Sun glistened down upon the keep's walls, overgrown with black ivy, twisting unconsciously from ground to crest—a nasty sight. A whistle blew from afar, the north watchtower signaling the soldiers at the drawbridge to lower the gate. The church bells quickly followed in fashion, resonating across the town.
An eagle soared above the kingdom of Kator, watching countless citizens arise from their slumbers. Farmers checked on their crops, as blacksmiths stoked fires for labor. Wives and widows dashed to the marketplace, tailors, and bakeries.
Inside the keep, the rising sun caught the Great Hall's windows, lighting them up like a spring fire, brightening the elongated dinner table where, at the end, sat a tall figure. A gloomy expression masked the man's face as he chowed down on a bowl of muesli.
"Good morrows, King Kato, Ruler of the Obsidian Crown. The royal council is ready at your command in the Hall of Kings." A voice called out, sheathed in mighty blackened armor as he entered the Great Hall, bending the knee. A longsword holstered at his hip, his salute solid and unbudging, only breaking as the stocky man at the end of the table spoke.
Dren let out a weak laugh, and brushed the dust off his knees. "My apologies, a force of habit. But you know, Kato. Those dark jokes of yours know how to send a shiver down my spine."
"What now?!' Kato says with a hefty laugh. "Have you lost your balls, old friend? I remember you frightening an enemy soldier into pissing his pants before that decoration of a sword swung upon him. " King Kato teased as he reached for his sword next to him to holster it, but before possible, Dren advanced toward King Kato, palms open with his arms outstretched.
"Let me, Kato. A king shouldn't be bothered to carry a sword. Especially one whose glory days are long over." Dren claps back, staring at Kato's gut—a burning reminder of years of laziness. Kato lets out a chuckle and hands his sword over as they begin their walk down the corridor. Conversation continued as the pair approached the nearby Guardrooms. Numerous soldiers sit idly, chatting tales of their provocative adventures last night. The once lively gossip falls silent as the guards shift their gaze toward the open door. Like hungry mutts waiting for scraps, the guardsmen dash out the door to their positions.
King Kato furrows his eyebrows, a thought of his own neglect toward his soldiers engulfing his mind. His sloth had rubbed off on his men. Years of peace had corrupted the once firm leader into a mush of a man. Kato clenched his fist at the idea, pushing it aside as the door to the Hall of Kings unbolted open, revealing an assembly of well-dressed nobles.
A jet-black rug split part of the room in half, leading to the feet of a dignified throne blackened in mahogany, looming in the center. Two towering statues of fatally wounded beasts stood pridefully, swords still gutted in the beasts beside the throne. Those waiting to see their royal highness quickly bent the knee as King Kato strutted toward the throne, chanting in unison, "Greetings, Your Majesty."
With a subtle sweep of his hand, Kato signals the nobles to rise as he plops down on his throne. The noblemen and noblewomen stood at once as the curtains rose simultaneously, unveiling a row of mullioned windows set high into the walls. Sunlight poured through, illuminating aged murals and royal portraits—kings of old with hard eyes, battles immortalized in oil and ash.
"Let us not linger on formality or hollow pleasantries and speak plainly." Kato sternly voices, turning to Kane. "I have been informed of a request from my royal council. Lord Chancellor Fane, as the king's right hand, tell me, what more does the royal council seek from the crown?" King Kato proclaims, tapping on the throne.
Lord Chancellor Fane steps forward from beyond the assembly, tailored in a long white robe, clean and elegant. The Sigil of Kator—an obsidian sword twisted with silver vines from hilt to tip. Chancellor Fane withdraws a parchment from the folds of his robe, unfolding the paper carefully. He clears his throat before reading.
"We, the Royal Council to King Kato, first bearer of the crown of Kator, humbly request your attention to this urgent matter. Beyond the western borders, the Kingdom of Selindor has grown bold in military power. Their presence in the marketplace has stirred suspicion, with countless barrels filled with swords, shields, siege engines, and steeds. This transaction is without the stamp of approval from the true Kingdom of Kator. Let it be known that such deeds shall not go unpunished, for those who deal in arms without the king's consent threaten the realm and invite swift retribution. We, the Royal Council, request that all measures be taken to root out and contain any threat against the True Crown." The Lord Chancellor states with a nod.
A stillness falls as King Kato stares at Lord Chancellor Fane. "Are you a seer, Fane?" King Kato asked, his voice flat and measured. Kane stutters. "You speak of 'without the king's consent'—but do you presume to know where my consent lies, as if you were king himself? Would a true king lay waste to an ally merely for their growing strength? Such a man is no king, but a coward. I shall not strike at a nation that aided in the rise of the Kator Empire. No—send forth a raven at once, summoning them to a royal summit, so that we may discern the full measure of their intent."
Upon the king's words, nobles whisper indistinctly, their murmurs weaving through the hall like a rising tide of tension, thickening the very air with unease. Eyes flicker from one to another, speaking in silent messages passed in guarded glances.
A noblewoman among the chaos turned to the guards positioned at the grand door, and with a snap of her fingers, instantly a squad of Katoran soldiers rushed into the room, swords unsheathed and eyes burning with deadly intent.
"What is the meaning of this?!" King Kato yells, rising from his throne—only to stumble back as a searing pain ignited in his back. His breath hitched, eyes wide in shock as he turns just enough to see Kane driving the blade deeper. With a gasp, Kato lurches forward, collapsing from the obsidian throne and crashing to the floor below, blood pooling swiftly beneath him.
"KANE, YOU BAST—" His curse shatters on the tips of his tongue as blood spills violently from his mouth. A Katoran soldier breaks from formation and rushes Kato, wielding his blade in a downward strike, directed at the king's heart. Kato acts on instinct, rolling aside just in time before the blade sliced into the throne instead. Without pause, Kato swept his leg low, toppling the soldier as his grip falters from the sudden blow. The blade flies free, spinning through the air. Kato lunges, seizing it by the edge—skin tears against the steel—as he drives it upward into the soldier's chest, the moment the man comes crashing down onto him.
A moment of shock stuns the remaining soldiers, then with a roar, three more Katorans charged toward King Kato. Using the bloodied sword to gain footing, Kato wobbles up, huffing like a wild wolf, ready to fight. Kane chuckles with amusement as he circles Kato, watching him, playing with his victim. The first two attackers swing high, blades aiming for his head, leaving his lower guard exposed. From between them, the third soldier lunges, slashing vertically toward Kato's unguarded midsection. But before the strike could land, Kato locks eyes with the soldier, pivoting and driving his boot into the soldier's wrist—a sickening crunch follows as the blade clatters to the floor.
A gruesome series of wails rises from the soldier sprawled out on the floor, ignoring the cries. King Kato sidesteps the soldier to his left, using his forearm to parry and redirect the blade away. Seizing the opening, he thrust his blade into the soldier's heart.
Kato slips backward, weariness pulling at his limbs. The remaining soldier dashes forward, only to catch the rigid edge of the knife—once implanted in the beast. The soldier crumples, lifelessly, onto the cold stone. Kato doesn't halt. Eyeing the wounded soldier, jumping into full mount, unleashing savage, relentless stabs. Each blow tearing flesh and sinew. Blood spewed, soaking Kato's body as the soldiers' cries turned null.
"Why couldn't you just listen, Kato?" Kane hisses, commanding the remaining five shellshocked soldiers to surround the pale king. "Dying a stubborn fool because you care for those Selindorans. You were fearsome, everfirm, I followed that man. But now… you must die, A shell of that man. A weakness to the Kator Empire." Kane spits, gripping his sword tightly as the remaining Katoran slowly march upon. The king wipes his face, clearing his vision before lifting his gaze, eyes narrowed, burning with betrayal and heavy with grief.
"Shut it." Kato belts, pain thick in his voice. "Face me, cowards, the luxury of talk is over. I have no reason to converse with serpents to the throne." Kato roars, sharing a moment's glance with Kane before The Vowburner raises his sword. Like a crashing wave, the Katoran soldiers charged the bloodied king, desperation carved in their eyes. Steel clashed as Kato met each strike with calm precision. Their blows came fast but predictable—strikes and feints he had long mastered. The ones he passed along, a stinging sensation washes over him. Out of nowhere, a quick slash collides with Kato's left eye, blinding him instantly.
"ARHGH." Kato bellows, twisting barely between a deadly blow seconds after. The Katoran soldiers charge forth, unrelenting–the style of Katoran Warfare. A flurry of body punches barrels into King Kato, and a heavy wheeze escapes. The Katoran soldiers, now weaponless, hail punches left and right. Cracking ribs and breaking Kato's nose. A jab shoots forward—but in one fluid motion, Kato seizes the soldier's arm, twisting it to his will. With a sudden heave, he hurls the crippled Katoran into two nearby soldiers, crashing into one another.
"Ah…fun's over." Kane sighs, and as swiftly as the first strike, a silent blade bursts through the old king's chest. Kato drops silent. The Katoran soldiers gather themselves, celebrating in victory as blood blossoms around the king's motionless body, like a beautiful painting. Distant conversation begins to fade into darkness. Sound and sight absent– a strangely comforting, almost warm feeling. Drowsiness drifts in, and time itself seems to vanish. With each forgetful moment, his consciousness slips further…and further…until nothing remains.
...
"Oh my! Ma'am, it's a healthy baby boy, Mrs. Carver!" a male voice rings out. The woman yelps in excitement, her hands trembling as she reaches to hold her child. Wiping her own hands on a cloth, she carefully wraps the newborn in a soft patchwork blanket and pulls him close. The baby's tiny fingers curl around her own, gripping with surprising strength.
She chuckles softly, a smile spreading across her face. "He's got a king's strength in him."