The throne room was quiet.
Not in the way silence often is—a lull before conversation, or a pause in thought—but in that ancient, oppressive way that makes a man question if he was ever supposed to speak at all. Moonlight leaked through the arched stained-glass windows, dyeing the cold marble floor in fractured hues of blue, crimson, and gold. Dust floated through the rays, like whispers of a thousand unspoken regrets drifting lazily through the air.
And on the throne—carved from obsidian and polished with time—sat a man cloaked not just in royal garb, but in the weight of something deeper, older.
The king.
His back reclined slightly, one leg lazily thrown over the other. A single finger tapped the side of the throne's armrest. His face was unreadable, carved as if from stone, yet not lifeless. No—his gaze shimmered with quiet fire, like embers buried deep beneath a dying hearth.
"So it begins," the king murmured, more to the air than to anyone present.
A heartbeat passed. Then another.
The massive double doors creaked open, their slow groan echoing across the vaulted chamber. Steps, measured and soft, followed soon after.
Sebastian entered.
The servant bowed slightly at the waist—not too deep, not too rigid. The bow of an old friend... wrapped in the formality of a loyal subject.
"Your Majesty," Sebastian said, voice a quiet thread that wove into the stillness.
The king did not turn. "Sebastian," he acknowledged, letting the name hang in the air like the notes of a fading song. "You always did know how to walk without making a sound."
"I was trained to be forgettable, my king."
A short chuckle. Not loud, but warm. Too warm.
"Is that so?" The king's voice curled like smoke. "And yet, here you are. The man who's always seen but never named. The shadow behind the throne. The steward of secrets."
He finally turned, his eyes catching the moonlight. The glow did not soften them.
"I wonder," the king mused aloud, "what kind of ruler you might've become, had the weight of this crown found your brow instead of mine."
Sebastian's expression did not change, but his shoulders stiffened slightly.
"It is unthinkable," he said calmly, "for a servant to dream of ruling. Such thought is worthy only of death"
"Unthinkable," the king repeated, savoring the word as if tasting old wine. "Yes. That's what makes it so interesting."
A flicker of something passed between them—brief, electric, unspoken.
The king leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his knuckles. "Do you remember the old prophecy, Sebastian?"
"I remember many things," the servant said carefully.
"Of course you do." The king smiled, but there was no kindness in it. "The veil stirs. My son has crossed the threshold, though he doesn't yet realize it."
He rose slowly from the throne, his robes cascading around him like shadows poured from a higher place.
"Tell me," the king said, pacing toward one of the windows. "What do you see when you look out at our kingdom?"
Sebastian followed his gaze.
Outside, the horizon was painted in silver and ink, the land quiet beneath the moon's judgment. Fires glimmered in far-off watchtowers, and a low fog crept along the valley roads like a memory trying to return home.
"I see a kingdom," Sebastian said slowly, "that rests only because it's forgotten what it means to wake."
The king let out a soft hum, thoughtful. "And when it wakes?"
Sebastian's eyes narrowed slightly. "It won't go back to sleep."
The king smiled again—this time more sincerely, yet still wrong somehow. "Good."
There was a long pause between them. A stillness that was almost too still.
Then the king spoke again, his voice low. "You know, Sebastian, there's something poetic about old friends becoming old enemies."
"I hope it never comes to that," Sebastian said, just as quiet.
"Oh, I'm sure it won't." The king turned, robes whispering behind him. "After all… the end is never really the end. Just the beginning, wearing a different face."
He began to return to the throne but stopped halfway.
"Keep an eye on him, won't you?" he added casually. "Kairos. He has a tendency to stumble where others would kneel."
Sebastian bowed again, this time deeper.
"Always."
As the servant exited, the door closing with a soft finality behind him, the king stood alone once more in the throne room. The moonlight glinted off his rings. Somewhere in the shadows, a soft ticking began—faint, rhythmic, like a heartbeat beneath stone.
And the king whispered, voice barely audible:
"One piece moved. The board remembers."