Chapter 2 - Decree of Silence

Sunlight clawed through crimson curtains like fingers scraping bone. Arin hadn't slept. Couldn't. The throne dug into his back, every shift sending jolts from the crown straight to his nerves. Servants tiptoed in with trays—steaming coffee bitter as regret, bread untouched. He waved them off, alone with the ghosts in his head."Poison in the coffee? Check the rim." A sly voice, feminine and venomous. Arin snatched the cup, sniffed. Faint almond reek. He hurled it at the wall—porcelain shattered, steam hissing like a snake. The servant yelped, fleeing."Paranoid already? Cute." Laughter bubbled, manic and boyish. "Burn the kitchens. No loose ends.""Shut up," Arin growled, rubbing temples. The murmurs didn't quiet—they multiplied, a cacophony painting pictures: battlefields slick with rain and guts, thrones toppled by lovers' knives, empires crumbling under one man's fractured grin. His memories? Or theirs? The line blurred, nausea rising.Footsteps echoed—heavy boots. The council assembled uninvited: ten lords in velvet finery, faces pale as the marble floors. Lord Erias led, silver-haired fox with eyes like daggers. "Your Majesty, the ridge victory buys time. But Valthor's kin rally. We propose terms—"Arin rose slow, crown flaring heat. "Cut their tongues. Make examples." The violent urge tasted sweet. "Terms? You mean surrender." His voice layered strange—echoes bleeding through. The lords shifted uneasy.Erias pressed. "Mercy unites, sire. The people whisper of demons in your blood." One lord—young, trembling—burst out, "You've slaughtered innocents! My brother—"The room froze. Arin's grin split wide. "Break him." He stepped forward, casual as drawing a blade from thin air—a relic dagger materializing in his grip, runes humming. The young lord backed up, tripping over robes. "Please, I—"Arin lunged. The blade kissed the man's throat, drawing a red pearl. "Confess." Voices chanted in his mind, fueling calm ice. The lord babbled—plots, gold from Valthor, assassins in the walls. Erias paled. "Sire, enough!""Not enough." Arin carved the confession into parchment himself, ink mixing blood. Decree of Silence: All traitors laugh before death. Courts purged. Loyalty or pyres. He signed with a flourish, the quill trembling in rage not all his.The lords bolted as bells tolled—executions starting. Arin watched from the balcony, smoke rising from courtyard flames. Cheers mixed with screams; the crowd split, fear turning to fervor. "The Tyrant lives!" some roared.Back in chambers, he collapsed, sweat-slick. The voices swelled triumphant. "One down. They bend." But a new one growled low, ancient and weary: "This body weakens. Feed us... or fracture."A knock shattered the haze. A spyglass thrust through the door: Blackridge scouts, rebels massing triple. Six days. And something inside him uncoiled, hungry.