In an abandoned high-rise under construction, only the moonlight slipped through the skeletal framework of concrete and steel. Dust floated in the air like restless ghosts.
A man sat alone on a metal chair at the center of the floor—still, composed, waiting.
He wore a fitted black leather armor, its surface etched with faint scaled patterns. A hood draped over his head, and an obsidian mask concealed his face. Carved into the mask was a single, gleaming golden dragon sigil—silent proof of the authority he carried.
Before him, a plain steel table stood. Upon it rested a sheathed sword—its presence carrying more threat than any spoken word.
He didn't move. He didn't need to.
Patience itself seemed afraid to test him.
Footsteps echoed.
Another figure emerged from the shadows—a man clad in the same dark armor, same hood, same mask… except for one detail.
His mask bore no golden dragon.
He approached swiftly and stopped a respectful distance away, lowering his head slightly and said.
"Sir, we have caught their trail. They seem to be heading toward the Varuna Port. Others are trying to pinpoint their exact location."
The man sitting on the makeshift throne simply nodded.
"Continue with your tracking. I will join you later. I've just received an order from the head of the family… I need to complete that task first."
The subordinate bowed his head respectfully.
"As you wish, sir. We will inform you the moment the location has been confirmed."
With that, he turned on his heel and left
___________________
Near midnight, the only light in Veer's study came from humming holographic displays and the soft glow of a desk lamp. Veer sat at his desk, consumed by work, his focus absolute. A precise, rhythmic knock echoed through the silence.
"Who is it?" Veer asked, voice low and commanding.
"Samrat," came the crisp reply.
"Come in."
The door opened, and Samrat entered, his dark suit perfectly tailored despite the late hour. He walked with quiet purpose, stopping a few feet from the desk.
"Sir, the identity for him has been completed," Samrat reported, voice firm. "The documents will be delivered early in the morning."
"Good," Veer said, turning back to his work, already treating the matter as handled.
________________
In front of the hidden entrance of the Dragon's Lair—a facility spoken of only in whispers—stood a man. He wore a fitted dark jacket, and his full-face mask was a seamless plate of obsidian black, marked with a subtle, dragon mark. A heavy, automated door loomed silently before him.
A gatekeeper's face appeared in a small, reinforced window, expression cold and professional, betraying no recognition.
"State your name and purpose. Present your credentials."
The masked man did not speak. He reached into his jacket, producing a simple black card forged from the same crystalline gate obsidian as his mask. He held it to the scanner. A light pulsed over the card and then his face. A series of electronic clicks, followed by a single green light, confirmed his identity.
The gatekeeper's demeanor shifted instantly. The professional mask melted into one of deep reverence. He stepped back, and the heavy door hissed open.
"We were waiting for you, sir," he said, voice low and awed. "My apologies for the formality. Please, First Knight—the path is clear."
The First Knight stepped inside. He had known of this place from a thousand mission reports, but this was his first time within its walls. The air was cool and sterile, contrasting sharply with the humid night outside. The building felt alive, almost sentient, humming quietly with contained power. He was an outsider here; only high-ranking family members and dedicated researchers had access to this inner sanctum.
The gatekeeper led him down a long corridor, past reinforced doors and glowing screens displaying intricate data. They finally arrived at the lead researcher's cabin. The door stood ajar, and inside, Dr. Vikram Rao was hunched over his console, eyes scanning a dozen screens filled with intricate, unfamiliar data—the past of a legend meticulously analyzed for the future.
Vikram looked up as they entered, his gaze falling on the figure in the dark jacket and obsidian mask. A small, weary smile touched his lips.
"So, they sent you," he said, voice low, teasing.
The First Knight's reply was sharp, precise, as cold as his mask. "Where is he?"
"Still as cold as ever. Resting," Vikram said, pushing back from the console and straightening."Come with me."
They moved silently through the corridor, their footsteps muted on the sterile floor. The First Knight's gaze remained fixed on Vikram's back. They had been on countless missions together, but never one of such monumental importance.
Finally, they reached the living room, the heart of the facility. The hum of machinery filled the charged silence, mingling with the unspoken questions hanging in the air.
Vikram knocked once.
"Come in," a deep, rumbling voice answered.
They entered a quiet, dimly lit living space, its atmosphere taut with anticipation. The man they had come for lay on the sofa, eyes open, silently observing. His expression was unreadable, a calm mask over layers of thought.
Vikram stepped forward, maintaining a respectful distance.
"Sir, this is the one who will be your escort," he said.
The First Knight inclined his head slightly, acknowledging both the gravity of the task and the presence of the man whose life he was now entrusted to protect.
He took a single step forward and performed a deep, formal bow—a gesture his family had maintained for a century and a half.
He straightened, voice clear and resolute.
"I am the current First Knight, Aarav Dharak. I have been tasked with escorting you to a temporary resting place. All preparations are complete. We await your order."
A flicker of recognition passed through the man on the sofa. He sat up slowly, his gaze moving from the masked figure to the name. Dharak… Dhruv… Memories from a century and a half ago—of a loyal friend and a promise—rose to the surface.
"So you are his descendant," the man said, voice low and knowing. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. The one who had first served him now stood before him once more. "Let's go," he added, the command deceptively casual. "I need to take a nap."
His quiet authority filled the room, the final word on a plan that had been decades in motion. He pushed off the sofa, movements smooth and effortless despite the long slumber.
Without a word, Aarav moved to open the door, mask impassive. They walked in silence. The sterile, white corridors of the Dragon's Lair felt like echoes from the founder's past. The hum of hidden machinery, the subtle nods of researchers, and the quiet efficiency of the facility contrasted sharply with the chaotic world the man had once known—a world he had helped shape. He was a living relic observing the evolution of his own legacy.