Chapter 272: The Warden of Shadows
The council chamber felt different now. The same heavy oak table, the same torches casting their warm light, the same people Kael had come to trust — and yet every one of them stole glances toward the figure seated at the far end.
Zerathis.
He didn't sit so much as he loomed, his vast frame folded awkwardly into a chair too small for him. His molten eyes glowed faintly, shifting across the room as though weighing each person present. He said nothing, but his presence was enough to keep the chamber taut like a bowstring.
Saekaros cleared his throat, his voice betraying unease.
"As I was saying, the harvest stores are strong, but our supply of smoked meats is running thinner than we'd like. With winter still months away, it's not yet a concern, but—"
Zerathis snorted, the sound like a furnace exhaling. "You waste breath fretting over scraps."
Every head snapped toward him. Rogan's hand brushed the pommel of his blade. Thalos stiffened. Even Lyria leaned slightly forward, as if ready to spring.
Kael raised a hand, his voice calm but edged.
"He's new to this. Let him learn."
He turned to Zerathis.
"These details matter. A people without food starves. A people who starve don't fight, don't build, don't survive. You'll sit and listen. You'll understand."
For a moment, Zerathis's molten gaze locked with Kael's, something primal flaring behind it. Then, slowly, he leaned back, folding his clawed hands together. "Very well. Teach me your scraps."
The meeting continued, but tension threaded every word. Rogan reported on the recruits' progress, noting their morale was high but Kael's earlier sparring accident had left a shadow of caution among them. Varik gave updates on scouting routes and whispers from nearby towns. Azhara spoke of her healers, of new methods being taught to treat wounds with greater efficiency.
Through it all, Zerathis listened. He did not interrupt again, but his gaze followed each speaker, studying them like a predator watches prey.
When the meeting adjourned, the others filtered out quickly, relief visible on their faces. Only Kael remained, waiting as the chamber emptied until it was just him and the daemon.
Zerathis leaned forward, elbows resting on the scarred wood of the table.
"You play shepherd. Tending sheep. Counting grain. You expect me to care for these things?"
Kael's eyes narrowed, his voice quiet but sharp.
"Yes. Because you'll learn that strength isn't only measured in blood and fire. It's in their smiles, their safety, their belief that tomorrow will be better than today. That's what it means to lead."
He stepped closer, his tone dropping to steel.
"And hear me, Zerathis — if you harm them, in any way, I'll kill you myself. No chains, no mercy. Just the end."
For a long moment, silence stretched. Then, to Kael's surprise, Zerathis smiled. Not mockery — something harder to place. Amusement, maybe. Respect, even.
"Spoken like a ruler, not a sheep. Perhaps I did kneel to the right man."
Kael let the words hang for a moment, then drew a slow breath.
"Good. Then it's time you had a role."
Zerathis tilted his head, curious.
"I'll name you Warden of Shadows," Kael said, voice firm. "Your duty will be to walk the underbelly of this world. The places where sunlight never reaches. You'll root out threats before they rise, find the whispers of danger long before they strike. In cities, in ruins, in dark places even my scouts cannot reach. That will be your burden. Do it well, and you'll not only prove your loyalty — you'll keep this people alive."
Zerathis leaned back, the molten cracks across his skin pulsing faintly. A low laugh rolled from his chest.
"A title fit for a daemon. A throne in the dark, where I belong. Very well, little king. I'll walk your shadows. I'll scour your enemies before they breathe your name. And when I find them, I'll show you their bones."
Kael met his gaze, unflinching. "Just make sure their bones are the right ones."
The daemon grinned, sharp and terrible. "We'll see."