The carriage wheels clattered over the cobbled streets of the capital, the Duke's escort forming a disciplined, glinting frame of steel and velvet around them. Banners snapped in the wind.
The sigils of his house, golden eagles on deep crimson, fluttering above the heads of the crowd that had gathered along the procession route.
Elara sat beside her father, the fabric of her skirts pressed neatly against her legs, her gloved hands folded in a pose of perfect composure. Yet beneath her serene mask, her eyes flicked constantly to the edges of the crowd, tracing every shadow, every subtle movement, every whisper that might hint at danger or, more deliciously, intrigue.
Her father's jaw was set, and each step toward the palace tightened the lines of authority in his posture. Soldiers flanked them, halberds gleaming beneath the pale morning sun, faces impassive, every man and woman a testament to the Duke's power and discipline. The city itself seemed to lean away, doors shuttered, curtains drawn, merchants pausing mid-sale to gaze at the long line of noble presence.
Whispers followed them: about the Duke's victories, his lands, the wealth his family commanded. And somewhere, somewhere just beyond perception, shadows lingered.
Unseen, watching, waiting.
The gates of the palace yawned open like a mouth of polished stone, the gilded dragons etched into the arch reflecting the sunlight in harsh streaks. Guards exchanged nods with the Duke's escort, the clash of armor and the glint of polished weapons marking the ritual of arrival.
Every eye in the palace yard followed the carriage, and Elara could feel the hum of tension vibrating in the air like a taut string. Even the wind seemed to hesitate as they passed beneath the towers, carrying the scent of incense and polished stone.
Her pulse quickened at the thought that the King and his court would soon assess her father, measure him, weigh him against the invisible scales of trust and fear.
She leaned slightly forward, just enough to catch the Duke's eyes. His expression remained carved in stoicism, though a flicker of annoyance crossed his features as the gate guards lingered longer than protocol required. "Patience," he murmured, not for her but for himself, though the words were sharp as a sword's edge. "Every man in this city wants a weakness to exploit. We shall see who tires first."
Inside the palace, the halls were a cavern of marble and gold, the ceilings vaulted high with frescoes that told the tales of ancient kings and the gods who favored them.
Candles flickered along sconces, casting long shadows that danced across tapestries of past victories and vanquished enemies.
Servants in stiff, embroidered attire moved like clockwork, their murmured greetings precise and clipped.
Elara's eyes, however, sought more than the grandeur; she noted the placement of guards, the subtle stances of courtiers, the set of shoulders that betrayed tension beneath the practiced smiles. She imagined Malicar would appreciate this attention to detail. The pulse beneath the calm, the secret currents that guided every motion.
The Audience Chamber loomed ahead, its doors towering and inlaid with filigree of silver and onyx. The Duke straightened, and Elara adjusted her skirts, smoothing the folds as if her composure were a shield. When the doors opened, the King rose from his throne, a man draped in crimson and ermine, his crown gleaming like a halo that carried no warmth. He smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes. There was calculation there, a predator's patience wrapped in ceremonial courtesy.
"Your majesty," the Duke greeted, voice deep, precise, with the measured respect owed to a monarch but not submission.
The King inclined his head, every movement deliberate. "Duke," he said, the syllable heavy with a weight of history neither of them would speak aloud. "Your timing is as exacting as ever. One might suspect you orchestrate even the sunrise for your convenience."
The Duke's eyes flicked briefly, taking measure of the King. "Only as much as required to keep the realm in order, Your Grace," he replied evenly, masking the irritation in his tone. "And you, Your Majesty...ever vigilant as the sun itself?"
The King's smile was a razor beneath silk. "One must, of course. Threats are never idle in this kingdom. Not even from familiar hands." His gaze lingered on the Duke, sharp, weighing, calculating. "Tell me, Duke…your forces at the borders grow ever more disciplined. I trust their loyalty has not wavered in your absence?"
"Perfectly, Your Grace," the Duke said smoothly. "The men stand as they always have. Unbroken, unyielding. Like the stone walls of your palace, perhaps."
The king's advisor stepped forward, velvet robes whispering over marble. "Yet even the strongest walls require careful watch, Your Grace. Neighboring houses whisper, and the loyalty of great lords is often more flexible than stone or steel."
The Duke inclined his head, his eyes narrowing just slightly. "Whispers carry little weight. Only action bears consequence."
The crown prince, arrogant yet disciplined leaned in, his voice honeyed but sharp. "And the Duke's daughters? Surely their bonds with other noble houses will strengthen the crown…or weaken it, depending on ambition and desire."
Beneath the surface levity, the words pricked like finely honed needles. Elara noted the subtle tightening of her father's jaw. He did not flinch; he never did, but his eyes were sharper now, the flicker of old grudges and rivalries shimmering there.
They exchanged courtesies like blades, smiling as if sugar could hide the steel beneath.
Each question was a test, a probe to see how far the Duke would bend, how much of his power he would reveal. Elara observed from the side, silent, a perfect noble daughter, but in her mind she traced every movement, every nuance of the King's voice, imagining the storm of her Shadow King's laughter at the delicacy of human politics.
The Duke's power and influence was growing. Sooner or later it would be a threat to the crown. Hence the duke had to prove unyielding loyalty in any means possible.
Each individual in the court had their opinions, and various whispers such as the duke being able to stage a coup when he wanted or the duke being the king's obedient dog, where inconspicuously made known within the court walls.
Ministers began to circle, their robes of lilac and silk whispering over marble floors as they moved closer, each step a calculation.
"Ambition, Your Grace, is best guided than feared," the Duke replied as all the ministers settled, measured, deflecting the subtle accusation with practiced grace.
A younger lord muttered, half to the air, half to those near him, "Wealth like the Duke's commands attention, influence…perhaps even…obedience."
One queried about alliances with neighboring houses, veiled as concern for the Duke's safety.
Another questioned the future of his lineage, the potential marriages of his daughters.
Each word was a dart, each smile a trap. The Duke parried with patience, his responses measured, offering enough to satisfy decorum but withholding true strength. Every syllable was a battle, every gesture a shield or a weapon.
Elara's pulse quickened. Every word was a blade, every glance a measure of power. She imagined Malicar's laughter at such subtleties.
To her, it was a game that mirrored the one Malicar would play. Psychological, merciless, and wrapped in elegance. She imagined herself in the center of it all, a shadow weaving through the web, her obsession with Malicar making the court's diplomacy sharper, more vivid.
As discussion broadened to regional unrest, one older minister cleared his throat. His voice was cautious, but the words were loaded:
"There are rumors, Your Grace, of gatherings in the northern villages. A cult…they claim to call upon him. No one understands how, truly, but the peasants vanish, fires flare at midnight, and strange symbols are carved in stone."
Murmurs ran through the chamber. Some laughed, calling it superstition. Others paled. The King's eyes narrowed, his silence sharper than any retort.
The Duke inclined his head. "I trust such rumors remain unverified. We deal in deeds, not whispers."
"But what if they are more than whispers?" another minister pressed, voice trembling. "If they succeed…what then?"
Elara's lips curved inwardly. A thrill, delicious and sharp, pulsed through her. Even from the back of the chamber, she imagined Malicar's knowing gaze, amused by the mortal clumsiness of those who spoke his name.
Then it happened. A minister, too eager, careless, let slip a name like a spark in dry tinder: "Malicar."
Silence fell like a drawn curtain. Candles flickered as if afraid to burn in that moment. The King's eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. Courtiers froze, and even the Duke's practiced composure tightened imperceptibly. None dared speak; the word carried weight no one could ignore.
"Careful, minister," the King's voice cut through the hush, low, dangerous. "There are names that are not to be spoken in this hall."
The culprit bowed, face pale as ash. "Forgive me, Your Grace," he murmured.
Another minister hissed, "Do not test the patience of the crown."
A third whispered, "Even the Duke cannot shield you from royal ire if you overstep again."
Elara's chest surged with thrill. The forbidden name had been spoken, a truth surfacing, and she felt it pulse in her veins like fire.
The audience drew to a close, the King dismissing them with a wave of his hand that was more command than courtesy. As the Duke and his entourage departed, the King murmured, so quietly only the Duke could hear: "Count Jeran…"
The Duke did not respond. He knew that sooner or later the king would question their relationship. It was a neighboring independently powerful kingdom. Not much was know about it. One without an alliance with theirs. And yet The Viscount was the Duke's family friend. Ofcause some questions would potentially be raised.
The truth was that the Viscount's father saved the Duke from an encounter with death itself during the great war that earned him the title. As for the reason why a secluded and strongly secretive kingdom like that would trouble themselves with such a matter, he too knew not why.
Elara shivered with delight. Threads of intrigue now had real weight.
Somewhere, Malicar would know.
Beyond mortal reach, Malicar stirred. His palace of living shadow pulsed and breathed, towers of black stone stretching impossibly upward. He sat on his throne of obsidian, edges glinting like knives, shadows draping his form. Figures of darkness, features sharp, eyes like coals—stirred, whispering without sound.
The name had been spoken. Malicar lifted his head, tracing the invisible threads to the mortal palace. Even his generals paused, sensing the disturbance.
He rose, shadows reshaping like armor. "So she moves closer," he murmured, lips curling. "She thinks of me…she names me."
The air thickened, responding to the pull of the mortal world. Figures fell into line, waiting for the pulse of his will. His gaze softened on the empty throne opposite him. Elara.
The one who had uttered his name, obsession entwined around her heart.
He cared not about that minister. Irrelevant individuals had no right to even an ounce of his attempt.
The previous day he could sense how much Elara thought of him despite his mirage and Count Jeran. He almost lost his face to a chuckle after glimpsing into her mind and witnessing her daydreaming about saying as much as a greeting to him.
'How much more adorable can my bride be?' he said, more to himself.
From the heights of his towers, he observed the world beyond, the whispering ministers, the games of power. She drew him closer, inexorably, and when they converged, there would be no escape, no veils.
For now, he let darkness fold around him like a cloak, thoughts fixed on her, on her madness, on the delicious inevitability. She had spoken his name. Malicar, Shadow King, Lord of Night, and she...the one who would claim him...were bound.
The game had begun, and he would not be denied.