The pressurized air whistles, a sharp moan that precedes the grinding of metal against metal. The door, a slab of steel over a meter thick, rises with torturous slowness, revealing a corridor that looks like polished bone, a tunnel carved into the skeleton of some colossal beast. The ivory floor, so white and smooth it reflects the cold light like ice, awaits. And then, the sound. Not a step, but an impact. A heavy, dull thud, the strike of steel on stone that echoes, that reverberates and fills the silence with a cadence of deliberate power. Another. And one more. They are the steps of a man who does not walk, but stakes out territory with every conquered meter.
His face is a lie, an absence, hidden beneath the casing of a dark metal helmet. There are no ornaments, no plumes or crests. Only brutal functionality. A visor of polished obsidian stares out at the world, giving nothing back, and thin grey lines, like surgical scars, trace complex paths across the surface, converging at the front like veins in a heart of steel. This is the Prince of Trevaria.
In his left hand, a coarse canvas sack hangs, heavy and shapeless. The rough fabric is stained with what could be dirt or dried blood, and the muffled clink of coins mixed with the dull thud of heavy jewels announces its contents. He drags the fortune as one would carry a sack of garbage, a disgusting burden he needs to get rid of. The corridor opens into a vast room, a cathedral of opulence. The smell is the first thing that attacks: a sickly mix of sandalwood incense and the metallic, acrid odor of melted candle wax, all fighting to mask an underlying stench of dust and stagnant air.
Two rows of guards, living statues in silver armor, flank the path. Their faces are impassive beneath their helms, but their eyes, visible through the narrow slits, follow the figure advancing. There is no curiosity in them, only tension, the recognition of a dangerous force that has been allowed into their sanctuary. A long velvet carpet, a red so deep it seems to drink the light, cuts across the whiteness of the ivory, a river of dried blood guiding the way to the throne.
The throne is a circular monstrosity of ivory, carved with scenes of battles and conquests that seem to writhe under the light. Enormous stained-glass windows, depicting forgotten gods and anonymous martyrs, break the setting sun's light into colored shards that dance on the floor, painting the ivory with patches of blood, sapphire, and sickly gold. And seated on the throne, sunk into it like a body in its coffin, is the King of Achtaria.
— You finally made it back, eh?
The voice is like gravel being dragged over glass. The man stops. The sound of his footsteps ceases, and the silence that sets in is heavier than the noise. He stands about ten meters from the throne, a respectful distance for a subject, a tactical distance for an enemy. The king is a man that life has already begun to devour. His brown skin has a waxy, sickly tone, stretched over blubber that seems overly prominent. His short, thin blonde hair fails to soften the harshness of a face marked by suspicion. A scarlet mantle, the color of power and fresh blood, wraps his body, but it looks more like a shroud.
The man does not reply. Instead, he swings his arm and drops the sack. It hits the ivory floor with a wet, heavy thud, the sound of soiled wealth profaning the sterile sanctity of the room. The clinking of coins and the rattling of gems are an audible insult.
— I want twenty-five percent of that money. — his voice is filtered by the helmet, metallic and devoid of emotion. A statement, not a request.
The king leans forward, and the movement is slow, painful. His hand, with thin fingers and yellowish nails, grips the arm of the throne.
— You are always asking for more, Corruptor. — the weariness in his voice is a weapon, an attempt to evoke guilt or moderation. It is a miscalculation.
A sound of static, which turns into a short, humorless laugh, leaks from Corruptor's helmet. He raises his gloved hands and, with a hissing click of pneumatic seals releasing, removes the helmet. The air in the room seems to rush to fill the vacuum. The face that emerges is a contradiction. It is young, twenty-three at most. Rebellious black hair falls over his forehead, framing a face with hard features, but not yet entirely solidified by cruelty. His eyes, however, are black holes. Deep, empty of light, they absorb everything and reveal nothing. His pale skin, which does not often see the sun, looks almost translucent under the colored rays of the stained-glass windows.
He shakes his head, his hair flying. Sweat gleams on his temples. His breath is visible in the cold atmosphere of the room.
— I never imagined you'd reach this point, eh? — the king's voice now carries a tone of wicked marvel, the pleasure of a mentor seeing his student turn into a monster.
Corruptor stares at the king, and his expression is a blank canvas. The silence stretches. The guards do not move, do not breathe. They are part of the architecture. A ray of sunlight, filtered by an amber glass panel, hits the side of Corruptor's face, illuminating the sharp line of his jaw. He looks like a fallen saint, an angel stained by the world's filth.
— Things change — his voice is his own now, human, but cold as the metal he just removed. — But I don't intend to do this for long. — every word is a shard of ice. The promise there is not of retirement. It is a threat. The promise that this alliance has an expiration date, and that he, Corruptor, will decide when it expires.
— That's true, eh? — the king leans back, a sickly smile spreading across his lips. It is a joyless smile, a muscular spasm that shows wine-stained teeth. — Achtaria has everything it needs. Your father has no idea you are here. The golden heir of Trevaria, wallowing in the mud with me.
The mention of his father causes a spark in Corruptor's dark eyes. A tiny, almost imperceptible, twitch in his jaw. He controls it instantly, but it was there.
— What my father doesn't know has never killed him. — Corruptor replies, and now sarcasm drips from his voice, thick and poisonous as pitch. — And, for now, it seems that rule remains incredibly valid.
The king's smile tightens, morphing into a grimace of bitterness. His eyes narrow, almost closing, as if the sight of the young prince before him were a physical pain. He sees the youth, the strength, the relentless ambition he himself once had, now reflected back at him like a mocking mirror. He sees the future, and he knows he is not part of it. Corruptor, in turn, sees an obstacle. A decrepit old man, sitting on a bone chair, clinging to a relevance that has already rotted in his hands.
The silence descends again, but now it is poisoned by the conversation. The smell of incense seems fainter, and the stench of stagnation, stronger. The sack of money lies between them, an ugly monument to their unholy alliance, the price of a son's betrayal and a king's greed. And in the eyes of both, the same cold, absolute certainty: one day, very soon, one of them will have to remove the other from the path. And neither will hesitate when the time comes.
— We've seen this before, haven't we? — the king's voice crawls through the silence, thin and brittle as dry bones. — The ignorant always fall first. With a knife in the back or poison on the lips.
The stained-glass light paints a crimson patch on the ivory floor, right at Corruptor's feet. He stares at it, the wet sheen of an open wound.
— Or with a shot to the chest. — his answer is low, almost a murmur, but it cuts through the stagnant air of the room.
Corruptor raises his gaze from the floor. His eyes, two wells of darkness, meet the king's. An ironic smile, so subtle it is almost a contraction of pain, pulls at the corner of his mouth. He does not move, but his entire body radiates a predatory energy, the stillness of a panther before the leap.
— And what do you think I'm going to do? — he tilts his head, a slow, deliberate movement. The amber light from another stained-glass window catches the sheen of sweat on the back of his neck. — You think I came all this way for this? To dirty my hands with the blood of a dying old man?
Every word is a provocation, a finger poking the sleeping beast on the throne. The guards along the walls remain motionless, but an almost audible tension ripples through their ranks, like the air before a storm. They are furniture, but furniture that bleeds if broken.
The king does not get angry. He has seen this kind of insolence before. He has practiced it. He leans forward, the movement making the scarlet fabric of his mantle whisper. His elbows rest on his knees, his hands loosely clasped. He looks less like a king and more like a loan shark analyzing a dubious debt.
— I think you're here to secure your place before the castle starts to crumble. — the king's gaze is heavy, weighted with decades of betrayals and paranoia. He sweeps over Corruptor from head to toe, not as a man, but as a piece on a complex, bloody board. — And, well, what better time to ask for more than when the foundation is already cracking?
A sound escapes Corruptor's lips. A laugh. It has no joy, no humor. It is the sound of breaking metal, hollow and sharp, which dies out almost instantly. He takes a step forward, and the thud of his boot on the ivory is a punctuation mark, a final period on patience.
— It's funny how you think you can predict my intentions. — he is closer now, invading the sacred space around the throne. The smell of sandalwood and candle wax now competes with the odor of leather and sweat emanating from him. — Have you ever considered that, perhaps, I'm just here to observe the collapse? To watch from the sidelines as everything you built with lies and blood turns to dust?
The threat hangs in the air, naked and ugly. It is not about money. It never was. It is about annihilation.
The king's fingers begin to tap, a soft, nervous rhythm on the ivory arm of the throne. It is the only sign of the storm brewing beneath his weary facade. His gaze narrows, and the light from the stained-glass windows seems to retreat, as if fearing the darkness gathering in his eyes. His shadow stretches out behind him, a distorted, monstrous form that seems to try to swallow the entire throne.
— The problem, Corruptor, is that when the castle crumbles, those nearby always end up buried. And you are closer than you think.
He straightens up, and the movement has the finality of a death sentence being signed.
— One day, you will fall to the floor, bleeding from a hole you didn't even see open. You will choke on your own blood and beg for help that will not come. Your vision will blur, and the last thing you will see are the indifferent faces of those you used and discarded. And there will be no one there to hold your hand. No one.
The silence that follows is absolute. The king's prophecy hangs between them, a poisonous fog. Corruptor does not flinch. He absorbs the words, lets them strike him, and remains standing, unharmed. A genuine smile, the first one, blossoms on his face. It is a terrible sight, filled with contempt and a self-confidence that borders on insanity.
— And yet, I'm still standing. — he spreads his arms wide, a gesture of defiance, of exposure. As if inviting the attack. — But don't worry about my well-being. I don't plan on staying here for long. Just long enough to secure my share. After all, twenty-five percent is the minimum for the spectacle, don't you think? For the privilege of watching me dance in the ruins of your legacy.
The king's mask shatters. For a fleeting second, a volcanic fury glints in his eyes. The hand that was tapping clenches into a fist so tight that the knuckles turn white like the ivory beneath them.
— Twenty-five percent... — he hisses, the sound of a serpent. — I should plunge twenty-five swords into your arrogant heart. One for every betrayal you represent.
But the fury recedes as quickly as it arose, swallowed by the pragmatic exhaustion of a man who knows he can no longer win by force. He lets out his breath, a heavy, trembling sigh, as if the weight of his own kingdom were crushing his lungs. The fight abandons him, leaving behind only a tired, bitter old man.
— But, for now, let me see how much you are capable of bearing, eh?
He waves his hand, a gesture of dismissal, of temporary surrender.
— Go to your room. The guest chambers in the east wing. I will send a servant to deliver your money. Your Judas silver.
Corruptor laughs again, this time a fuller, more genuine sound. It is the sound of victory. He does not bow. He offers no word of thanks or acknowledgment. He simply turns around, a deliberate insult to the king's authority, and begins to walk out of the room. His steps are firm, measured, the sound of an inevitable future walking away. He does not look back. He does not need to. He knows exactly what he would see: a king on a throne of bones, reigning over an empire of dust.
The corridors of Ceasar's palace are marble veins, and Corruptor is the poison that now pulses through them. He moves with an economy of motion that belies the violence of his reputation, his steel boots barely whispering on the polished floor. The real noise is the silence that precedes him. Servants and majordomos, previously occupied with their endless tasks, freeze at his approach. They do not look at him. Their eyes fix on tapestries, on flower arrangements, on any point in space that does not contain his presence. Backs flatten against the cold stone walls, bodies shrinking to become smaller, not to occupy the same air as him. He feels their fear as a change in atmospheric pressure, a subtle odor of sweat and panic beneath the perfume of lilies in the bronze vases. He feeds on it.
His room is a well-appointed cell. Small, functional, anonymous. A bed, a chair, a wash basin. A veiled insult from Ceasar, a reminder of his status as a tool, not a guest. The door closes behind him with a solid click, and the iron lock seems to mock him. For a moment, he stands in the gloom, listening to the muffled sound of the palace reanimating on the other side of the wood. He is an island of tense silence.
With slow, methodical movements, he begins to strip off his war. The buckles of the steel breastplate open with reluctant groans. The leather creaks, protesting as he pulls it over his head. The mail slides down his shoulders with the sound of a thousand small metal snakes, falling to the floor with a heavy, definitive thud. He kicks it into a corner. Next, the linen shirt, soaked with sweat, clings to his skin. He rips it off, feeling the rough fabric scrape his torso. And there, under the yellowish light of the room's single lamp, it is revealed.
A scar. A perfect X, etched into the pale skin above his heart. The tissue is lighter than the rest of his skin, a pale mark of past violence. He approaches the small, stained mirror over the wash basin, tracing the outline of the mark. The skin there is smooth, but dead to the touch, devoid of normal sensation. It is a piece of his past permanently stitched into his present.
— Damn it. — the thought is not a word, but a wave of bitter heat rising in his chest. — It's because of him that I am like this. But he will get what he deserves. They all will.
He steps away from his own reflection and throws himself onto the cushioned chair in the corner. The upholstery is worn, the fabric scratched. From his pants pocket, he takes out a small, solid metal ball. It is heavy, cold, smooth. He tosses it into the air. The silver arc catches the light of the lamp. His hand catches it with a soft click. He tosses it again. And again. The rhythmic sound and repetitive action are a metronome for his impatience, a focus for the fury that boils beneath his skin.
Many meters away, in the throne room, the smell of fear still hangs in the air. Ceasar watches his most trusted servants kneeling on the floor, separating coins and jewels from the dirty canvas sack with their fingertips, as if afraid of contamination. The sight disgusts him.
— He is asking for too much... — Ceasar murmurs to the empty hall, scratching the sparse beard on his chin. — Next time, I won't give him more than thirty percent of the money. Maybe.
He knew Corruptor before the corruption, before the helmet and the name whispered in dark corners. He saw him as a skinny boy with overly serious eyes, in the shadow of his father. Now, that shadow had become a darkness of its own, one that threatened to swallow him too.
— I don't know how far this will go. — he leans back on the throne, feeling the cold ivory against the nape of his neck. — Corruptor is demanding more and more, and his behavior... has become rebellious. — he spits the word out as if it were poison. — I'm afraid he will betray me, just as he did his own father. Miserable, eh?
In the room, the metal ball continues its hypnotic dance. Corruptor leans his head back, eyes closed, arms crossed behind his neck. The stone ceiling above him is a blank slate where he projects his plans.
— This Ceasar is becoming greedy with the very trash he calls treasure. — the metal ball stops in his hand, its coldness penetrating his skin. — I need to teach him a lesson before it's too late. A lesson about fear. A lesson about who truly holds the power in this rotten alliance.
His free hand moves down his chest, finding the scar again. He lightly scratches it with his fingernail, a phantom itch that never goes away.
— I don't care that I knew him when he was just a sniveling child. When the time comes, I will stab him in the back without the slightest hesitation. — the memory of Ceasar handing him a sweet, a condescending gesture from a king to a prince of a rival nation, flashes in his mind and is extinguished. Sentimentality is a disease.
A dry knock at the door. Hard, formal.
Corruptor's eyes snap open. The metal ball vanishes into his clenched fist.
— Come in. — his voice is loud, sharp. — I hope you have my money!
The door opens and a servant enters, head bowed, avoiding eye contact. He carries a heavy leather satchel, much more elegant than the original canvas sack. He places it on a small table beside Corruptor and backs away as if the table were on fire.
Corruptor offers no thanks. He leans over and opens the satchel. Inside, wads of notes, the universal Eeries, tied with twine. His expression is serious, focused. He pulls out a wad and begins to count, his thumb flicking the notes with practiced efficiency. The servant remains frozen near the door, barely breathing. Twenty-five thousand. Exact.
— This money will be useful. — he says, more to himself than to the terrified servant. He tosses the wad back into the satchel. — I will use it to acquire more weapons. More equipment. — his eyes glance down at his own hand, which flexes. — Since I can't rely on my powers... not here.
He dismisses the servant with a sharp wave. The man practically flees the room. Alone again, Corruptor stares at the money satchel. It is not a prize. It is ammunition. Every note is a bullet, a blade, one more step away from that place where a father marked his son with an X over the heart. And one step closer to the day he would burn both kingdoms to the ground, if necessary, to erase that debt.
Light-years away, the night on Illuvaria emerges from the valleys and the shadows cast by the impossible structures that define the planet's two nations. On one side, Trevaria, a gothic nightmare of sharp geometry; triangular towers and dark citadels that tear at the sky like the teeth of a bear trap, drinking the light and exuding a perpetual gloom. On the other, Illuminaria, a dreamy antithesis of white cylinders and pearlescent domes, buildings that seem woven from moonlight itself, glowing with an ethereal whiteness that repels shadows. Where the two meet, in the capital, the architecture wars and merges. Trevarian obsidian walls are cut by veins of Illuminarian quartz. Spiral towers rise next to angular bastions. It is a city born of an armistice, a beautiful and functional scar that unites two opposites.
At the heart of this union forged in stone and light, the Illuvarian castle rises like a judge. It is a colossal structure, a titan of dark gray Trevarian metal, but its lines are smooth, its windows vast, and delicate gold and white filigree runs down its façade like rivers of hope through a desolate landscape. Below it, a verdant garden spreads for hundreds of meters, an oasis of organic life amidst the rigidity of the architecture.
Inside the castle, high up in one of its quietest towers, the light of a single grey moon bathes a private study room. The air smells of old book leather and the subtle ozone of an active force field on the balcony. In the center of the room, two men face each other over a chessboard.
— Please, my son... come home.
Trevor's plea, King of Trevaria, is not for his opponent. It is a whisper to the board, to the polished pieces that represent his kingdom, perhaps to a ghost only he can see. His hand, adorned with silver and onyx rings, hovers over a black knight, but a tremor prevents him from completing the move.
— It is a pity that Corruptor has rebelled. He was a good boy. — Charlie's voice, King of Illuminaria, is calm, a soft counterpoint to Trevor's anguish. He leans back in his chair, his snow-white mantle falling in perfect folds. His hair, the same color as his mantle, is voluminous and combed back, framing a face that, despite being aged, still retains an almost supernatural serenity. He moves an ivory bishop with a soft click.
— We have seen this before, haven't we? Power, youth... it's a horrible and volatile mixture.
Trevor finally sets the knight down, but the movement is clumsy, uncertain. The piece slides and nearly topples. The chessboard reflects the state of his inner kingdom: he has lost three pieces, including a rook, while Charlie has only lost two pawns. Both kings are imposing men, the kind of figures that time seems only to refine, but tonight, Trevor's black velvet mantle appears to weigh on his shoulders like a shroud. The short, meticulously trimmed beard cannot hide the tension in his jaw. And his hair, which should be black as the Trevarian night, is flecked with grayish-white, the color of grief and sleepless nights.
— I don't know what made him change so much. — Trevor reflects, his gaze lost on the night landscape beyond the balcony. — He wasn't like this. He was... light. He fled from here without telling anyone beforehand. Not even his girlfriend. He loved her, Charlie. I saw it. And he left her behind.
The sound of double doors opening interrupts the melancholy. The sound is heavy, echoing in the silence of the room. A man enters, and his presence instantly changes the atmosphere. He has the same height and powerful build as Corruptor, a physical echo of the lost son. His armor, however, is different. It is a piece of advanced technology, made of cobalt-blue plates that overlap like the shell of an exotic insect, humming with contained energy. On his chest, a platinum brooch with four arrows, the symbol of a War General. His black skin is a deep contrast to the armor, and his hair is long blonde dreadlocks, the color of wheat under the sun, pulled back tightly. He stops at a respectful distance, with a precise, martial rhythm.
— Excuse me, Your Majesty. — the general's voice is a deep baritone, controlled, but with an edge of urgency. — I have news of your son's whereabouts.
Trevor turns slowly, his entire body stiff with anticipation and dread. The game, the friend, the room, everything vanishes. There is only the messenger and the message he carries. He lets out a sigh, the air leaving his lungs as if in surrender.
— Where is he this time? What shithole is he hiding in?
The General swallows hard, an almost imperceptible contraction in his throat. His deep, serious brown eyes meet Trevor's, and for a moment, he seems to hesitate, like a man about to deliver a physical blow.
— On... my father's planet...
The revelation drops into the room like a stone on a frozen lake, shattering the surface. Trevor stands up abruptly, his chair scraping backward. His hand slams the table, and the chess pieces rattle. A pawn falls to the floor with a sharp, lonely click. Charlie observes the scene, his serene expression replaced by deep concern.
— On Ceasar's planet? In Achtaria? — Trevor's voice is a mix of disbelief and mounting fury. — But why didn't he inform me? Ceasar and I have a treaty. He is my ally! He should have contacted me the moment my son stepped onto that dusty rock!
The man clenches his jaw. The loyalty in his eyes is at war with the shame of his blood.
— I also discovered they have formed an alliance, which is why my father said nothing to you. — each word seems to cost him immense effort, a forced confession. — As you well know, Your Majesty... he is corrupt. He sells himself for power, for money. Your son is just another piece in his sick game.
Charlie shakes his head slowly, his broad shoulders slumping slightly under the weight of the revelation.
— Ceasar's greed knows no bounds. He would use his own son as a shield if it guaranteed him one more moon to exploit. — he stands up and places a firm hand on Trevor's shoulder. — We have to find him, Trevor. We have to get him out of there as soon as possible, before Ceasar's influence completely poisons him.
— You're right, Charlie. You're right. — Trevor moves away from his friend's touch, not out of rejection, but from a need to move. He walks to the balcony, hands clasped behind his back, knuckles white. He stares out at the night. The grey moon hangs in the black velvet sky, indifferent, cold. The garden below is a blur of darkness and silver. For a long time, he says nothing.
— Well, it's too late to leave now. The night is treacherous, and I will not risk a fleet on impulse.
He turns, his face framed by the pale moonlight. His eyes meet the warrior's, and the order is clear, cold, and unbreakable.
— Tomorrow, at dawn, you will depart. I want you to take the King's Shadow and your best legion. Go to Achtaria. And bring my son back.
He pauses, and the next part of the order seems to tear at his throat as it comes out.
— Even if it must be by force.
— Yes, Your Majesty. — The answer is immediate, without hesitation. The relief of having a clear order, a mission, is palpable. — I will carry out this order.
He bows stiffly, turns on his heel, and leaves the room, his martial footsteps echoing down the corridor until they disappear.
Trevor and Charlie are alone again. The fallen pawn is still on the floor. The game, forgotten on the table, remains unfinished, a battlefield frozen in time, mirroring the war that is about to begin.
The sound of Corruptor's boots on the ivory floor of the throne room is different now. Before, it was the heavy cadence of negotiation, a rhythm of power. Now, it is light, almost dancing. It is the sound of a man who has already made his decision and savors the moment that precedes it. He stops ten meters from the throne, the same tactical distance as before, but the space between him and the king seems charged with a different, deadlier electricity. A sadistic smile spreads across his lips. It is not a smile of joy or humor. It is the smile of a boy about to step on an anthill, the pure and simple anticipation of breaking something beautiful and orderly.
Ceasar, slumped on his throne, narrows his eyes. He feels the change in the atmosphere, the scent before a lightning strike.
— I want to dissolve our alliance. — Corruptor's declaration is flat, devoid of emotion. It is a fact, like announcing that the tide has risen.
A sound of scraping stones escapes Ceasar's throat before turning into a hoarse, forced laugh that echoes unpleasantly through the empty hall. It is the laughter of a man trying to assert a power he already feels slipping through his fingers.
— Are you going mad? Completely out of your mind? — the king leans forward, gripping the arm of the throne. — I gave you money, a roof over your head, protection from your own father! And now you want to dissolve the alliance just like that, out of nowhere? Like a petulant child who got tired of a toy?
Corruptor remains motionless, the smile fixed on his face like a porcelain mask.
— Exactly. — he says, and the calm in his voice is an maddening counterpoint to the king's rising fury. — And so your old ears can hear clearly, I will repeat: I want to dissolve. Our. Alliance.
— You worm! — Ceasar roars, the facade of control shattering. He stands up, his scarlet mantle swirling around him like the wings of a wounded bird. — I don't have the age or the time for your boyish games! If you want to leave, then go! Crawl back to the hole you came from! I don't want and never needed the help of wretches like you!
The outburst seems to satisfy Corruptor. He nods slowly, once, as if confirming a hypothesis. He turns, as if genuinely leaving. The soles of his boots begin to mark the path back to the corridor. He takes three steps before stopping.
— Just one more thing... — he mutters, low, almost inaudible, not meant for the king, but for the moment.
He turns around. Not abruptly, spinning on his heel. The movement does not stop there. It continues, his right arm rising, and in his hand, appearing from nowhere, a heavy block of polymer and black steel materializes. A hand cannon, functional and ugly. There is no aim, no hesitation.
The sound that follows is not a detonation. An explosion that tears the air, that makes the banners on the walls tremble and centuries of dust shake loose from the ceiling. For an instant, a flower of orange fire blossoms from the muzzle of the weapon, obscuring the torchlight.
Ceasar is still standing, his mouth open in the middle of an insult. The shock on his face is almost comical. A small dark spot appears in the center of his chest, over the scarlet fabric of his mantle. Then, the spot blooms, expands, a dark, wet circle that spreads rapidly. The king looks down, an expression of genuine surprise on his face, as if he cannot connect the deafening blast with the strange, new moisture on his chest.
— D-Damn you! — the word is not a shout. It is a wet, gurgling gargle, the air escaping a punctured lung.
The king does not collapse. He folds. His legs lose strength, and he falls to his knees with a dull thud of fat and fabric on the marble. His hands go to his chest, trying uselessly to contain what is already gone. He remains like this for a second, a grotesque statue of supplication, before toppling sideways, hitting the floor with the dead weight of a sack of grain.
The silence that follows is louder than the shot. It is a heavy silence that clings to the ears, filled only by the phantom hum of the explosion. The bluish smoke from the blast hangs in the air, with an acrid smell of sulfur and death. The only other sound is the tiny tink... tink-tink... of a hot metal casing bouncing on the ivory floor.
Corruptor stares at the body. The smile is gone, replaced by an expression of cold neutrality.
— This is what he wanted... — he whispers to the corpse, to the empty hall, to himself.
And then, sound returns. First, a distant scream. Then, the thunder of heavy boots running in unison, the sound of a panicked legion approaching.
Corruptor does not wait. He turns to the side wall, where a huge stained-glass window depicts the ascension of an ancient god of Achtaria. Without breaking his stride, he runs toward it. He leaps, ducking low, his shoulder leading the way. The impact turns the sacred art into a spiderweb of colored glass and lead, which explodes outward in a shimmering rain. He lands outside, on a stone ledge, rolling to absorb the fall. Below, the darkness of the night and a drop of dozens of meters await him, but he does not hesitate. He launches himself into the darkness, disappearing before the first guard's boot even crosses the threshold of the throne room.
— Your Majesty!!
Footsteps echo through the empty hall as a group of five guards rushes in, halberds in hand. They stop suddenly, a confused huddle of steel and leather. The scene freezes them. The shattered window, the smell of gunpowder, and in the center of it all, on the cold marble floor, the figure of their king. Motionless. The scarlet mantle spread around him like a pool of blood that has already solidified. A real, growing pool of blood forms beneath him, thick and almost black under the torchlight.
The guards exchange glances, shock and fear etched on their faces beneath their helms. The first to break the silence is a middle-aged soldier, with an ugly scar that cuts his cheek and pulls his eye down. His name is Kael.
— What the hell happened here? — he murmurs, hoarsely. His steps are slow, hesitant, as he walks cautiously toward the body, crouching down and, purely out of formality, placing two fingers on Ceasar's neck. He pulls them away as if he had touched ice.
Another, younger guard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, adjusts his helm which suddenly feels too tight.
— Shouldn't we have been guarding the entrance? — Lyren's voice is a nervous hiss. He glances restlessly at the broken window, at the shadows dancing in the corners. — The Commander is going to execute us for this... He'll strip our hides in strips.
— We had orders to stay in the west corridor. His orders! — a third guard snarls, pointing the tip of his halberd at the body. — How were we supposed to know that damn Ceasar would call the devil in for a private chat and end up dead here?
— Even so, it doesn't feel right. — Lyren insists, panic growing in his eyes. — Someone was in charge of his security while we were gone. Who was it again? Who was on personal duty?
Kael slowly stands up, his face a mask of grim resignation. He wipes his fingers on his trousers, leaving a dark stain on the fabric. He stares at the broken window, the cold night wind rattling the banners. He ignores Lyren's questions. He knows that the blame, the bureaucracy, the punishments, all of that will come later. Now, there is only the fact. The body. And the cause.
— I think I have a pretty good idea who did this. — he says, his voice low and heavy, without surprise, just the grim confirmation of something he and everyone else in the castle had already expected, deep down in their frightened hearts.
The first prophecy of existence is already being fulfilled in the cursed son's life.
"Shivers run down his body, the drops do not stop falling."