War... Just a simple word.
But the impact it has on this world is not so simple as it appears.
It's a word that drenched in Pain and suffering of countless lives.
It's a word whispered in fear, Fear of loss fear of death
War Is a synonym to Death, destruction and Devastation.
War is cruel.
War Takes away everything one holds dear, leaving behind only raw feeling of emptiness and a gnawing ache of loss.
War does not show mercy to the weak, crushing them under its foots like Ants.
And in that brutal, cold Act of conflict, only the victor gets to live...to see another dawn, their survival is bought and paid in the blood and tears of those they had defeated.
Only the victor gets to see hope
Only the victor enjoys the Spoils of war
Only for the victor War is not Cruel.
Battlefields often present something beyond warfare – something much worse exists there.
It's something else entirely. Something worse, far worse
Argh! Demon!"
A chilling scream tore through the acrid smoke that clung low to the ground, that's what they yelled.
Soldiers, their face dirty with grime and etched with pure terror as they scrambled back, Running from the Terrifying sight that Lay before them.
Before them was not a battlefield, but something akin to a charnal house.
Limbs were in such a state like discarded, broken toys, shattered shields lay half-buried in the gore, and the air...
The air was thick with metallic scent of fresh blood and the sickening, coppery stench of Dead bodies.
And right in the absolute centre of this horrifying tableau, perched upon a literal mountain...of Death was a single Man
He was not fighting.
He was not shouting orders or rallying troops.
He was just sitting there, casually swirling a glass of deep red wine as if he were at a picnic.
The sheer sight of him, so utterly Carefree from the surrounding horror, just... shattered the last vestiges of the enemy soldiers' morale.
It was not just the mountain of corpses it was the man himself.
He was clad in a military overcoat that seemed to flow around him like a dark cape, but his posture wasn't about power or aggression; it spoke only of absolute, terrifying indifference.
And then, he lifted something.
Something that made the surviving soldiers gag, stumble, and recoil in horror.
It was...
...the head of their defeated commander, its eyes staring blankly, accusingly, at the grey sky above
The man on that throne of death was idly toying with it, like a child who might play with his favourite, albeit utterly grotesque, toy.
He is a demon, they thought, the idea seized their minds with icy, paralyzing claws.
No, the Devil himself, the thought was a unanimous, silent scream echoing in their heads.
Turning tail, they ran, stumbling desperately over the dead bodies under their feet, their fear was a palpable, physical thing that propelled them forward, away from him.
But they were not fortunate enough to escape.
Because escape was never an option when he was the hunter.
A low, calm almost bored voice echoed across the quiet bloody plains
"Obsidian Throne: Annihilation"
The man said calmly, his words carrying an unnatural weight that seemed to settle over everything, while he continued to twirl his wine.
As he uttered those two simple word, the world around them seemed to just... hold its breath.
The wind died down completely, the distant groans of the dying ceased.
For a single petrifying moment, the entire battlefield got utterly quiet.
And then in an instant, it was completely over.
Every single soldier who had tried to flee, every hidden scout, every wounded man feigning death – they were all annihilated in an instant.
Not a sound escaped them, not a scream, nothing. Just... gone. They crumbled into nothingness under the power of something that completely surpassed their understanding.
Just before their Death, a single thought echoed in the minds of the fleeing soldiers, a final, cold realization:
As expected, it was foolish to run from the Annihilator.
War is Cruel.
But...
This wasn't war at all.
This was a massacre.
A Massacre caused by a single being.
Hours later, with the sun beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long unsettling shadows across the devastation, the devil-like man still sat on the throne made of corpses, the wine glass held loosely in his hand.
A deep sigh escaped his lips, the sound was surprisingly mundane as compared to the backdrop of absolute horror.
"Sigh... So boring," he murmured.
The sound barely a whisper to the empty air, or perhaps to the scattered remains of his enemies.
"These ants died just like that," he added with a voice laced with a tone of disappointment.
"I barely twirled my glass."
He stretched languidly, the movement sending a fresh shiver down the spine of the single scout who miraculously survived frozen by terror far deeper than any cold.
It seemed the battlefield, which had apparently been his only source of anything remotely resembling 'enjoyment' for years, now felt... utterly tedious.
"What should I do now?"
He wondered aloud, the question hanging still in the death-scented air.
"Those scums from the Northwood Kingdom would probably come begging for peace now," he mused, a hint of disdain in his voice. "Pathetic."
Another sigh escaped him this time a bit heavier.
"Hope I can experience Something that interest me soon," he mused to himself.
With that, he finished his wine and tossed the glass carelessly aside; it shattered on the grisly throne beneath him.
He rose, stretching once more, and then simply jumped down from the mountain of corpses.
As his boots touched the ground, a faint, unnatural shimmer passed over the gruesome pile behind him.
In moments, the mountain of bodies began to burn.
The flames that spread across those bodies burned with an unnatural cold darkness which devoured flesh and bone to ash at a terrifying speed.
This scene, witnessed only by the petrified scout trembling behind a boulder, made the man look even more terrifying, somehow.
As he walked away, his eyes glowed with a faint, internal light and his voice now deeper and more resonant Echoed across the plain for miles ahead.
"Listen closely you pathetic rat" he declared his words echoing across the desolate plains like whisper of death.
"Do inform your King to bring necessary bribing," he commanded, his voice like cold steel.
"Or see your Kingdom burn to ashes," he added and then with a ripple in the air, he vanished into thin air.
The scout, still hidden behind the boulder, was so utterly scared he actually peed his pants right there.
His body trembled uncontrollably, the cold pee soaking his trousers and running down his leg.
'Damn, why did I ever take this job?' he thought desperately, the horrible smell of urine mixing with the sharp scent of ash and death all around him.
'I don't want to die yet'
He whimpered, burying his face into his arms, the horrifying visage of that man on the throne of death forever etched into his mind
'I am still a virgin!'
...
After a few months.
The War ended.
If it can be called War that is.
Nevertheless The War between Northwood and Eldenburg ended.
Or rather, the enemy simply conceded without a single subsequent battle because of being utterly crippled by the sheer, unfathomable power displayed on that one single horrific day.
Negotiations were short. Decisively in Eldenburg's favour, as could be expected.
Life in the Eldenburg Kingdom returned to normalcy, or at least, people tried to make it seem that way.
However whispers and talk about the 'Annihilator' lingered in the shadows
Meanwhile, in a luxurious, sun-drenched bedroom within the royal palace of Eldenburg
The very same man who had caused such utter carnage months ago was currently engaged in what he apparently considered the noble pursuit of sleep.
He lay sprawled across the large bed like a discarded doll. Utterly tangled in silk sheets, a perfect picture of absolute indolence.
He looked nothing, absolutely nothing, like the terrifying figure who sat on a throne of the dead, unconcerned with trivial things like human life or suffering.
Right now, here, he looked like a perfectly normal, albeit exceptionally lazy, aristocrat.
His black hair, which had scattered strands of white, was a complete mess against the pillow, and his face, when not contorted in a jaw-cracking yawn, held a soft, almost sleepy expression.
Knock knock.
The sound was polite, but also insistent.
"Lord Alistair" a clear feminine voice called out from outside the door of his bedroom.
"His Majesty is calling for your presence in his chambers" she continued her words
The figure on the bed groaned, burrowing even deeper into the sheets, trying to disappear.
This was Alistair Eldenburg. And being Alistair Eldenburg in the mornings, apparently, was an arduous task requiring immense dedication to the sacred principle of not moving.
He struggled to open just one eye, squinting towards the door like it was the source of all his problems.
"Eleanor" he mumbled, his voice laced with drowsiness, his eyes squinting towards the door.
"Tell that shitty old man his son is busy practicing the Law of Laziness and can't answer his summons," he grumbled, already closing his eye again, devoutly hoping the problem would just go away if he ignored it hard enough
The voice on the other side did not waver, not even a little.
"Unfortunately, my Lord, I am just a simple maid and cannot say those words to His Majesty," Eleanor replied, her tone utterly devoid of the expected deference, which Alistair found both annoying and, strangely, a little endearing.
"Tch. Just say I'm busy," Alistair snorted, turning his head to bury his face back into the blissful darkness of the pillow.
There was a brief, hopeful silence from outside the door. Alistair assumed she was leaving him to his well-deserved slumber.
He sighed in content already anticipating another hour of glorious, undisturbed sleep.
But then...
Eleanor spoke again, her voice just a bit louder and laced with an unmistakable and glittering hint of mischief that immediately put Alistair on alert.
"Then Pardon me if I reveal the fact that I am carrying Lord Alistair's child to His Majesty," she added, and Alistair heard the distinct sound of her footsteps beginning to recede down the hall.
Alistair's eyes snapped open. WIDE open.
The lazy aristocrat persona vanished in an instant, replaced by a sudden, dangerous flicker of the intense, terrifying being from the battlefield.
Before Eleanor could get more than a few steps down the hall, the door to his room burst open with a bang!!.
Alistair was there, clad in his loose sleep trousers, his golden eyes blazing with annoyance that looked like controlled fury, as he pressed her back against the wall, with another Bang!!
Trapping her there with his own body effectively cutting off her escape.
Her bountiful breasts also pressed against his hard chest.
"Just when did you...?" he began to question, his voice low and demanding answers while pressing her back against the wall.
Eleanor, however, was far from being intimidated.
She smirked and her red eyes sparkled with pure amusement
She wrapped her arms casually around his neck leaning in closer, completely unconcerned by the simmering intensity radiating from him.
she teased with her voice a playful purr and wrapped her arms around his neck.
"Did you actually think I was carrying your child, my dear Lord?"
The veins on Alistair's forehead practically bulged with sheer and unadulterated exasperation.
The intense light in his eyes dimmed a bit and the dangerous edge was replaced by raw annoyance.
"So it was a prank huh" he stated flatly as his voice lost its previous coldness
His display of anger might have scared anyone away
But to Eleanor, his "scary" golden eyes just looked adorable when he got all annoyed like this.
But to Eleanor, his "scary" golden eyes looked quite adorable especially when he got annoyed like this.
'He is annoyed, or perhaps... Perhaps he is just a bit disappointed'? The thought made her smile broaden mischievously.
"If you don't like it as a prank," she whispered and pulled him closer, her eyes looking at his with desire.
"How about making it true?" she suggested and leaned in, her lips parting slightly, clearly ready to kiss him.
But her lips met only his palm. He gently but firmly pushed her away, creating space between them, distancing himself.
"Sigh..." he breathed out a sigh and ran a hand through his messy hair.
The brief moment of battlefield's intensity passed completely and was replaced by the familiar weary resignation that seemed to be his default state outside of killing.
"I am tired of your antics," he said and shook his head wearily.
"Let's just see what that old man has to say," he added and turned and walked towards the wardrobe in his room
Eleanor huffed and straightened her slightly disheveled maid's uniform, and followed him, though the smirk still played undeniably on her lips.
"Humf" she huffed as she followed.
"And just when I was in the mood" she pouted dramatically while crossing her arms.
"you had to ruin it."
"Woman," Alistair retorted without looking back, pulling on a tunic, "I believe it was you who first disturbed my sleep with threats of illegitimate offspring."
"It was not a threat," she corrected sweetly and followed him as he moved through the palace towards His Father's Chamber.
"It was a prank!" she added playfully.
They kept bickering, their voices familiar and rhythmic pattern of complaint and teasing that has been clearly honed over time as they moved through the opulent palace corridors towards the Chamber of the King.
Courtiers and guards they passed discreetly looked away or pretended to be engrossed in their tasks, long accustomed, clearly, to the unusual dynamic between Lord Alistair and his remarkably bold personal maid.
Knock~ Alistair knocked lightly on the large and intricately carved doors of the King's private chamber
"Come in" a voice from inside called with a stern tone but not unkind.
Alistair pushed the massive doors open and stepped inside, Eleanor following quietly just beside him.
The chamber was large and airy filled with the distinct and comforting scent of old parchment and ink.
Seated at a massive desk which was illuminated by the light streaming through a tall window, was a black-haired old man reviewing some documents.
This was King Alexandre Eldenburg, the ruler of the kingdom and, inconveniently for Alistair this morning, his father.
Alistair, surprisingly, offered a proper, if brief, greeting.
He dropped to one knee, head bowed slightly presenting the picture of formal respect for a fleeting second.
"I greet the Rightful owner of the Throne of Eldenburg, His Majesty Alexandre Eldenburg" he said the words with a formal and respectful tone, the title rolling off his tongue with a practiced ease.
Eleanor knelt quietly beside him.
"Stand up, Alistair," Emperor Alexandre said, not lifting his head from the documents immediately.
"I know you hate such formalities" he added mildly with a hint of paternal understanding in his voice.
Alistair rose and brushed imaginary dust from his trousers, the brief formality already discarded.
"Then don't mind if I forget to be polite, old man," he said as his tone immediately shifted back to one of the familiar, casual disrespect that somehow only family could get away with.
Emperor Alexandre finally put down his quill and looked at his son.
His eyes were the same piercing golden hue as Alistair's but somehow softer, looked kind, even fond.
Alistair was his youngest son, and perhaps, in the quiet moments, the only one he truly felt a genuine connection with anymore.
"I hope you rested well from the war against Northwood," Alexandre said, a faint smile touching his lips, acknowledging the recent, devastating victory.
Alistair breathed out a truly theatrical sigh that belonged on a stage.
"Would have rested better if a certain maid didn't do a horrible prank on her master," he grumbled, casting a pointed look at Eleanor, who simply smiled innocently back, utterly unrepentant.
Alexandre followed his gaze and let out a soft, relieved laugh.
"It seems you rested well it seems," he said and his smile widened slightly, clearly finding amusement in their dynamic.
He then leaned back in his chair and his expression turned serious, the warmth fading away as the weight of kingship returned.
"Let me be clear" he stated and his expression turned serious.
Alistair's attention snapped into focus.
He looked at his father and saw the weight of responsibility settle back onto his features like a heavy cloak.
Okay so, this definitely is not going to be about his sleeping habits after all.
"Alistair" Emperor Alexandre began, his voice was firm and the tone left no room for argument.
I need you to marry into our allied nation's royal family," he continued, completely ignoring the blank expression that was rapidly beginning to form on Alistair's face.
"Become the husband of the young Lady of the Eiswald family, Vivienne Eiswald," the King instructed, his voice final.
As Alexandre finished his words the initial blankness on Alistair's face didn't just contort it twisted into an expression of utter, complete disbelief, swiftly followed by genuine shock.
"What!!!!!!!" Alistair yelled his
His voice usually so controlled and indifferent now echoed through the quiet chamber and likely beyond.