Far above their little hideout, in the towering Citadel of Shadows, the King was at work.
The chamber was vast, an abyss of black marble and shadow, swallowing sound and light alike. Half-built constructs sprawled across the floor: twisted frameworks of metal, iron conduits laced with arcane channels, hints of machinery meant to dominate, to impose. At its center lay the skeleton of a throne, jagged steel jutting skyward, already oppressive despite being unfinished.
King Virelia stood before it, one hand clasped behind his back, the other flicking the edge of a blade with idle thought. The ringing sound cut the silence, echoing across the cavernous hall like a bell tolling doom. His golden hair caught torchlight, but his eyes—sharp, yellow, and bright—did not dwell on the steel. They dwelled on the idea the throne represented: absolute dominion, a world under his gaze, obedience carved into the bones of men.
From the shadows emerged a lone figure, cloaked, masked—a nameless agent of countless spies, assassins, and enforcers loyal only to his will. Dropping to one knee, the agent's voice trembled with respect and fear.
"My lord," he whispered, "there are whispers… troubling whispers. The Revolutionaries gather under a commander of their own. He speaks of fire and freedom, and he dares rally men in your lands."
The King did not turn. His hand brushed the blade's edge again, drawing a thin red line along his palm. He smiled faintly, as though the sting amused him.
"And yet," the agent continued, voice faltering, "another name has surfaced among them. A name carried like a spark. Dalren."
The word hung in the chamber, heavy and alive.
The masked elites—White, Red, Blue, Pink, and Yellow—shifted along the edges of the throne. Their masks hid faces, but subtle movements betrayed recognition, anticipation. White, recalling his encounter with Dalren, allowed the corner of his mouth to curl upward, a private smirk. He remembered the way Dalren had moved, fought, and survived where others faltered.
The King turned then, golden eyes piercing through shadow. A slow, cruel smile spread across his face, and the chamber seemed to grow colder, heavier.
"Dalren," he repeated, savoring it. The name was a spark, a challenge, a memory sharpened by time. His eyes flickered like twin torches in a storm.
Dalren… finally, I would face you. You'd better have grown. It has been far too long since I heard that name. And he never said I couldn't fight me, did he? No… he never forbade it.
He ran his hand along the jagged steel of the half-built throne, imagining the weight of blood spilled, the obedience imposed. To him, the throne was not just a seat of power—it was a manifestation of his philosophy. A ruler must not only dominate through fear, but through presence, through inevitability. Every chain of command, every shadow in his Citadel, every whisper in the streets below: all were extensions of his will, and all would serve to crush resistance.
He thought of Dalren again, of the spark that had survived impossible odds, that had carved paths through chaos without breaking. A threat… yes. A challenge… delicious. The King's mind traced endless scenarios, anticipating every move Dalren could make, every hesitation, every overconfidence.
The shadows behind him shifted subtly, masks catching torchlight. They were ready, patient, alive with quiet anticipation. They had seen Dalren, and now, knowing the game had shifted, even they allowed themselves a small acknowledgment of intrigue.
The King's amusement deepened, not a laugh, but a sense of dark expectation. Let them strike, let them rally, let them believe themselves clever. And when they came, he would be waiting. Every patrol route, every hidden blade, every corner of the city's streets—already accounted for, already bending toward his gaze.
The chamber itself seemed alive: the torches flickered, shadows stretched unnaturally, and the cold, black marble hummed with suppressed energy. King Virelia's smile widened. Kingdoms could burn, cities could crumble, men could fight and die, yet all would serve his purpose in the end.
Let Dalren come. Let the Revolutionary Commander move. And when they step into my web, I will be ready. And I will enjoy it.
Along the edges of the throne, the masked Shadows—White, Red, Blue, Pink, and Yellow—shifted subtly. At first, their masks betrayed nothing. Then, almost imperceptibly, a series of quiet reactions rippled through them.
White's hand flexed slightly at his side, the corner of his mask tilting as a faint smirk emerged. Dalren… I remember him.
Red leaned closer to Blue, a whispered hiss barely audible: "isn't he the one that survived last time… and left a mark. This will be interesting."
Blue nodded ever so slightly, tilting his head toward Pink. "i can't wait to fight him, they would be fun right....it would be fun right....hehe i can't wait"
Pink's hands folded lightly, a subtle tension in his shoulders. "tch him again. I thought… he might be died or smth but the bastard is still alive and he stronger"
Yellow's mask didn't move, but a nearly imperceptible shift in stance, a tightening of fingers, betrayed curiosity—and caution.
White, remembering the previous clash with Dalren, allowed his private memory to surface.
he would kill all of them this time, he was convinced he would do so