The throne room was an expanse of cold grandeur, a place where power loomed like an unseen force in the air. Towering marble pillars stretched toward a vaulted ceiling, their surfaces carved with the stories of past conquests. Massive chandeliers hung above, their iron frames holding hundreds of flickering candles, casting long, shifting shadows across the polished stone floor. The walls were adorned with deep crimson banners, each bearing the empire's sigil—a black serpent coiled around a silver sword. The scent of burning torches mixed with the faint, lingering traces of incense, a constant reminder of the rituals performed for the gods of war.
Twenty elite soldiers stood in formation, their presence a testament to the emperor's paranoia—or perhaps his wisdom. Each was clad in armor that bore the marks of experience. The plates of their cuirasses, polished to a dull gleam, were etched with the insignia of their respective divisions. Some bore fresh scratches from recent skirmishes, while others had the telltale dents of past battles. Chainmail peeked from beneath their segmented pauldrons, and thick leather straps secured their arm guards. Their helmets, though currently tucked under their arms or resting at their feet, gleamed under the dim lighting, their visors designed to cover everything but the sharp eyes beneath.
And yet, despite their fearsome presence, an unease rippled through them, subtle but undeniable.
Kevin, a battle-hardened soldier in his thirties, adjusted the fit of his gauntlet, his scarred brow furrowing. He was no stranger to standing guard in the throne room, but tonight felt different. Something unspoken weighed on them, though no one dared to acknowledge it aloud. His gaze flicked to Nok, the burly soldier beside him.
Nok was an oddity among them. His expression was always vacant, his face unreadable, as if the world around him simply failed to interest him. He stood motionless, his massive arms crossed over his chest, the dull metal of his armor reflecting the glow of the torches.
Kevin leaned in slightly, keeping his voice low. "Hey, Nok, what do you think about the alliance?"
Nok barely reacted. He blinked once, then turned his blank gaze toward Kevin. "What alliance?"
Kevin frowned. "You're joking, right?"
Nok shook his head, his tone devoid of concern. "No. Was it something I was supposed to know?"
A scoff came from behind them.
Roland, a tall soldier with long, unkempt hair and a jagged scar running down his cheek, stepped closer. His breastplate bore the emblem of the Fourth Division, and unlike the others, his armor was decorated with subtle, personal embellishments—small notches on the edges of his pauldrons, a leather cord wrapped around his left vambrace. He smirked as he regarded Nok with a mixture of amusement and disdain.
"Why waste your breath on him?" Roland said, his voice laced with mockery. "You should know by now—he's a complete idiot."
Laughter rippled through the surrounding soldiers, though Nok remained as still as ever. He neither flinched nor frowned. It was as if the words never touched him at all.
Then, a younger voice, hesitant yet curious, broke through the lingering chuckles.
"But who was that man in black armor?"
A soldier barely past his teenage years shifted uneasily, his polished breastplate still free of the wear and tear that marked the veterans. His grip on the hilt of his sword tightened as he glanced toward the grand throne at the end of the hall. The massive chair, crafted from dark iron and inlaid with streaks of gold, sat on an elevated dais. It was empty now, but hours earlier, a stranger had stood before it.
A man clad in black armor.
Kevin exhaled sharply, his irritation flickering to the surface. "How the hell should I know?
"You were there," the boy said, unbothered by Kevin's irritation. "You saw him. That's more than most can say."
"You should ask His Majesty," Kevin muttered, his voice edged with frustration. "He all but licked the man's boots."
As soon as the words left his mouth, the air in the room seemed to shift.
Nok's expression, usually unchanging, hardened. His gaze snapped to Kevin, and this time, there was something in his eyes—something cold.
"Watch your tongue," Nok warned, his voice low and firm. "If His Majesty hears that, you'll be swinging from the gallows—with your whole family."
The laughter died instantly. A heavy silence settled over them, the flickering torchlight casting deep shadows over their faces. Some of the soldiers looked away, their expressions suddenly guarded. Others shifted uncomfortably, as if realizing just how fragile their own positions were.
Kevin's jaw tightened. The weight of Nok's stare pressed down on him, but his anger burned too hot to smother. "I'm just saying what everyone else is thinking."
The throne room felt colder than before. Not from the flickering torches or the vast stone walls, but from the weight of the words hanging in the air.
Roland had remained silent until now, standing just a few paces from Kevin. But as Nok's warning cut through the room, something in his chest tightened. He had seen that look before—the cold, unflinching gaze of a man who wouldn't hesitate to turn a careless whisper into a death sentence.
Kevin had been reckless. Too reckless. And yet, Roland couldn't entirely blame him. The sight of their king—their king—showing deference to an outsider had unsettled them all. The black-armored man had moved like a specter, his presence demanding attention without a single word. But it was the way the king looked at him, the weight of unspoken things between them, that made Roland's stomach twist.
A part of him wanted to speak, to diffuse the moment before Kevin dug his own grave. But another part of him—the part that had learned to survive in courts like these—knew better. Words could be just as deadly as swords. And right now, the sharpest blade in the room was the one Kevin had just thrown at the king's feet.
Roland exhaled quietly, his fingers flexing at his side. He needed to think, to act before this spiraled further.
Roland stepped forward, his presence cutting through the tension like a blade. He placed a firm hand on Kevin's shoulder—not as a reprimand, but as a silent command to stand down.
"That's enough," he said, his tone calm but unyielding. Then, shifting his gaze to Nok, he added, "Kevin spoke out of turn, but we all know tempers are running high. Let's not turn a frustrated remark into something worse."
Kevin tensed beneath his grip, but he didn't pull away. His anger still simmered, but Roland could feel it cooling, the heat giving way to the weight of his words.
Nok's eyes flickered toward Roland, unreadable as ever. A long pause stretched between them before he finally exhaled. "Watch yourself," he muttered, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. "Loyalty isn't proven with words alone."
Roland held his gaze, unwavering. "Nor is it lost over a single misstep."
For a moment, the tension still crackled in the air, but then Nok turned on his heel, his heavy boots echoing against the stone floor as he walked away.
Only when the man was out of earshot did Roland release Kevin's shoulder. "You need to be more careful," he murmured.
Kevin scowled, his pride still bruised. "I know."
Roland sighed. No, you don't. But one day, Kevin would learn. Hopefully, before it was too late.
The air in the throne room was heavy, thick with the lingering weight of unspoken threats. Nok's gaze remained locked onto Roland and Kevin, his expression unreadable, yet his presence alone was enough to keep the tension from dissipating.
Then—
A scream tore through the air.
It didn't sound human.
The noise clawed its way through the stone walls, sharp and jagged, like the wail of something not meant for this world. It was raw, distorted—neither the battle cry of a warrior nor the pained groan of a dying man. It was something else entirely. Something worse.
The temperature in the throne room seemed to drop.
The soldiers stiffened, their hands flying to their weapons. The younger ones paled, their eyes darting toward the massive iron doors at the far end of the hall—the entrance to the prisoners' chamber. Even Roland's usual smirk vanished, his features tightening as he turned his head toward the sound.
Kevin, who only moments ago had been simmering with frustration, now stood rigid, his hand clenched so tightly around the hilt of his sword that his knuckles turned white. His jaw locked, and for the first time that night, there was no trace of arrogance in his face—only unease.
"What in the gods' names was that?" Kevin muttered, his voice edged with unease.
Then—
Another scream.
It was longer, more drawn out, saturated with agony. A sound so unnatural, so deeply wrong, that it sent a cold shiver crawling down Roland's spine. He had heard men cry out in pain before. He had stood in battlefields drenched in blood, had witnessed the dying wails of those who realized too late that death had come for them.
This was not that.
This was something else.
His grip tightened around his sword. He wasn't the only one.
Instinct took over.
One by one, the soldiers around him drew their weapons, the sharp ring of steel slicing through the silence. The flickering torchlight caught on the gleaming edges of their swords, their movements sharp, practiced—yet tinged with something almost hesitant. Even the most seasoned among them could feel it. Something was wrong.
A third scream erupted, rattling the very walls. But this time, it was accompanied by something else—something wet. A sickening, guttural noise that sent a bolt of unease through the gathered warriors.
Kevin inhaled sharply. "What the hell is that?"
No one answered.
There were no words for what they were hearing.
Roland stole a glance at Nok, but the man's expression remained unreadable, though his body was noticeably more rigid. A tell—however small—that even he wasn't unaffected. The others shifted uneasily, casting wary glances at one another.
Another scream. This one cut off abruptly.
Something heavy thumped against the ground.
That was it. That was the moment everything changed.
"Weapons ready," Roland commanded, his voice steady despite the tension. "Stay sharp. We move together—no one acts alone."
Without hesitation, the soldiers moved as one. Boots pounded against stone as they rushed toward the iron doors, their armor clanking with every step. The younger ones at the back hesitated for only a moment before following suit, their fear swallowed by the surge of movement.
As they neared, the scent hit them.
Blood.
Thick, metallic, suffocating. It clung to the air, turning their stomachs before they even reached the door.
Roland reached it first, pressing his back against the cold iron as he signaled for the others to fan out. Kevin was beside him in an instant, sword drawn, his breathing controlled but quick. The others positioned themselves, every muscle taut with anticipation.
For a moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the crackling of torches and the distant, irregular dripping of something beyond the door.
Kevin grabbed the handle.
With a deep breath, he pulled—
And the doors swung open.
The torchlight barely reached inside.
Darkness stretched beyond them, thick like smoke. The first thing that hit them was the full force of the smell—stronger now, overwhelming.
And then—
The sound of something shifting inside.
Something alive.
Roland tightened his grip on his sword.