The throne room of Malion's palace was as magnificent as it was unsettling. Massive obsidian pillars stretched high toward the vaulted ceiling, carved with symbols that seemed to shift when one looked too long. A crimson carpet lined the center of the floor, leading up to a dais where Malion lounged on his dark throne, his fingers drumming lazily against the armrest. Torches flickered with an unnatural black flame, filling the hall with a chilling glow that made even the most seasoned noblemen tremble.
The court had gathered in its full weight: dukes, ministers, advisors, and a handful of high-born petitioners. Their voices filled the chamber until the herald struck the floor with his staff and called for silence.
A trembling steward stepped forward first, clutching a scroll. "Your Majesty… we bring grave news. A duke of the western territories, Duke Ravan, was found dead in his home."
The hall filled with murmurs. One voice whispered of poison, another of betrayal, until the steward raised his voice over them.
"The county officials… claim it was wild animals. They said his body was torn—clawed apart. But…" He swallowed hard. "But many doubt such a thing could occur within guarded walls."
Malion leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his knuckles. His expression was unreadable, though his eyes glinted with a dangerous amusement.
"Wild animals," he repeated softly, as though savoring the absurdity. "Yes… the wildest beasts are always the ones closest to home."
The courtiers stiffened. They could never tell if their king spoke in riddles or simply mocked them.
"Send his body to the capital," Malion continued at last. "Prepare a grand burial. A duke of my realm, no matter his flaws, deserves to be honored in death. His family will receive compensation."
The steward bowed deeply, relieved that the king's response was merciful rather than cruel.
But before the hall could breathe again, another figure stepped forward. Duke Philemon, a stout man with a sharp nose and eyes like a hawk, cleared his throat.
"Your Majesty… there is another matter." He unfolded a parchment, his hands steady though his voice carried caution. "The petition concerning the taxes. The people claim the burden is too heavy to bear, and they beg for a reduction which i said in the last gathering."
The court shifted uneasily. It was dangerous to speak on behalf of the common folk, but Philemon was bold.
Malion straightened in his throne, his gaze sweeping the hall like a predator scanning prey. "And what solution do you propose, Duke Philemon? Should I lower taxes and let the treasury run dry? Or perhaps squeeze the dukes instead of the peasants? Would that suit you better?"
Philemon swallowed, but before he could reply, Malion raised a hand.
"No need to answer. The matter is already solved."
The court blinked in confusion. Solved? They exchanged uneasy glances, waiting for the king to explain.
Malion's lips curved into a smile that was both cruel and playful. "Duke Ravan, the one who has been… generously lining his pockets with coin meant for the crown, has recently crossed the gate of hell. Consider your petition addressed."
A ripple of shock passed through the court. Whispers hissed between nobles. Some covered their mouths; others looked away, unwilling to meet the king's eyes. Everyone knew what he meant. The embezzling duke was dead. And the timing—so perfect, so convenient—could not be coincidence.
Philemon's face blanched. The room grew heavy with silence until Malion tilted his head, feigning innocence.
"Why are you all staring at me like that?" His tone was light, almost mocking. "Do not give me credit for what I have not done. I did not kill him."
The denial only deepened their unease. He had spoken it with too much ease, as though taunting them to believe the opposite.
The session ended shortly after. One by one, the nobles bowed and excused themselves, their steps hurried as though eager to escape the suffocating weight of the throne room. The moment the doors closed behind the last duke, the chamber felt emptier, quieter, yet far more dangerous.
Only one man remained.
A tall figure stepped out from the shadows at the edge of the hall. His cloak brushed the floor, his sharp eyes fixed on Malion. This was no ordinary noble — this was him, Malion's closest confidant and most trusted advisor, Lord Theron. Unlike the rest, he did not kneel or bow. He walked straight to the dais, his expression unreadable.
"You're still a liar," Theron said calmly.
Malion chuckled, resting his cheek on one hand. "Oh? That's rather bold, even for you."
"You told them you didn't kill Ravan," Theron pressed, his tone as sharp as a blade. "But we both know the truth. You may not have raised a hand yourself, but it was your doing."
Malion's smirk widened. He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming like shards of ice. "Correction. I didn't kill him."
Theron's eyes narrowed. "Then who did?"
Malion's smile turned darker, almost satisfied. "Nyx."
The name seemed to hang in the air like a whisper of death itself. Nyx — the shadow that stalked unseen, the creature of darkness bound only to Malion's command. Few even believed it was real, and those who did never spoke of it openly.
Theron folded his arms. "So you sent Nyx to do it. That still makes it your order. Why lie then....or you could have just ignored them?"
Malion rose from his throne, his cloak sweeping behind him like a tide of midnight. He descended the dais slowly, each step deliberate, his voice low and cutting.
"I did not lie, Theron. I told them I was not the one who killed Ravan. And I wasn't. Words matter. What I did not say, they were too frightened to ask."
His eyes glowed faintly in the torchlight, a predator's gleam. "There is a difference between killing a man and sending someone to kill him. One stains the hands. The other stains the soul. Which one do you think is worse?"
Theron's jaw tightened. He knew the answer, but he would not say it aloud.
Malion stopped before him, close enough that his presence pressed like a weight. "Let them believe what they wish. Fear is more powerful than truth. As long as they cannot tell where I stand, they will tremble at every shadow."
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then, Malion gave a faint laugh and turned away, ascending back to his throne.
"Ravan was a thief, a parasite. His death serves the realm. The others should thank me, but instead, they quake." He waved a hand dismissively. "Pathetic."
Theron studied him quietly, the flicker of unease hidden in his eyes. He had followed Malion long enough to know the man was both brilliant and dangerous — and that sometimes, he blurred the line between justice and cruelty with unsettling ease.
Still, one truth was undeniable.
Nyx was real. And as long as Nyx served the king, no man in the realm — duke or commoner — was ever truly safe.