He awoke… or perhaps, he had never been asleep.
He had fallen.
The space around him stretched vast—immeasurable, as though walls had never existed.
Energy shimmered like air, colorless yet undeniable in presence.
His memory failed him; he had never seen this place.
And yet, something deep within knew it—
a strange familiarity,
a haunting pull,
as if his soul belonged to this silence.
Thrones lined the great hall.
Countless seats, each occupied by a figure—
none alike, and yet united by a singular stillness.
At the center, one throne towered above the rest.
Its design was ancient and unspoken,
its dark gemstones glinting like eyes that watched the dark itself.
The being seated there had no armor—
his body adorned with pulsing tattoos written in a forgotten tongue.
Black trousers, threaded with the same otherworldly gems.
White hair cascaded like liquid light to the floor of the throne.
His eyes were veiled with a cloth, dark as blind space.
And his smile…
was honest.
So honest,
that death itself slipped between his teeth.
He stepped forward, turning his back to the gathered thrones,
and bowed slightly.
He said one sentence:
— "Crawl forward, King."
A hand clenched.
Teeth pressed hard enough to grind.
Veins rose beneath skin, breath tightened,
and a smile bloomed—twisted by fury.
His gaze dripped with hatred.
Not defiance—
but revulsion for the idea of obeying anything.
Yet the other smile didn't waver.
One finger lifted—
and from the void, a blade was born.
No swing.
No trace of motion.
Only the sensation of something leaving.
A heart.
It fell soundlessly.
As if a piece of him had been removed… without asking.
No scream.
No resistance.
Only coldness.
A body no longer his own.
But his eyes… never left the throne.
His chin lifted, and with a voice like a sacred vow—ritualistic and grim—he spoke:
— "You summoned me to kneel…
and birthed a curse that will never close.
A war not fought with blades,
but with pride.
My name, my mind, my arrogance—
will not rise above you,
they will drag you down
as burned light devours its own shadow.
And on your brow…
your shame shall be etched.
Unforgiven.
Unforgotten."
His eyes closed.
The smile… remained.
When they opened again—
he was back in his chamber.
His hand moved to his chest.
No wound. No scar.
But pain still lingered, dissolving slowly like smoke.
— "My lord… you're awake."
He turned.
A girl stood tall, dressed in the garb of a servant.
Green hair tied tightly.
Eyes like deep woods—clear, alert.
He studied her.
Not her appearance—
but her story.
For the first time… he truly saw her.
Lara.
The quiet shadow that had always been nearby—
now standing in full light.
— "You don't seem like a servant.
How did you end up here?
— "My story isn't worthy of your attention, my lord."
He said nothing.
His eyes didn't leave her.
And slowly, she lowered hers.
— "I was born into House Barrius.
A ducal family, once powerful—land, soldiers, name.
The royal family wanted what we had.
My father refused. So did my brothers.
They accused us of aligning with demons.
Fabricated charges.
House Crismere supported the lie.
They were all executed.
Only my mother and I survived.
Lady Kray took us in.
My mother lives in the countryside now… and I serve here."
He didn't speak.
But a faint smile touched his lips—
not kindness…
calculation.
— "Do you seek vengeance?"
She didn't answer.
But her head moved—almost on its own.
The man before her wasn't who she had known.
Not the noble.
Not the heir.
Something else…
Something deeper.
He turned his gaze to the window.
— "Where is the lady?"
— "Training.
She left after making sure you were alright.
You'd already woken up… two hours after collapsing.
I was there.
So was she."
His eyes narrowed—just slightly.
Then his voice came, calm and measured:
— "Remind me…
what exactly happened after I lost consciousness?"
She blinked, surprised—then replied steadily:
— "You opened your eyes slowly.
Didn't speak much at first.
Then you turned to me and said, 'Tell her I'm fine.'
You looked… normal.
Then you laid back down.
She smiled.
Said she understood."
He said nothing.
But deep within him—
a thread pulled tight.
No memory.
No echo of that moment.
Just… a silence.
Clean.
Cold.
And far too still.
His head tilted back.
His eyes met the ceiling.
And in the farthest corner of his own mind, a whisper surfaced:
— "You were watching?"
The reply came, dry and absolute:
— "I cannot enter.
This is your mind, King."
— "Forgive me for asking, my lord…
but how did you heal her?
The magic you used…
it resembled that of the Church."
He didn't respond.
He simply moved.
Not like someone walking—
but like something that drifted between unseen cracks in the world.
His steps made no sound,
yet the air shifted.
Bent.
As he passed her, the light in the room dimmed ever so slightly.
And something inside her paused—tightened.
Not fear.
Not pain.
Stillness.
She didn't see him raise a hand.
He didn't touch her.
But she felt touched.
As though something ancient had acknowledged her.
Not a man.
Not a beast.
A presence.
He stopped.
Turned to her.
Met her eyes—
with a gaze that didn't belong to any mortal thing.
And in a voice calm as extinction,
he said:
— "There are many things I can do."