The first thing Kael Varin remembered was the silence. Not the ordinary kind that accompanied an empty room or a deserted street. This silence was absolute—so thick, it pressed against his ears, smothering, as though the world itself had been erased.
Then came the darkness.
It was not the absence of light, but something alive. A shifting, coiling void that seemed to breathe with him, whispering against the edges of his mind. When Kael's eyes opened, he found himself lying on cold stone, in what appeared to be the ruins of a cathedral. The roof was shattered, letting in slivers of pale moonlight. Dust swirled in the air like dying fireflies.
He sat up slowly, his head pounding.
Where… am I?
Fragments of memory slipped through his grasp like water. He recalled a battle—one that stretched beyond mortal comprehension. Figures in golden light, shadows like armies blotting out the sky. A throne carved from obsidian. His own voice uttering a command: Arise.
Then nothing.
Kael pressed a hand to his chest. His heartbeat was steady, yet wrong. Each thud reverberated with power, resonating with the same void that surrounded him. He could feel it in his veins—the essence of something ancient, monstrous, and inevitable.
The whispers grew louder.
"…sovereign… monarch… king of shadows…"
He clenched his fist, forcing the voices to silence. Panic would serve no purpose. He needed information, understanding. He rose to his feet, surveying the ruins with sharp eyes.
The cathedral must have once been grand—pillars carved with angelic motifs, shattered stained-glass windows, an altar overturned. Now it was abandoned, reclaimed by darkness.
Yet Kael felt no fear. Instead, he felt ownership.
When he stepped forward, the shadows stirred. They bent unnaturally, stretching toward him like loyal hounds awaiting command.
He tested a thought. Come forth.
The floor darkened. A pool of pitch spread beneath his feet, and from it emerged a figure—a knight clad in fractured armor, helm broken, exposing nothing but twin flames of violet in the sockets where eyes should be. The knight knelt before him in silence.
Kael's lips curved faintly. "…So it's true. I am the Shadow Monarch."
The knowledge was not learned, but remembered—buried within him like instinct. He understood without explanation: this knight was not merely summoned. It had once lived, fought, and died. Now, bound by Kael's authority, it rose again as his eternal soldier.
"Stand."
The knight obeyed instantly. Its movements were silent, precise, almost reverent. Kael circled it, studying. No trace of will remained. Only loyalty.
Useful.
But he needed more.
"How many of you slumber in the dark?" Kael asked aloud.
The shadows whispered, countless voices overlapping, a chorus from beyond the grave. Legions… awaiting command.
A strategist's mind awoke within him. Armies of the dead, a world unknown, and factions lurking in secrecy—he would need information before power. Without knowledge, even a monarch was blind.
He dismissed the knight, watching it sink back into shadow. Then he turned to the ruined doorway of the cathedral. Beyond lay a city, faintly illuminated by torchlight. Tower spires, cobbled streets, banners fluttering in the night wind.
Kael stepped out, his cloak whispering against stone.
---
The city was alive, though muted. Midnight bells tolled in the distance. Patrols of guards wandered the streets, carrying lanterns and spears. Merchants had shuttered their stalls, but inns spilled laughter and drunken voices.
Kael moved through it unnoticed, his presence veiled by shadows. To the casual eye, he was nothing more than a dark silhouette slipping between alleys. Yet every step he took, the night itself seemed to bow.
He listened. Observed. Pieced together fragments.
The land was called Midgar, a kingdom known for its academy of magic and nobility steeped in politics. Beneath the surface, however, whispers told of another power—the Cult of Diablos. Few dared speak of it openly, but Kael caught the hints in hushed tones: abductions, strange experiments, disappearances.
Interesting.
He ducked into a tavern, the kind that reeked of cheap ale and secrets. Sitting in the farthest corner, Kael ordered nothing, merely listening. Two cloaked men at the next table argued in low voices.
"…another shipment gone missing. His lordship won't be pleased."
"Keep your voice down. You want the Cult's agents on us?"
Kael's gaze sharpened. So it was true—the Cult operated even here. And shipments meant supply chains. Supply chains meant weak links.
A starting point.
He rose silently and left before the men noticed him. In the alley outside, he whispered a single word:
"Arise."
From the shadows around the tavern, two figures emerged—scouts, ragged and half-transparent. Their eyes glowed faintly, awaiting orders.
"Follow them," Kael commanded softly. "Bring me their truth."
The shadows melted away, unseen.
Kael tilted his head back, regarding the moon. Already, pieces of the game were falling into place.
But even as he planned, he felt it—that same darkness within him pulsing, eager, hungry. The power of the Shadow Monarch was vast, but dangerous. To wield it recklessly would be to drown in it.
He smiled faintly, cold and calculating.
Then let the world believe in their whispers, their ghosts, their legends. While they chased shadows, he would become the eminence behind them all.
The silence returned, but this time it was not empty. It was his.
And from the depths, countless unseen voices whispered as one:
All hail the Monarch.