The house was quiet.
Cid stepped inside and closed the door behind him, letting the sound of the lock echo once through the hall before dying in the still air. The rest of the home was modest — a two-story building in Magnolia's outskirts, far enough from the guild's chaos to hear himself think, close enough to walk there when the plot decided to begin.
But his true domain was on the second floor.
Behind an ordinary wooden door with no label, no crest, and no locks.
Because the truly powerful never needed to hide their secrets — they simply placed them somewhere boring.
He turned the handle and entered his sanctum.
The air was different here. Cooler. Thicker. Like the room itself understood what kind of existence resided within it.
The first thing to meet the eye was the desk.
It dominated the space without being ostentatious — a dark wooden slab carved with winding serpentine motifs that caught the lantern light in shifting curls. Each mark looked deliberate, each groove purposeful, as if the wood itself whispered secrets in a language no one alive spoke anymore. On its surface rested a quill, an inkwell, and a stack of blank parchment, waiting for plans that would shake nations.
The chair behind it was a masterpiece of brooding comfort — black velvet with silver studs tracing its outline, angled just so that anyone who sat in it would appear as a silhouette against the wall-light. Cid had tested the distance from desk to chair exactly seven times until it achieved perfect aura balance.
Behind the desk hung tapestries that stretched from floor to ceiling, each one portraying some ancient calamity: warriors battling in storms of fire, cities swallowed by living shadows, serpents devouring suns. A lesser man might have found them ominous; Cid found them aesthetic.
"A room should reflect the depth of one's soul," he'd once said to himself while hammering the last hook. "And mine is approximately three meters deep and made entirely of darkness."
Lanterns dotted the room like suspended embers. Each was deliberately dim — enough to see by, never enough to kill the shadows. The light quivered across the walls, giving life to the painted figures, as though they moved when no one watched. The glow caught the edges of a shelf lined with tomes of dubious origin: cracked leather bindings, pages yellowed and flaking. Half of them were empty journals, but an empty book could be anything if the right hands held it.
Across from the desk stood a glass case containing relics that only Cid could properly appreciate. A jagged crystal wrapped in red thread ("Ancient Core of the Abyss," according to the label he'd written himself). A dented helm once belonging to "The Hero of the Forgotten War" (actually a cheap antique from a market in Crocus). A blade so chipped it couldn't cut fruit, now presented as the "Sword That Slew Silence Itself."
Each item had been carefully positioned to tell a story — one that no one else needed to understand.
At the center of the floor, a circular rug spread out like a ritual seal, dyed black with silver spirals. It wasn't magical, but it looked like it should be, which for Cid was better than the real thing.
And on the far wall, beneath a narrow window where the moonlight cut through like a blade, sat a simple stand holding a long cloak. Deep black, trimmed with gray, the fabric shimmered faintly whenever the light touched it. The garment of Shadow. His masterpiece. The crown jewel of the collection.
Cid stood before it silently for a while.
This room wasn't large, but to him, it contained the entire world.
Here, every item, every shadow, every flicker of candlelight served a role. The perfect stage for strategy, reflection, and… dramatic posing. Well, actually, it's just to appear cool as the Eminence in the Shadow.
He took a slow breath, letting the atmosphere sink into his skin.
Outside, the city of Magnolia slept under the silver sky. Inside, the shadows moved quietly, wrapping themselves around their master like a familiar cloak.
Cid reached out, letting his fingers brush the edge of the desk. The wood was cool and solid beneath his touch — real, yet part of a fantasy only he believed in.
He smiled faintly. Not a grin. Not a smirk. Just that quiet, satisfied curve that comes from a man whose delusion and reality fit together perfectly for once.
"Good," he murmured. "The preparations are complete."
He turned toward the window, the moon catching in his eyes.
"Now," he whispered to the night,
"all that's left… is to wait for the curtain to rise."
---
The room was steeped in that familiar stillness—serene, yet edged with quiet power.It wasn't the silence of emptiness, but the kind that demanded reverence. The kind that made sound itself think twice before intruding.
Every piece of furniture, every glint of metal, had been positioned with purpose. It wasn't ostentation; it was orchestration. The space didn't boast—it declared.
And at the center of that declaration sat Shadow.
He reclined in his high-backed chair as though he'd always belonged there.
One leg crossed casually over the other, one arm draped along the carved armrest, his presence alone completed the room's symmetry. His cloak spilled like liquid darkness around the chair's base, pooling into the rug's silver spirals.
The window's faint breeze brushed his hair, sending small, effortless ripples through the black strands. His half-lidded eyes were unreadable—calm, detached, and yet infinitely aware.
To anyone else, he might have looked like a boy playing at grandeur—a teenager caught in his own imagination. But the atmosphere said otherwise.
The air was too heavy. The light too deliberate. The silence too exact.
It was the throne room of a legend who hadn't yet been written into the world.
The latch clicked softly. A breath of lighter air slipped in before the door even finished opening.
Beta stepped inside.
She didn't announce herself—she didn't have to. Her presence was as quiet as it was precise. Yet even she paused for a heartbeat at the threshold, blue eyes tracing the lines of the room as if seeing it anew.
It wasn't her first time here. She had entered this chamber countless times before—brought reports, received orders, discussed the unseen wars that only Shadow's will could navigate.And still, every time she stepped through that door, something inside her went still.
The room was more than it had been last week. Or perhaps he simply made it more.
The shadows seemed deeper now. The silver glints sharper. The weight of silence, heavier.
"Beta," he said finally, his voice low—measured, soft, yet carrying through the entire room with impossible clarity. "You're early."
'Shadow-sama… your presence, it's overwhelming… Juvia's heart—no! Beta's heart! Professional mode, professional mode!'
She fanned her face quickly, forcing herself into her best imitation of composure.
"Juvia -no! Beta came to report Shadow-sama!"