Somewhere, far from every known map — an island exists where no one looks.
No name. No satellites. No footprints.
Forests choke the hills. Waterfalls carve into cliffs. Beaches curve in perfect silence — untouched, unbothered.
And then there's the hill.
At the highest point, something unnatural rises — not old, not ruined. Alive. Watching. A citadel cut from black stone that drinks in light, its towers veined with something that hums faintly if you listen too long. It doesn't belong here. Or maybe the world doesn't belong near it.
Inside, the silence is worse.
Polished floors reflect constellations no one on Earth's ever named. Shadows stretch too long. Walls ripple with carvings — gods in war, beasts with eyes like wounds, geometry that hurts to look at directly.
At the heart: a throne room.
A cavern the size of stadiums, but built for one man.
And he's already sitting there.
You can't see his face. You don't need to.
Two crimson eyes burn through the dark — steady, unblinking, like dying stars.
Below, seated in tiered circles, are others.
Cloaked. Imposing. Silent.
They don't move. They wait.
The voice from the throne is soft, but it doesn't need volume. It simply lands.
The status. Of him.
A ripple moves through the cloaked assembly. One figure rises.
Lord... the search continues. We're monitoring every continent, every dimensional bleed. Several... indicators were acted upon.
He pauses.
Some eliminations. False leads.
The words hang heavy.
"Collateral," is what he doesn't say.
We recommend—
He never finishes.
The figure jerks. A twitch from the throne. A gesture.
A soundless burst of pressure. A splash of dark blood. The body drops without a head.
No screams. No whispers.
Just silence folding back in.
The throne speaks again. Now the voice drags like rusted chains across stone.
I don't want recommendations. I want results. No more mistakes. No more hesitation.
If the soul echoes… burn it. If you think it could be him… erase it.
He leans forward, eyes glowing hotter.
We do not let him grow. Not again. Not in this cycle.
Another pause. Like the world's holding its breath.
We do not name him. We do not invoke the storm.
Then softer.
Deadlier.
We end it. Before it begins. I don't to face that man. No-one wants.
The eyes shift upward — through the dome, through the sky.
There, pulsing above the clouds, one red star burns.
And beside it, now awakened, a second answers.