A pale dusk settles over the kingdom, casting long shadows across the stone walls of the palace.
A Black Butterfly flutters soundless through the dusk-dimmed air and lands on the cloaked shoulder of the figure hidden in shadow. Her voice, soft, and serpentine whispers like a memory.
"Aren... Aren... you know this won't end well."
Aren did not respond.
His face, still veiled beneath the hood, was turned toward the throne room far below, where a deal forged in pride and greed had begun to rot.
He vanished into the air– quiet as a whisper
–before the guards could even sense him.
- - -
A deep silence hung in the hall, heavy with opulence. The golden throne shimmered under flickering firelight, casting distorted shadows on the marble floor. King Veylor sat back in luxury, his fingers drumming on the armrest. The court was buzzing faintly, but everything stilled as the foreign envoy– Zerem of Richha– left the hall.
Moments later, Richhan soldiers and carries began arriving through the wide palace doors. Their uniforms were elegant and laced with golden sun symbols. They carried ornate crates and scrolls, draped in silk and leather. One by one, they bowed before the throne and placed their gifts before the king.
The servants and soldiers from Richha entered the main hall, each bearing the extravagant gifts promised to the king.
One by one, they approached the dais, unveiling rare jewels, handcrafted relics, and scrolls from forbidden dynasties. They bowed deeply, each time murmuring:
"From the house of Zahmir, may your majesty shine in eternity."
The Ten Million gold coins sparkled under the firelight.
The Ancient Swords, their edges etched with blood-rites.
The 239 jewels, shimmering with unnatural gleams.
Gasps filled the room. Even the stone-hearted nobels found their eyes gleaming.
- - -
Outside the gates, however, the king had ordered the villagers cleared. No commoner was to witness the transaction. Guards shoved the poor aside like cattle, sending a wave of fear and confusion through the crowd.
A pleading villager screamed. "Wait! Please! I've waited since dawn—"
A guard shoved him with no mercy.
In the chaos, an old man stumbled, his hands clutching a worn sack of grain– his offering, gathered over months of sweat. It tore open, spilling its contents unto the palace floor. In moments, it was crushed under the feet of soldiers and nobles alike.
"No! My grain– please, wait–STOP!"
His voice cracked, trembling with desperation. But the hall had turned deaf to the poor.
He knelt beside the ruined sack as the guards barked at him.
"Out of the way! Scum!" One guard snarled, shoving him to the ground.
Tears welled in the man's eyes. But no on looked. No one listened. No one cared.
The guards sealed the doors.
- - -
Then, in the main hall,
Fifty women, clad in silks that shimmered like blood and fire, stepped forward. Their beauty was unearthly. Their faces are emotionless, like dolls trained to smile but forbidden to feel. Some of them avoided eye contact. Others stared blankly into the distance.
The nobles gasped.
The king eyes widened, lips parting in silent pleasure. Lust, pride, and hunger danced in his gaze.
"Behold..." whispered the courtier, "...they must be enchanted."
"By the Gods..." the first advisor, "...are they real?"
"From Richha's finest breeding houses." The second advisor, "The king must share."
The king glanced at his advisors, then leaned forward on his throne. His mind turned quickly.
He speaks to himself. "If I offer a few to the generals, the rest to the royals... I'll still keep the best for myself. But if I give too many away, who will remember my queens?"
He raised his hand.
"These women shall not be disturbed," he declared. "They shall belong to me– entirely."
A heavy silence fell across the court.
Advisors stiffened. Eyes narrowed. Some fists clenched behind backs. But none spoke. To question the king meant defiance. And defiance meant death... or worse– being labeled as Tula.
So, they swallowed their pride... and their fury.
- - -
The peasants were still outside– confused, angry, burdened with sacks of grain and livestock they were never allowed to deliver. The old man, the one who lost his only food stood trembling– eyes red, hands shaking.
Then something snapped.
He lunged toward the guard who had shoved him, shouting:
"You cursed dog! You crushed my soul for this?!"
He slammed the guard to the ground and wrestled his spear from him. But before he could even raise it–
Three guards tackled him.
"Bastard!"
"Filth!"
"Kill him!"
The crowd screamed. Mothers covered their children's eyes. Blood splashed across the dirt. They beat him... mercilessly.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Until there was silence.
Until there was only his broken body, left in a puddle of dust and grain.
No one moved.
The villagers stood frozen.
The message was clear.
Zerem stood beside General Ovrek– a scar-face man, grim and effecient, and the king's right hand, always dressed in obsidian armor laced with emerald.
They had watched the entire slaughter.
Ovrik didn't blink.
"They do this often," he said coldly. "Fools always throw themselves into the fire, thinking they can bite the flame."
Zerem noded slowly, emotionless.
"Cruelty ensures obedience," Zerem said, his voice void of judgement. "I understand."
Ovrek grunted. "The deal stands. Your quarters are prepared. Your things will be delivered. You'll be safe here."
He gestured. A servant scuttled forward and picked up Zerem's satchel.
Zerem nodded. "Very well."
But as Zerem moved to follow, something stopped him.
A feeling.
A weight.
A Presence.
His eyes darted subtly toward the palace arches. His breath slowed.
Someone's watching me... No, stalking me.
Ovrek asked, "Something's wrong?" Cocking a brow.
Zerem paused...
"No... nothing," he replied flatly.
But as he turned to leave, his hand drifted to the edge of his robe where a small, hidden blade sat.
He did not smile this time.
And far above them again, in a silver of blackened air where no light reached–
Aren watched.
Silent
Watching the first serpent slither.
"So... the snake begins to coil." Aren whispered to himself.