The Rift Castle breathed like a beast in its sleep. Green braziers licked at the black ribs of the throne hall, their shadows curling along the walls like claws. The air stank faintly of ozone and stone left too long in the sun, though no light ever touched this place.
The generals had dispersed after the King's fury, leaving silence in their wake. Silence, however, never lasted long when Fate lingered.
The Lord of Destruction strode down the long corridor toward his quarters, cloak still guttering thin. His gauntlets flexed with every step. He had not shed the humiliation that clung to him like oil. Bested. The word gnawed at him. He wanted to grind it out of existence, the way his hammer could flatten a village square.
But Fate was waiting.
The tall figure leaned against one of the ribbed pillars near the corridor's mouth, deck in hand, cards sliding between his fingers in a constant, restless dance. His cloak shimmered violet in the braziers' light, too rich, too smug.
