The obsidian throne had been carved from a single block of volcanic glass, its surface polished to a mirror-like sheen that reflected nothing but darkness. Kael Viremont—though few dared speak that name aloud—sat upon it like a statue of judgment, his form draped in armor that seemed to drink in the light around him. The metal plates were black as midnight, etched with runes that pulsed with a faint crimson glow, and over his shoulders hung a cloak that moved as if stirred by winds that touched no one else.
His face was a mask of marble perfection, unmarked by time or battle, yet carved with lines of exhaustion that ran deeper than any sword could cut. Dark hair fell to his shoulders, framing features that might have been handsome in another life—high cheekbones, a strong jaw, eyes that had once held warmth. Now those eyes were the color of winter storms, gray and empty as the sky before snow.
The throne room stretched before him like a cathedral of damnation. Pillars of blackened stone rose to support a vaulted ceiling lost in shadow, their surfaces carved with scenes of conquest and destruction. Banners hung from the walls—torn remnants of kingdoms that had fallen to his march, their colors faded to ash and rust. The floor was smooth marble, once white as fresh snow, now stained with the memory of blood that no amount of scrubbing could remove.
"My lord," came a voice from the shadows, thin and brittle as old parchment. General Malachar stepped forward, his own armor a patchwork of steel and bone, his face hidden behind a helm shaped like a skull. "The siege of Valorheart proceeds as planned. The walls should fall within the week."
Kael said nothing. His fingers, encased in gauntlets of black steel, drummed once against the arm of his throne. The sound echoed through the chamber like a death knell.
"The defenders have sent envoys," Malachar continued, his voice careful, measured. "They offer tribute. Half their grain stores, a quarter of their young men for our armies, and... and the head of their duke."
Still, Kael remained silent. He watched the flames that danced in the braziers lining the walls, their light casting writhing shadows across the stone. In those shadows, he sometimes saw faces—laughing, crying, pleading. Today, he saw only darkness.
"My lord?" Malachar's voice carried a note of uncertainty. The general had served him for seven years, had seen him burn cities and topple kingdoms, but he had never quite learned to read the silences. "What are your orders?"
Kael's gaze drifted to the massive windows that dominated the far wall. Through their dark glass, he could see the lands that stretched beyond his citadel—rolling hills of gray ash, rivers that ran black as ink, forests of leafless trees that stood like the skeletons of giants. This was his kingdom, this wasteland of sorrow and stone. He had built it with his own hands, watered it with the blood of his enemies, and crowned it with the screams of the innocent.
And he felt nothing.
"My lord," another voice interrupted, softer than Malachar's but no less reverent. Lady Seraphine emerged from the shadows, her form wrapped in robes of deep purple that seemed to shift and flow like liquid darkness. Where Malachar was brutality incarnate, Seraphine was subtlety—poison in a crystal glass, death with a smile. "Perhaps we should discuss the terms of—"
"Burn it," Kael said, his voice cutting through the air like a blade through silk. The words were quiet, almost whispered, but they carried the weight of absolute authority. "Burn it all."
Malachar straightened, his armor creaking. "The city, my lord?"
"Everything." Kael's fingers tightened on the throne's armrest, and the obsidian groaned under the pressure. "The walls, the houses, the temples. Let nothing remain but ash and memory."
"And the people?"
Kael closed his eyes, and for a moment, the mask slipped. Pain flickered across his features—brief, desperate, quickly smothered. "The people are already dead. They simply haven't realized it yet."
Seraphine stepped forward, her movement fluid as water. "My lord, if I may... the city holds strategic value. The port, the trade routes—"
"I do not build, Lady Seraphine." Kael's eyes opened, and they were cold as winter frost. "I do not conquer. I erase."
The two generals exchanged glances, a silent conversation passing between them. They had served him long enough to know when argument was futile, when the darkness in their lord's heart had settled too deep for reason to reach.
"It will be done," Malachar said finally, bowing low. "The city will burn by dawn."
"See that it does." Kael waved a hand, dismissing them both. "Leave me."
They departed without another word, their footsteps echoing through the chamber until even the echoes faded to nothing. Kael was alone again, as he preferred to be. In solitude, he could drop the mask, could let the weariness show in the set of his shoulders, the way his head tilted back against the throne's high back.
The flames in the braziers flickered, casting dancing shadows across the walls. In those shadows, memories stirred—unwelcome visitors in the palace of his mind.
A woman's laughter, bright as silver bells.
A child's voice calling "Papa!" from across a sun-drenched courtyard.
The smell of bread baking in the castle kitchens, the sound of servants singing as they worked.
Green fields stretching to the horizon, dotted with wildflowers that swayed in the summer breeze.
Kael's hands clenched into fists, the metal of his gauntlets screaming in protest. Those memories were poison, sweet and deadly. They belonged to a man who no longer existed, a fool who had believed in justice and mercy and the basic goodness of humanity.
That man was dead.
"But you remember him still," came a voice from the depths of his mind, feminine and silken, tinged with amusement. "You remember his weakness, his pathetic hope."
The Demon Goddess. She had been quiet for days now, her whispers growing fainter, her presence less oppressive. Once, her voice had been constant, a steady stream of encouragement and guidance, pushing him toward ever greater acts of destruction. Now, she seemed... distant. Distracted.
"I remember everything," Kael replied without speaking, his thoughts echoing in the dark spaces of his soul. "The question is whether I care."
"You care," the Goddess purred, and he could almost see her smile, cruel and knowing. "You care so much it's killing you. That's why you've grown so quiet lately. So... hesitant."
Hesitant. The word struck him like a physical blow. He had noticed it himself—the way his sword arm had trembled before striking down that merchant in Greyhold, the manner in which he had looked away when the children screamed in Ironfall. Small things, barely noticeable, but they gnawed at him like termites in the foundations of a house.
"I am what you made me," he said to the darkness. "Nothing more, nothing less."
"No," the Goddess replied, and her voice carried a note of warning. "You are what you chose to become. I merely... facilitated the process."
Kael rose from his throne, the movement fluid despite the weight of his armor. He walked to the great windows, pressing one gauntleted hand against the dark glass. Beyond, his kingdom stretched into the distance, a monument to his rage and despair. Towns burned in the distance, their flames like stars fallen to earth. Somewhere out there, his armies were preparing for another assault, another victory in a war that had no end.
"And what if I chose differently?" he asked aloud, his voice barely audible in the vast chamber.
Silence was his only answer.
The Goddess had withdrawn again, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the weight of his crown. Kael stared out at the dying world beyond his window and wondered, not for the first time, if this was truly victory or simply another form of defeat.
The flames in the braziers guttered and died, one by one, until only darkness remained.