The room was dark. Shadows moved across the stone walls, stretching long and thin. The air felt heavy with power and secrecy.
At the far end, a figure sat in the shadows. His presence was stronger than his shape.
His face was hidden under a hood. Even the firelight did little to reveal him. He was not just a man. He was a shadow, a force that had not yet broken. His kingdom was built from defiance. He ruled despite the world was against him.
He had shaped his own path. He had challenged the rules and created a gap no one else could see. He was a king without a crown, an emperor without proof. Yet he ruled all the same.
The silence in the room broke only with the crackle of the fire.
Two children stood before him.
The boy stood stiff beside his sister. His face was set, but his eyes showed unease. The girl's gaze never left their father. She was calm, but the strength within her was clear.
He gazed at his son. "The war will come."
His voice echoed with finality. "The hero will come, and you will face him. But this battle, this moment, will be more than just a fight. Your victory will not be as simple as it seems."
The boy shifted uneasily. "What do you mean?"
His voice sounded small in the vast room.
The father did not answer immediately. He turned his head slightly. His voice became quieter.
"I will not be here when that time comes," he said.
His words were deliberate and final. "The path you will walk will be one you must take alone."
The silence that followed was thick with unspoken truths.
The boy looked up at his father, brow furrowed in confusion. "But... we're just children," he said.
His voice held the innocence only a child could have. "We can't do this alone."
"You will," the father replied.
His voice was hard as stone. "When the time comes, you will take your oaths, not as children, but as the rulers you were born to be. Your path is set. And though I will not be there to guide you, you will know what must be done."
The daughter stepped forward.
Her eyes never left their father. "What oaths?" she asked.
Her voice was sharp and clear. She already seemed to understand, though only in part, what was being asked of them.
The father's voice softened, but there was no warmth in it. "The oaths of power and of sacrifice. The world will change, and you will be the ones to shape it."
The daughter stepped forward again. "And what of me, father? What of my oath?"
The father's gaze shifted to her. He had always known the difference between his children. The boy favored battle, the clash of steel and the tests of strength. The girl preferred books, the quiet study of plans and the careful weaving of power.
"You will bring them together," their father said. "The kingdoms must unite. You will make them follow you."
The daughter nodded. Her lips curled into a faint smile. "And when the kingdoms are united, the heavens will crumble."
She inclined her head. Her eyes shone with resolve. "And I will be the one to do it."
"Yes," the father replied. "The skies will fall. And with that comes a cost."
Both children stayed silent. They knew the price their father had paid. They knew the price he would demand from them.
"The cost," the father said softly, "is the death of the one who carries the message."
The son stiffened. "You mean..."
"You," the father said. "You will deliver the message not as a friend. You will fight him. You will die at his hands. In your death you will deliver."
The son's jaw tightened. For a moment, he hesitated.
"But what if I befriend the hero?" he asked. His voice was soft and uncertain.
The father's shadowed form moved slightly, as if thinking. "If you do," he said, his voice cold and careful, "the skies will know. Everything we built will fall before it begins. You must be the enemy. You must keep your oath."
The words settled heavy on the boy's chest. He had always known this fate. He had known that his life would be the cost of his father's vision. But hearing it said out loud took all comfort away.
"I will die," the son said. His voice was low and steady. "And the hero will understand."
The father nodded. There was no sadness in it. Only acceptance. His hands rested on the arms of the throne, still and firm.
The daughter looked at her brother. For a brief moment, pity touched her face. Then she turned back to their father.
"And when the time comes," she said, "when he carries the message, what will he do with it?"
The father's voice dropped to a whisper. "He will understand. And they will never see it coming."
Silence filled the room again. The son's fate was fixed. His death was part of a plan too deep for him to escape. But the daughter's part in that plan was still unclear. Her oath had not been spoken, and the weight of it lingered in the air like something waiting to fall.
The father said nothing more. He sat still, a dark shape on the throne, the burden of his rule heavy on him. His children did not need more words. They knew the price. They knew they were pieces in something far older and far more dangerous than they could yet understand.
***
Years passed.
The boy who once stood in his father's shadow had grown into the man he was meant to be. Through many skirmishes, raids, and battles he had built his strength. He had sharpened his mind. He had accepted the role given to him. The boy had become the Bandit Lord. He was a force shaped by war and sacrifice.
Now the final hours of the war had come.
The battlefield was quiet. The echoes of war faded in the distance. Blood stained the earth under the corpses of soldiers, bandits, and nobles. In the middle of the carnage the Bandit Lord lay crumpled. His body sprawled across the battlefield. Death pressed down on him. The world around him was full of noise and fading shadows. The battle had ended.
His once proud form was now still. The fading warmth of life clung to him for a moment longer. His breath came in ragged gasps. Each inhale was a struggle. His mind was clouded. His vision went in and out of focus. One thought cut through the fog.
A sharp, searing pain exploded through his side where the Hero's blade had struck. It hit the shoulder, cutting through muscle and bone. Blood seeped out in thick, sluggish pools. His body trembled. Coldness crept in as life drained from him. Still, he clung to consciousness. Just a little longer.
His hand twitched. His fingers flexed as if reaching for something before the final darkness came.
He struggled to speak. His throat was dry and raw. Words formed broken and cracked. His voice was barely audible.
"You can smell it, can't you? The static. The lies we've all been fed. Behind the skies, behind the mask. It's all just a game, isn't it?"
Each word was a jagged breath. The Bandit Lord's chest rose weakly with each struggle to speak. His thoughts were disjointed. Did it matter? Did the Hero even hear him?
His lips parted one last time. The remnants of his strength slipped away.
"Father..." A shuddering breath. "Oath..." His vision blurred. Darkness crept in at the edges. "Fulfilled..."
A faint exhale.
"I'm... free..."
Then silence.
***
Days passed. The world continued to move forward. The Bandit Lord's death had shaken the Bandit Fortress.
In a dark chamber, a woman stood with a scroll in her hands. Her eyes were sharp and calculating. They held the same cold resolve that had always defined her. She had watched from the shadows as her brother, the Bandit Lord, had played his part. He had died and fulfilled the oath set before him. His sacrifice was complete.
Now it was her turn.
Her fingers brushed over the parchment. These were not simple messages. They were the threads she would use to weave her own web. She would pull the kingdoms together. The Skies had their design. The Hero had his destiny. She had a plan of her own. A plan that would break them all.
With care, she handed the scrolls to shadowy figures before her. They were part of her network. Silent, unseen, deadly. The kingdoms had long been fractured. Now she would stitch the pieces together and forge a new path.
As the figures took the scrolls and disappeared into the shadows, she walked to the balcony. Her gaze fell on the camp below. The bandit army was already assembling. Their voices rose in chant. They rallied to her cause. Their cries were harsh and guttural.
"For the Queen. For the future. For the end."
It was a chant of defiance. It was a chant of rebellion. It was a chant for a future that would no longer be ruled by the Skies. Her father's vision was clear. The time had come for the kingdoms to be united. She would not be a puppet. She would be the one to pull the strings.
Below, her army grew. Hundreds of bandits, thieves, and outcasts gathered. Their loyalty was sworn to her. The air hummed with anticipation. The sound of war was on the horizon.
With a cold smile, she turned from the balcony and went back to the heart of her camp. The final preparations were being made. Her plan was already in motion. Now it was time for the world to catch up.
As she passed through her tent, her fingers touched the worn cover of a book -- Far Cry: The Adventures of Vaas Montenegro. Their father had given it to her brother long ago. He never explained why. He only said it held lessons beneath the madness.
Her brother had read it many times. The spine was creased. The pages were soft from use. When she asked him what he saw in it, he only smiled. There was something tired and knowing in his eyes.
"Some truths are easier to accept when they come from someone crazier than you."
She let her hand stay for a moment before pulling away. Nostalgia was a luxury she could not afford. The plans were already in motion.