, his back slightly curved under the weight of time. He knew this moment was pivotal, but he hid the tremor in his voice as he breathed slowly and then raised it to speak across the hall.
Krevius: "By the authority granted to me... I declare that Duke Blatir Vanheim shall ascend to the throne of Newfear."
Silence.
The hall held its breath, as if time itself had paused for a fleeting moment. Then the old man continued, his voice rising with its echo as if declaring a fated destiny.
The applause was deafening, like the roar of a turbulent sea. The voices rose, echoing through the marble columns and ornate walls.
Everyone believed, without a shadow of doubt. Everyone, except Raymond. The eldest son of the king. He stood frozen in place.
He didn't clap. He didn't cheer. He stared. His eyes scanned the hall as if his mind was trying to catch up with what was happening. How? When? Why?
He turned his gaze to his siblings, Talia and Dion. Talia, her lips half open, her eyes reflecting shock. Dion, his brow furrowed, his features frozen in a mix of disbelief and doubt.
Neither of them understood.
Because something was wrong.
But… there was no time to think.
"Congratulations, Your Majesty..." Aqua whispered, laughing lightly, trying to ease the tension, but Raymond was not in a mood to laugh. He wondered to himself, was this the plan from the beginning? Was Blatir always meant to be crowned!? And why hadn't his father told him what was going to happen?
Raymond's eyes met Blatir's, but there was no response from the latter. Blatir looked at him coldly, as if nothing had happened. Raymond Remembered that moment, when he saw Ser Darren kneel to Duke Lucas. Without hesitation, he whispered in Aqua's ear, trying to make sense of the situation.
Raymond: "Didn't your father tell you anything? About tonight?"
Aqua looked at him in confusion but answered in a low voice.
Aqua: "No... I was somewhere yesterday, so I came back home at night, but he wasn't there. I was relieved to learn I wouldn't have to argue with him and went to sleep quickly. But... what? Is there something you want?"
Raymond didn't say anything. While all eyes were on the new king, he was still in shock. His eyes wouldn't stop scanning the crowd, but the words twisted in his mind, floating in meaningless gaps. The air was filled with the chants that filled the space, but amidst all the noise, Ser Darren Castro stood motionless, his body stiff like a statue, his wide eyes scanning the hall in shock.
Atris and Julian exchanged a look of shock and disbelief. Their eyes met, wide with astonishment, as the reality of the moment set in. Neither of them could comprehend what had just unfolded before them. They stood frozen for a brief instant, as if the world around them had stopped, their minds racing to make sense of the unexpected turn of events.
On the platform of the throne, where Duke Lucas Nightover was supposed to be standing at this very moment, stood Blatir Vanheim. The crown had not yet been placed on his head, yet he ascended the platform as if he had owned it since the beginning of time. The royal banner had not yet been draped over his shoulders, yet his presence filled the space as if he were already the king.
Every detail indicated that this was not just a coronation ceremony, but a takeover. Every glance Blatir cast upon the crowd seemed to say, "The king is dead, long live the new king." But in Darren's eyes, those glances whispered something else entirely…
Amid the noise and blind cheers, Ser Darren stood as if ice had crept into his veins. He could no longer hear the applause, no longer see the lights. All he could see was the dark figure of Blatir standing where he did not belong.
Darren: "This is impossible…" Darren whispered, his voice shattering in his throat like glass.
His eyes began to frantically search through the crowd, looking for a familiar face, for any trace of Duke Lucas Nightover or King Irvin Luskarth. But neither was anywhere to be found.
He clenched his fists so tightly that blood nearly seeped from under his nails. "What is happening here…!!?"
Without hesitation, Darren turned and rushed out of the hall, ignoring the cheers and applause. His steps were quick and tense as he made his way through the palace's marble corridors, as if demons themselves were chasing him.
The hall was shaken by human storms; applause, shouts, trumpets heralding the birth of a new era. But amidst that clamor, Blatir saw the scene as if it were a reflection in a blood-drenched mirror. His eyes devoured the crowds with a ravenous hunger, a hunger that did not know whether it would satisfy him or kill him.
The lights fell upon the crown on his head like sunlight falling on a sword dipped in skulls. The gleam of gold seemed to him like the gleam of a fresh wound, bleeding a light devoid of life.
Every step toward the throne was like a bronze bell tolling at the funeral of a dying empire. Every clack of his heel against the floor brought back to him the memory of that sound… the sound of the sword piercing Lucas's skull. The sound was strange, as if the bone of the head wasn't bone, but a ripe fruit bursting in his hand. His face still felt the chill of the bloody spray, stinging his skin like poisoned morning dew.
Before the sage raised the crown, before Blatir sat upon the throne, there was a history of horror ingrained in the very core of these artifacts. In the era of the ancient Mirafin Empire, when the secrets of the universe were more mysterious, a brilliantly white meteor fell from the sky, like a piece of starlight made tangible on earth. Its brilliance filled all who beheld it with both awe and tranquility, as if it were a gift from a pure, otherworldly realm.
Emperor Nirvos Dragonov, captivated by its beauty and mythical origin, ordered this celestial stone to be polished and fashioned into a crown for his head and a throne for his kingdom. They were two masterpieces of pure beauty, shining like snow under the midday sun, symbols of a power believed to be sacred.
But as time passed, something strange began to happen. The crown and throne no longer retained their pristine whiteness. Their luster began to dim, as if something dark was seeping into them from within. Servants tried to clean them with all their might, but black spots appeared like bruises on a pure body, spreading slowly and ruthlessly. It was not ordinary dirt, but a blackness emanating from within, as if the heart of the stone itself was sickening.
It wasn't just the crown and throne; the Emperor and his nobles began to feel themselves becoming "soiled." Their souls no longer shone with the purity of the past, and their hearts became shrouded in shadows of doubt, greed, and betrayal. Sin and transgression seeped into the world like ink in water, and the crown and throne were the first to absorb this human poison.
In the end, the transformation was complete. The crown and throne became a single mass of utter blackness, without a glimmer of their original light. That angelic meteor was no more, existing only as a painful memory.
Whispers spread among commoners and nobles alike: this blackness is the fruit of human sin. It is a curse unleashed by greed, avarice, and the blood spilled in this world. The crown and throne were no longer mere symbols of power; they became a mirror reflecting the filth of the human soul.
From that moment, a new symbol of fear was born. Fear of power itself, fear that the truth behind the throne is as dark as the crown upon the king's head. The throne was named "Newfear" – the New Fear. As for the crown, it derived its name from the empire's capital, "Dreamcrown," but the people of the royal court, who lived under the weight of its shadow, shortened it to "Nightcrown" – not because it reminded them of the night, but because it was like a starless night, pitch black, offering no hope or escape.
The old sage Krevius Lunarion raised the Nightcrown with trembling hands, as if lifting a mountain of shadows from the past. His sunken eyes looked upon the piece of intertwined black stone as if it carried the curse of ancestors. The crown did not shine under the lights; it absorbed them, like a small black hole swallowing every glimmer of hope.
The crown was not merely a piece of jewelry to be placed on the head; it was a terrifying entity carrying within its folds a history of horror and mystery. It was not made of gleaming gold or silver, but of that strange black stone that fell from the sky like a shard from another world.
The crown was an entity alien to this world, as though carved from the heart of a dark meteor that had fallen from a forgotten sky. Its interwoven black stones and metals were not so much sculpted as they were birthed organically from a single mass, growing like the branches of a tainted tree that pulsed with a dormant life.
Its edges were not merely sharp, but curative like the fangs of a petrified beast, each one carrying the memory of a cosmic collision. And at the center of this darkness glimmered a pale white gem, like a final gasp—the last remnant of the meteor's original purity. Yet this purity was imprisoned in a lattice of black veins creeping toward its radiant heart, like hands of shadow strangling light's final breath. A last memory of innocence, drowning in a boundless sea of sin.
When light fell upon the crown, it did not reflect normally; it was trapped within as if the blackness absorbed every flash of light. In the darkness, it appeared like a void in the air, a shape visible only through its absence. If one looked at it long enough, one might glimpse faint flashes of that original whiteness, but they quickly vanished, leaving behind a sense of betrayal and guilt.
Whoever placed it on their head felt not only the weight of the stone, but the weight of the centuries. The weight of every hateful glance, every whispered betrayal, every drop of blood spilled in the name of power. It did not just touch the skull; it pierced the consciousness, reminding its wearer that he was merely a link in a long chain of darkness, and that he would be remembered not for what he built, but for what he destroyed to reach the throne.
This crown, the "Nightcrown," did not crowned kings; it taught them one lesson…
That true power lies not in controlling others, but in the fear of being controlled by that very piece of frozen night, which constantly reminds you that, regardless of your power, you will wither and die out, just as it did, from purity to darkness.
Then, with deadly slowness, he placed it upon Blatir Vanheim's head.
In that moment, no one heard the sound of the crown touching the forehead; they heard a harsh silence, as if the world had stopped spinning. Everyone felt a strange wave of coldness pass through the hall, even though fires blazed in the torches.
The black crown, with its frozen thorn-like formations, seemed not to rest on the head, but to grow from it, like a thorny wreath of inescapable fate. The pale gleam of the trapped gem in its center flickered weakly, like a final heartbeat of a murdered conscience.
Krevius recited the traditional words, but they seemed empty, lost against the weight of that black thing on the head of the man who was no longer just a man, but the embodiment of fear itself.
And the crowd was silent, no one daring to breathe, as if any sound might break the enchantment and ruin the ancient ritual, unleashing the curse carried by that crown to consume them all.
Blatir sat upon the black throne "Newfear," but the sitting was not a rest; it was an engulfment. The throne was not a seat; it was a stone mouth curving to swallow him whole. A mysterious pulse crept from the black stone into his marrow, as if the chair itself was planting a slow poison into his blood. The carved hands at the armrests did not hold him; they shackled his soul with deadly opulence.
He looked down at the black glass floor. His reflection was no longer his own; his eyes were slitted, his smile distorted, and other shadows crept beside him, shadows that were not his.
"Long live the king! Long live the king!"
The cheers were hot needles piercing his eardrums. The crowd seemed to him like moving shrouds with human faces. Faces laughing, clapping, celebrating… but in his eyes, they were the faces of walking cemeteries.
He smiled a thin smile, like a knife gleaming in a dark night. He did not rejoice with them; he saw in their screams funeral dirges, and in their cheers, contracts of slavery signed with their own blood.
Then his eyes met Raymond's.
Time stopped.
Amidst a sea of applause, the eldest son stood silent, petrified. His hands did not clap. His lips did not cheer. Only his eyes, two eyes cracked with astonishment and betrayal, carved a single question into Blatir's flesh: "How?"
But he did not answer. He did not approach, nor move away. He merely turned his face away slowly, as if the silence was harsher than any word.
He closed his eyes.
Lucas's face emerged from the darkness of his memory. It wasn't fear in his eyes… but astonishment, the astonishment of a child seeing a star burn for the first time. Then came Ser Elliot, the one who did not fight, who carried the bodies of his three comrades as if carrying fragments of his own soul… and offered them as a sacrifice to the devil.
And suddenly, he felt the weight of the crown. Not the weight of gold, but the weight of blood. The weight of a curse squatting on his skull.
The cheers receded in his ears, turning into a distant murmur, like the squeaking of rats in a damp cellar. Even the lights seemed ashamed of their brightness, blinking hesitantly, as if about to extinguish.
And within him echoed a voice that came not from the crowd nor from within himself, but from the throne itself: "What will you do to remain? What will you sacrifice to rule? And will you become like me… like us?"
His heart trembled. It wasn't beating like a human heart, but like a funeral drum, announcing the death of something he did not yet understand.
The world… is not what the eyes see.
What your sight perceives is but a fragile mask over an abyss.
And humans… are not what soft lips describe, but beasts skilled in the art of adornment, demons adept at wearing human skins.
As for the truth… it is the greatest corpse whose blood is spilled upon the tables of palaces. Its limbs are cut with golden daggers, and its remains are thrown under the feet of the applauding masses.
Look behind you…
Are you sure that what smiles at you… is not a devil?
Look into the eyes of those standing beside you… do you not see horns above their heads, gleaming with thirst for your blood?
In Newfear…
No one dies innocently.
Death itself is contaminated, stained with betrayal, seeping through the veins like black ink in stagnant water.
The throne is not a throne, but a curse that feeds on the souls of those who sit upon it. The more you believe you possess, the more the truth reveals that what you think you own… in truth, owns you.
And thus the game begins.
The game played with blood that does not dry and silence that is unbearable.
One rule governs all, a rule carved into the city's bones: "Either you betray… or you are betrayed."
And in that moment when Blatir thought he had triumphed, he had signed his contract with the beast that would devour him from within, a contract inked with the blood of a stranger.
Blatir slowly raised his hands, as if asking for silence… or as if surrendering.
And the applause stopped.
And the night collapsed.
In that moment, he understood that rule was not a victory, but a gilded guillotine. And that Newfear was not built to be ruled, but to imprison all who deluded themselves into thinking they ruled it.
And thus, it was not the beginning of a new king's reign… but the beginning of a new fear.
A chapter for which no name has yet been written.