Trisoc's War Chamber – Tashlan Palace, Year 8002 A.A.
Tashlan Palace rose from the sand-choked heart of Carlon like a dark monolith, its towers draped in banners of crimson and black. Within, the War Chamber glimmered with a decadent menace. Gold-plated columns soared to a ceiling lost in shadows, the torchlight licking their gilded fluting. Great swathes of crimson silk, heavy as dusk, hung from iron hooks—each embroidered with Carlon's emblem: a Dragon Snake devouring its own tail, forever caught in the cycle of hunger.
An obsidian table, vast and glossy as a black lake, dominated the center of the room. Upon it lay scattered goblets crusted with gemstones, sheaves of military maps rimmed with blood-red wax seals, and carved ivory tokens marking legions and fleets. Reflected in its polished surface were the faces of Carlon's warlords—each bedecked in silks and metals, their laughter harsh and bright as drawn steel.
At the table's head sprawled the Trisoc of Carlon himself. His corpulent frame strained against robes brocaded with threads of molten gold. Fingers, thick and glinting with rings, toyed with the stem of a goblet overflowing with dark wine. His tusks, yellowed but studded with precious stones, flashed with each breathless chuckle that rocked his frame.
Beside him, a colder presence coiled in silence: Prince Erezhan. Younger, leaner, but no less formidable. His legs, bare save for obsidian anklets etched with runes, were planted firmly apart. Ember-red eyes, sharp and pitiless, scanned the assembly. His gaze was as unsettling as a drawn blade in a crowded room—a silent promise of violence that kept even the loudest generals in check.
Near the center, General Rishida shifted forward. His massive boarish bulk gleamed with sweat, and the rings girdling his legs clinked with every movement. He raised a goblet, voice dripping sycophancy.
"My deepest pleasure, great Trisoc," he brayed, his words as oily as the sheen on his bristles. "To laud your triumph over the barbarian filth! Soon even the sands of Kürdiala will bow their heads to Carlon's glory!"
Roars of laughter answered him. Goblets crashed together, the spill of wine pooling black upon the table's dark glass.
The Trisoc's belly trembled with delight. "Do not heap praise on me alone, Rishida!" he crowed, the words slurring under the weight of his indulgence. "My son's cunning mind guides my hand. Carlon's victories belong to us both."
A faint nod passed from father to son, but Erezhan's expression did not thaw. His gaze remained fixed ahead, cold and distant. The generals dared not question the prince's silence; his ruthlessness in court and battlefield alike had been proven beyond doubt.
General Vorsha Tark spoke next—a reptilian giant whose crocodilian snout bore old scars, each scale edged with gold leaf. His claw tapped at the hilt of a scimitar that curved like a crescent moon.
"Two weeks have passed," Vorsha rasped, "since Prince Erezhan's stratagem—the arrest of Kürdiala's traders—forced the Panther King's hand. Yet, our spies speak of changes. The Panther King's hospitality toward our envoys has… softened."
A quiet snaked through the room, subtle yet tangible. The laughter ebbed like a dying tide.
The Trisoc's eyes, deep-set beneath drooping lids, narrowed. "Is that so?"
Rishida, with a grunt that was meant to sound dismissive, scoffed. "Weakness! The Panther King quakes before your might, my King. He believes civility can stay your wrath!"
Laughter resumed, brittle and forced this time. Yet beneath it, something darker churned in the Trisoc's gaze: calculation, suspicion—a serpent's thoughtfulness hiding behind a boar's grin.
Then—
BANG!
The chamber doors burst open so violently that banners trembled in their wake. Smoke from the braziers quivered, sending shadows dancing across the walls.
All laughter died like a snuffed flame.
Into the room stumbled the Vizier—a slender Tracient, scales glistening with sweat. His silks clung to his narrow frame, breath rasping through his sharp teeth. He fell to his knees at once, clawed fingers splayed wide on the cold marble.
Prince Erezhan moved like a shadow rising, fury barely contained. "You dare intrude unbidden?"
The Vizier's eyes bulged, panic painting his every line. "M-My King—!"
The Trisoc lifted one jeweled hand, heavy as judgment. "Speak, worm. Your tongue better be worth your life."
The Vizier swallowed, voice breaking. "The… The King… is here!"
A hush so deep it seemed to swallow air itself.
The Trisoc leaned forward, disbelief etched across his fleshy face. "King? What King?"
"The King… of Kürdiala! He is here—within our gates!"
Madness cracked the court.
"Impossible!" barked Vorsha, his tail lashing the stone.
"Past the gates?" wheezed Rishida.
"No retinue? No army?" another general rasped.
The Vizier's voice dropped to a whisper of terror. "He comes… with only two soldiers."
For a moment, the Trisoc sat as though carved from onyx itself. Then, breath returned in a growl.
"Summon the full guard," he ordered, voice low and trembling with cold fury. "Double the sentinels. Erezhan—come. We shall greet this 'guest' in the throne room."
Outside, the torches flickered, and the banners of the Dragon Snake curled inward, as though the palace itself shuddered at what approached.
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Trisoc's Throne Room – Tashlan Palace
The throne room was a cathedral of dark majesty, built to humble any who dared its gates. Pillars of polished black stone reached toward a ceiling lost in twilight. Along the walls, braziers burned, their flames trapped behind lattices of gold, casting flickering patterns across the checkered marble floor.
At the chamber's far end reigned the Trisoc's throne: a jagged mass of obsidian and dark iron, forged into the shape of coiling serpents whose eyes were tiny rubies. Upon it, the Trisoc sat heavily, robes spilling around him like molten gold. Rings clinked on his fingers; sweat glistened upon his brow despite the chill.
Behind him, silent and watchful as the edge of night itself, stood Prince Erezhan. His red eyes fixed on the great doors, unmoving, unblinking.
Across the hall, two columns of elite sentinels waited—Tracients whose bestial natures ranged from great boars to sleek serpents and silent jackals. Each warrior stood in ceremonial armor, blades angled across their chests. The air was taut, brittle as glass.
At last, the heavy doors groaned open.
The Vizier entered first, bent double, scales rattling faintly. His voice shook as he announced:
"Your Majesty—the King of Kürdiala."
Behind him came Ekene Çelik, the Viceroy and General. His movement was the graceful hush of silk on stone. Black robes fell over a tall, spare frame; a crimson sash, embroidered with the panther sigil, crossed his chest. His bare cheetah paws padded soundlessly, his gaze distant as wind on the dunes.
At his side drifted Trevor Maymum, clad in the loose garb of the desert, a muffler wrapped about the lower half of his face. His amber eyes glinted behind glasses, and upon his brow, the spiral-marked headband—the Arya of Derision—fluttered faintly in the throne room's currents. His posture radiated ease, yet his gaze missed nothing.
Then, the King appeared.
Azubuike Toran, ruler of Kürdiala, stepped through the archway. His robe, dyed in the deep greens of jungle shadow, swept the marble. Around his shoulders draped a cloak of panther fur, the black shimmer broken by streaks of silvery white. His paws, bare and black as polished jet, made no sound.
Upon his brow rested no grand crown—only a simple circlet of beaten gold, unadorned save for a single green stone that caught the torchlight like a watchful eye. His mane, streaked with silver despite youth, framed a face calm and amused. Yet within those violet eyes lay a depth that could not be measured: patience like the mountain, strength like the tide.
He walked not as one entering an enemy's hall, but as one returning to a familiar room.
Toran's voice, when it came, rolled forth soft and unhurried, yet carried to every corner.
"Trisoc. Face-to-face, at last. A joyous day, wouldn't you agree?"
The words, mild as spring rain, fell into the tense silence like pebbles dropped into a still pool.
The Trisoc, recovering, shifted on his throne. "Indeed, though your arrival is… unconventional, King Azubuike." His lips twisted into what might have been a smile, but his eyes betrayed the strain behind it.
Toran's grin, in contrast, was light, untroubled. "Pomp tires me. I prefer to speak plainly—and resolve matters swiftly."
The Trisoc raised a jeweled hand. "Very well. You honor us. Sit, King of Kürdiala."
Yet Toran did not move to the cushioned guest chair. Instead, he walked calmly to the base of the throne's steps and seated himself on a lesser, plainer chair—by choice, not by command. Ekene and Trevor stood flanking him, silent sentinels.
Prince Erezhan's gaze narrowed, searching for signs of Mana—an aura, an intent. But Toran sat unarmed, his paws resting lightly on his knees. Nothing stirred in the air, save for something unnameable, coiled deep as ancient roots.
The Trisoc coughed, voice thickening as he settled his weight. "Now, noble King—what brings you to my hall without summons or escort?"
Toran's answer came as gently as falling petals. "A small matter. Traders of mine have been seized. Ambassadors insulted—accused of treason without cause. Surely, such folly could not come from your hand?"
A ripple of unease whispered through the chamber. Generals shifted; even the Vizier's scales twitched.
The Trisoc's face tightened, but before words could form—
WHAM!
A sudden blur: Trevor's arm shot forward, robes snapping. His palm slammed onto the obsidian armrest of the throne, inches from the Trisoc's tusked face. Between his fingers lay the crushed remnants of a black desert fly.
The throne room's tension broke in a crack. Swords rasped from scabbards. Elite sentinels stepped forward, blades angled.
Trevor's voice, muffled yet calm, drifted out. "Forgive me, Your Majesty. Insects vex me." His amber gaze turned, cold as a desert night, toward Erezhan. "Especially those who hover too near a throne."
The Trisoc's breath caught. His lips moved, but no sound came.
Then, as if a candle had been blown out, the Trevor which stood by the Trisoc and Erezhan, dissolved into curling mist. Only the real Trevor remained—still standing calmly behind the Panther King.
A flicker of cold dread passed through the hall. The Panther King had brought not force, but something more dangerous: certainty.
Toran chuckled softly. "Forgive Lord Trevor. His caution sometimes walks ahead of his courtesy."
Then his violet gaze found the Trisoc's own, unblinking. "Release my people. Hunt the true traitors, lest they betray you next. Do this not for me—but for yourself, Trisoc."
The words, though softly spoken, held the gravity of stone.
The Trisoc, his face gone pale, swallowed hard. "Your traders shall be freed. Compensation will be arranged. But… our investigation must proceed. In the meantime, stay in Tashlan as my honored guest. At least, until our Grand Tournament concludes."
Toran's expression did not shift. "Nothing," he said, softly, "would delight me more."
Behind him, Ekene inclined his head, gaze unfathomable. Trevor simply lowered his hand, glasses catching the torchlight once more.
And high above, banners of the Dragon Snake stirred faintly in an unseen draft—as though, for the first time in an age, they trembled.
Prince Erezhan, silent and still, felt his fingers bite into his palms. Warmth trickled down his wrist—blood, unnoticed.
A lion had stepped into the den of serpents, unarmed, unafraid, and smiling.
And in their pride, the serpents found themselves coiling closer, unable to see the jaws waiting in the shadows of the jungle.