The laughter was gone.
Count Morgan sat alone in his private office, the heavy doors sealed by layered wards that hummed softly in the background. Moonlight filtered through tall, narrow windows, casting pale lines across the polished obsidian floor. Before him hovered a translucent system window—symbols of power, influence, and hidden authority flickering within its frame.
This estate lay deep within Fiber Bax Territory, a strategic domain wedged between the Royal Capital and the northern frontier where Eldrath Territory loomed like a silent blade. A perfect position, Morgan thought—close enough to the throne to strike, yet distant enough to remain unseen.
His fingers tapped the armrest slowly.
So the King has moved, he mused inwardly.
The Tribunal… a third party meant to watch me and that woman Ember.
A thin smile curved his lips.
King Valtherion's decision to establish the Tribunal—an independent authority tasked with monitoring nobles of exceptional influence—was a direct challenge. Morgan understood that much. The King suspected him. Perhaps not fully, but suspicion alone was dangerous.
Monitoring is meaningless, Morgan thought coldly.
Power does not ask for permission. It takes.
Behind the public order of the realm, Morgan had already laid the foundation of something far greater.
The Supreme Three.
A cult in name only—its true nature far more insidious. It was a union of the continent's most poisonous ambitions: greedy noble houses, corrupt merchants, compromised guild masters, demons hiding behind contracts, vampires nesting in courts, dragons blinded by hoarded wealth, and whispers from outer gods that should never have answered mortal prayers.
All bound by a single promise: the unification of the continent under absolute control.
And Morgan stood at its center.
His gaze hardened.
If the King becomes an obstacle… then the King will become a tool.
Raising his hand, Morgan traced a sigil in the air. Dark mana pooled around his fingers, spiraling into an ancient spell. The wall behind his desk shimmered briefly before folding inward without a sound, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness.
He rose and stepped through.
The air below was cold, damp, and heavy with despair.
Torches ignited one by one as he descended, revealing a vast underground chamber carved from black stone. Iron cages lined the walls. Chains hung from the ceiling. Low moans echoed faintly through the space.
Slaves.
Human men and women with hollow eyes. Female elves bound by suppressive collars, their once-proud ears drooping in exhaustion. Beastfolk chained like livestock, their claws dulled, their spirits broken.
Some were marked for rituals.
Others for sale.
Morgan observed them with detached calm.
Fifty years, he thought.
That foolish King Valley abolished the slave trade fifty years ago, pretending morality could erase necessity.
King Valley—predecessor to the current ruler—had burned markets, executed traders, and declared the practice illegal throughout the realm. Yet here it was, thriving beneath the estate of a Count.
Hypocrisy is the foundation of every kingdom, Morgan concluded.
He turned away from the cages, his mind already moving beyond them—to darker plans.
The King would fall.
The Tribunal would fail.
And when the continent finally united, it would not be under a crown of light—
—but under shadows carefully woven long before anyone realized they were trapped.