Morvane Eldritch did not speak.
He didn't need to.
One leg crossed elegantly over the other, one hand resting against his pale cheek, he sat like a portrait carved from midnight and sin—cold, composed, and quietly amused. The throne beneath him was shaped less like a seat and more like a verdict, jagged with blades long dulled by blood and time. Light from the sconces above glinted faintly off his silver rings, all of them worn on his left hand.
Before him, the servant trembled.
A boy, really—perhaps no more than nineteen. Kneeling, with his forehead pressed to the stone and breath catching in his throat like a snared bird. His voice had long since gone hoarse from pleading.
"Your Majesty, I swear—I did not mean to— It was an accident, only the ink, but not actually a mere ink—
"The boy plead again"
"it is not how it looks like". "Your Majesty"
Morvane's gaze never shifted. He didn't blink. The silence was thick enough to chew.
The boy lifted his head slightly, daring a glance up.
That was a mistake.
Morvane moved.
Not much. Just one finger. A single, fluid curl of his index finger in the air.
At once, two guards stepped forward from the shadows—silent as trained hounds. Steel gleamed. Boots clicked.
"No—please! I didn't—!" the servant cried out as they seized him, each taking an arm.
Still, Morvane said nothing.
The boy thrashed, sobbed, begged.
Still nothing.
Only that stillness. Only that unreadable expression.
Then—from the shadows behind the throne—came a voice as smooth as oil poured over ice.
"He is not one of ours, Majesty," said the man behind him, his tone measured, his presence sharp as a drawn blade.
He wore robes like a priest, though no god would have called him servant. Dark fabric draped him like shadow incarnate, with silver thread curling across the hem in quiet threat. His hair was onyx, combed back with immaculate precision. His eyes—flint-grey and hollow—looked upon the world as though it were already ashes.
Velmion. The king's most trusted. His whisper. His knife.
He stood without fear, without posture. Still as a cathedral left to rot.
"He crossed the border without sanction," Velmion continued. "No sigil. No seal. No blood right. He speaks with our tongue but carries none of our laws in his breath. His presence is… suspicious."
Morvane's fingers drummed once against the armrest. The rhythm was soft, but final—like nails tapping a coffin lid.
Then, calmly:
"Take him to the Red Hall."
The words fell like stones into silence.
The boy screamed.
Velmion inclined his head, not flinching. "It shall be done."
The guards dragged the servant away. His cries rang across the marble, ragged and desperate, until the great doors closed with a thunderous echo that swallowed the sound whole.
Morvane leaned back in his throne, eyes fixed on the space the boy had left behind.
His voice, when it came again, was soft. Almost idle.
"The ink is never the mistake," he said. "It is always the hand that dares use it."
Velmion remained still, gaze steady.
Morvane turned his eyes toward him, the frost in his stare deepening.
"How many requests for audience today?"
"Three," Velmion replied. "One from the Eastern Merchant Guild. Two from within the Black Guard. The latter grow impatient."
"Let them." Morvane's mouth curled faintly. "Restlessness makes men honest."
"As you say, Majesty."
The firelight shifted in its sconces, throwing warped silhouettes onto the high columns. In the rafters, the wind moaned through arrow-slits like a creature pacing the edge of sleep.
Morvane stood.
The motion was fluid, silent, as if gravity itself yielded to him. His cloak unfurled behind him—midnight stitched with crimson edges, heavy with symbolism and the weight of a kingdom that bled to stay silent.
He paced slowly toward the windowed arch that overlooked the black mountains. The glass caught the faintest glimmer of his reflection—those frost-blue eyes, that ember-dark hair, that face carved by prophecy and cruelty alike.
He did not speak of what he knew.
Not here.
Not now.
The court would not hear the truth. Not even Velmion, who had never once failed him.
Because the throne of the Althérian Dominion was only a fraction of what he ruled.
Because his shadow reached further than any crown.
Because he is the Mastermind in every chess.
And no one—not the kings who envied him, not the spies who whispered of firelight and silver eyes—
not even the dead—
would know that truth until it was far, far too late.
Velmion watched him in silence.
And in that silence, something ancient held its breath.
The chamber was dimly lit—no grand chandeliers, no banners, no guards. Just a single silver candelabra flickering atop a long desk of obsidian-veined wood, and the soft hush of velvet curtains swaying against the mountain's breath.
Here, in this place, King Morvane Eldritch shed the spectacle of power.
Here, he was still dangerous—but quieter.
More patient.
The chamber reflected him: spare but elegant, elegant but strange. A harp sat untouched in the corner. The fireplace burned low, not for warmth but for movement, casting living shadows on the bookshelves lining the far wall. A tall mirror, cracked down the center, stood between two black cabinets. No one ever used it. Not anymore.
Morvane sat in a high-backed chair, wine-dark and velvet, his fingers gloved in satin black.
In one hand, he held a letter.
The seal had already been broken—ripped not with care but with practiced detachment. The paper bore the scent of salt and candle smoke, and the handwriting—delicate, precise—curled like whispered threats across the page.
He read in silence.
Not once did his expression shift.
Until—
A smile.
It began at the corner of his mouth. Not warm. Not amused. Something… finer. Sharper. The kind of smile men see in their nightmares, when the wind howls through their keyholes and shadows dance where none should be.
His frost-blue eyes narrowed slightly, the candlelight catching them just enough to make them seem inhuman. Almost glowing.
Still holding the letter, he leaned back in the chair, the fabric sighing beneath him.
The silence stretched.
Outside, the mountain moaned.
Inside, Morvane let the page fall gently onto the desk, face down.
He did not need to reread it.
He already knew what it said.
And he knew what it did not say.
His hand reached toward a goblet of deep red wine—untouched until now. He took a slow sip, eyes never leaving the paper.
Then, softly—like a confession only the shadows were meant to hear:
"How bold of them."
He set the goblet down.
The fire crackled once behind him.
He did not call for Velmion.
He did not summon guards or scribes or any hand to reply.
Because there would be no reply.
Not yet.
The silence was answer enough.
And the letter—its words now resting unseen on the desk—remained exactly where he left it.
Unread by all.
Except him.
The wine in Morvane Eldritch's goblet barely rippled.
He sat still in the velvet chair, framed by shadow and firelight, his legs crossed with the same elegance one might use to study a painting they commissioned—one destined to end in blood.
His gaze flicked to the mirror.
Cracked. Splintered. Still.
Then, softly:
"Bring him."
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
In the Dominion, some names do not echo—they summon.
And sure enough, not a minute passed before the chamber door opened soundlessly.
Velmion entered like a hush made flesh.
His boots made no sound. His robes trailed behind him like consecrated smoke. And on his pale lips—there it was.
That smirk.
Quiet, dark, and full of secrets buried beneath sanctified stone.
"You called for me, Your Majesty?" Velmion asked, with a voice like velvet torn just once at the seam.
Morvane didn't turn his head.
He simply said, "Is it done already?"
Velmion clasped his hands behind his back, stepping just into the candlelight. The glow caught the silver trim of his robes, making it gleam like knives concealed in scripture.
"With pleasure, my lord."
The king inhaled slowly—then exhaled.
Not relief.
Not boredom.
Thrill.
It was the breath of a man whose plan had moved one inch closer to perfection. The soft, intimate sound of satisfaction dressed in silk and venom.
His fingers tapped against the goblet once.
Then, low:
"Those dumbass officials…"
A smile tugged at the edge of his mouth, slow and sinful.
"…they know nothing of the true beast."
Velmion's smirk widened—never enough to become a grin. He was too disciplined for that. Too polished. But the glint in his flint-grey eyes burned.
"They feed it grapes," he murmured, "and bow as it sharpens its teeth on their bones."
Morvane finally looked up—those frost-blue eyes gleaming.
"And I…" He rose from the chair, the movement slow, exact. "…teach it how to bite."
Velmion inclined his head.
The fire cracked louder now, like it, too, was listening.
Outside, wind coiled around the high windows of the citadel. Distant and cold and laughing.
Morvane walked to the desk, resting his fingers lightly on the paper he'd read minutes before—the letter now silent, but still potent.
He did not read it again.
He didn't need to.
"No response," he said.
Velmion didn't ask why.
He only replied, calm as ever: "Of course."
Another breath from the king.
He looked into the mirror, seeing nothing but flame and fracture.
"The veil is thinning," he said under his breath. "Let them think it's fog."
Velmion stepped back into the shadow, as if returning to whatever dark place had birthed him.
And behind them both—the fire danced like prophecy learning how to burn.
The first crack of thunder shattered the stillness.
Then came the rain—fast, brutal, and cold as judgment. It hammered the glass like fingers desperate to get in, turning the high chamber windows into shivering veils of water.
Morvane Eldritch did not flinch.
He stood by the fireplace, bathed in the low orange glow, his frost-blue eyes catching the lightning like mirrors to something unholy. His ember-red hair—long, loose, gleaming like coals beneath silk—cascaded over his shoulders, wild now in the pull of the storm-churned air.
Behind him, thunder growled again.
A servant appeared, breathless, head bowed.
"Bring it," Morvane said quietly. Calm. Detached. As if asking for wine, or a blade.
The servant scurried off with haste—but not panic. In the Dominion, fear was expected. It was the currency of loyalty.
Moments later, two more servants who placed the instrument, wrapped in dark velvet and reverence. They placed it where they always did—by the arched window, just beneath the rain-slicked panes that looked out onto the hollow peaks.
The harp was ancient—its frame bone-white, its strings red as old veins. No sigil marked its make. It had no name.
Because the only hands that ever touched it were his.
Morvane moved toward it like a man greeting an old sin.
He seated himself on the long chaise, upholstered in deep burgundy, soft as a lover's throat. The lightning struck again, painting his silhouette in stark brilliance—the angle of his jaw, the cruel line of his smirk, the halo of his fire-dark hair like a coronation of ruin.
The servants knew better than to stay.
They vanished behind the great doors as the rain continued to beat its fists on the world.
Morvane raised one pale hand.
And touched the harp.
The first note fell like a needle dipped in ice.
Then another.
Then—
Melody.
But not the kind sung in courts or ballrooms.
No, this was older. Meaner. Beautiful the way wolves are beautiful when they sing to blood on snow.
The notes twisted through the chamber like smoke escaping a coffin—elegant, eerie, and unspeakably wrong. Each string plucked with precise cruelty. Each vibration shaped into something that shouldn't exist but did—because he willed it to.
Outside, the thunder seemed to listen.
The rain slowed—just for a moment—staggered, almost, as if unsure whether to fall or flee.
Morvane tilted his head slightly as he played, his eyes half-lidded, a smirk curling on his lips like a promise carved into flesh.
It was not a smile meant for joy.
It was the kind of smile that ripped wings from angels just to see what made them fly.
The harp wailed beneath his fingers.
Low, twisted, lovely in the way bones are when arranged with care.
This was not music for gods.
This was music for monsters—and the things they leave behind.