The Namesh delegation stood rigid on one side, their cloaks tattered from travel, their faces pale with a mix of awe and dread. Runevale's courtiers, draped in silks and furs, watched from the shadows, their whispers sharp as knives. All eyes had been fixed on Queen Nyxelene, her luminous beauty a beacon in the hall, until a new figure drew their gaze—a man striding with the bold confidence of a king.
His blonde hair gleamed like spun gold under the chandelier light, and his sapphire eyes sparkled with a fierce, unyielding intensity. He moved with purpose, his polished boots clicking against the marble floor, his crimson cloak swirling behind him like a banner of fire.
"That's… that's the brain of Runevale," a Namesh soldier stammered, his voice trembling as he pointed a shaky finger. His weathered face twisted in disbelief, his armor clanking as he leaned forward. "Ramius, the unmatched strategist who crushed us in the war." He clutched his spear tighter, as if the man's presence alone could reignite the slaughter.
"What?" another soldier hissed, his eyes wide with shock. He scratched his scruffy beard, his gaze darting from Ramius to his comrades. "I thought the strategist who outwitted our generals was some grizzled old sage, not… not this golden-haired charmer. What's with Runevale? Why is everyone here either handsome, beautiful, or both?" His voice carried a mix of envy and frustration, his hand twitching toward his sword.
A heavy silence fell over the Namesh soldiers, their faces darkening as another figure stepped into the hall, trailing just behind Ramius. He was a man in his late twenties, his frame lean but radiating menace, like a coiled viper ready to strike. His dark hair was cropped short, and his single arm—his left—hung at his side, the sleeve of his black tunic pinned where his right arm should have been. His cold, gray eyes scanned the room, sharp as a blade's edge.
"Disgusting," a Namesh soldier spat, his voice thick with venom. He glared at the one-armed man, his hand clenching into a fist. "If it isn't the mad hound, Orin."
"I'm telling you," another soldier growled, his voice low and bitter. His left arm ended in a scarred stump, a grim reminder of Orin's brutality. "That demon butchered our brothers like my wife chops vegetables for stew." He shook his head, his face pale as he recalled the blood-soaked fields where Orin had carved through their ranks.
A younger soldier, his face unmarred by battle, scoffed, leaning back with a sarcastic grin. "Aren't you all mistaken?" he said, his tone dripping with mockery. He gestured toward Orin, his helmet tilting slightly. "Look at him—one arm, and it's not even his dominant hand. You're telling me this half-dead man gave you so much trouble? If I had been there, I would have taken him down myself." His laugh was sharp, but it faltered under the older soldiers' glares.
"Listen, you arrogant little fool," the one-armed soldier snapped, his voice trembling with rage. He stepped forward, his single eye blazing as he pointed at Orin. "Don't let his missing arm fool you. That man is the last person you want to meet on a battlefield. You know who took his arm?" His scarred face twisted, as if the memory alone could choke him. His missing eye, a hollow socket, was a testament to Orin's ferocity.
The young soldier raised an eyebrow, his grin fading. "Who took it?" he asked, his sarcasm wavering.
The older soldier leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper, as if speaking the name might summon its owner. "It was the freak of all freaks, the abomination of all abominations—Lucius B. Draven, King of Zalem." A chill swept through the Namesh delegation, their faces paling. "Orin's the only man to face Draven and live to tell the tale."
The young soldier's bravado crumbled, his skin turning ashen. Even he had heard the terrifying rumors of Zalem's king—a shadow-wreathed predator whose name struck fear across kingdoms. The hall seemed to grow colder, the chandeliers' flames flickering as if cowed by the mention of Draven's name. If Nyxelene was the most beautiful woman alive, then Draven was the most ruthless man to have ever walked the earth.
At the far end of the hall, Queen Nyxelene sat upon her majestic throne, a towering seat of black iron carved with snarling wolves and jagged thorns, its edges sharp enough to draw blood. Her black-and-crimson gown pooled around her like spilled ink, and her raven-black hair shimmered like a veil of midnight. Her pale skin glowed with an unnatural luminescence, as if she were a star plucked from the heavens, but her moonlit-ash eyes were cold, hollow, and unyielding. Rya sat on a smaller seat directly beneath her, a plain wooden chair that seemed to mock her status as heiress. Her gray gown was patched and faded, her dark braid unadorned, her small frame dwarfed by the throne's grandeur. Her green eyes flickered with quiet defiance, but her hands trembled in her lap, her nails biting into her palms.
Ramius took his place to Nyxelene's right, his sapphire eyes scanning the hall with a strategist's precision, as if mapping every threat. Orin stood behind the throne, his single arm resting on the hilt of one of his twin daggers, his gaze cold and unblinking, like a predator awaiting a command.
A man in his mid-thirties stepped forward from the Namesh delegation, his gray cloak sweeping the floor. His face was weathered but proud, his shoulders squared despite the weight of defeat. He bowed low, his boots scraped softly against the polished marble, and cleared his throat. "My name is Rolland," he said, his voice steady but tinged with caution. "It's an honor to stand before Your Majesty. We requested this meeting to propose—"
His words were cut short by a flash of steel. Orin moved like a shadow, his single arm a blur as he drew one of his twin daggers and swung in a graceful, lethal arc. Rolland's head fell with a sickening thud, rolling a few inches across the polished floor, his lifeless eyes wide with shock. Blood sprayed in a crimson arc, staining the marble like spilled wine. Gasps erupted from the Namesh delegation, their hands flying to their weapons, only to freeze under the weight of Nyxelene's gaze.
Orin stepped back to his post behind the throne, his dagger already sheathed, his face as emotionless as stone. He turned his head toward the Namesh soldiers, his gray eyes glinting with cold menace. "Clean up," he said, his voice flat and devoid of feeling, as if ordering a meal rather than the disposal of a corpse. The command hung in the air, heavy and final.
Nyxelene remained silent, her moonlit-ash eyes watching the scene with hollow detachment, as if a man hadn't just been slaughtered at her feet. Her pale hands rested on the throne's arms, her posture serene, her beauty untouched by the horror. The courtiers held their breath, their silks rustling faintly, while the Namesh soldiers stood frozen, their faces a mix of fear and fury.
Rya, seated below, had a front-row view of the carnage. Her stomach churned, bile rising in her throat as Rolland's blood pooled inches from her feet. She glanced at her mother, searching for a flicker of emotion—regret, anger, anything—but Nyxelene's gaze was fixed on the horizon, as if the dead man were no more than a speck of dust. Rya's hands clenched tighter. She wanted to scream, to run, but she forced herself to stay still, her green eyes burning with a quiet, desperate resolve.
Ramius stepped forward, his crimson cloak swirling like a flame. His voice was low, barely above a whisper, but it carried through the hall like a blade slicing silk. "Who do you think you are, Namians?" he said, his sapphire eyes glinting with disdain. He pronounced "Namians"—the name for Namesh's people—with a sneer, as if the word itself were beneath him.
The Namesh delegation dragged Rolland's headless corpse across the floor, their boots scraping against the marble, leaving smears of crimson in their wake. Their faces were pale, their eyes wide with fear as they avoided Nyxelene's gaze. The queen sat upon her black iron throne, her raven-black hair cascading like a midnight waterfall, her pale skin glowing with an ethereal luminescence that made her seem more goddess than mortal. Her eyes watched the scene with hollow indifference, as if the blood pooling at her feet were no more than spilled wine.
Rya, seated on a plain wooden chair below the throne, clutched her hands in her lap, her nails biting into her palms. Her patched gray gown hung loosely on her small frame, and her dark braid was unadorned, a stark contrast to her mother's regal splendor. Her heart pounded, the memory of Rolland's head rolling across the floor searing her mind.
Ramius, Runevale's golden-haired strategist, stood to Nyxelene's right, his sapphire eyes glinting with cold menace. His crimson cloak swirled as he stepped forward, his polished boots clicking softly on the marble floor. His gaze swept to the far end of the hall, as if the Namesh delegation didn't deserve his attention. "You requested this meeting," he said, his voice low and smooth, barely above a whisper, yet it carried through the hall like a blade slicing silk. "Against my counsel, Her Majesty, in her grace and wisdom, agreed without hesitation." His tone softened further, deceptively gentle, but his eyes hardened, sharp as a predator's. "So tell me, Namians—why does a ragtag band of soldiers greet our queen instead of Jones the Third, your king?"
He turned his head slowly, his sapphire gaze locking onto the Namesh delegation for the first time, pinning them like insects under glass. The soldiers flinched, their hands twitching toward their swords, but they didn't dare draw. Ramius's lips curved in a faint, mocking smile as he glanced at a Runevale noble, a wiry man in silver furs standing near the throne. "Take the children to the gardens," he said, his voice calm but laced with an unspoken threat, as if he didn't want young eyes to witness the slaughter he was prepared to unleash.
Rya's heart skipped as the noble nodded, his face pale. Whispers spread among the courtiers, their silks rustling like dry leaves. It was a well-known rumor that Ramius, though famed as a strategist, was as deadly a fighter as Orin, Runevale's one-armed warrior. Yet for reasons whispered only in shadows, he rarely stepped onto the battlefield, his sword reserved for moments of dire need. His calm demeanor hid a storm, and the Namesh soldiers sensed it, their faces tightening with dread.
The noble gestured sharply, and a group of children—Rya among them, along with the young heirs of Runevale's lords and a few wide-eyed noble children from Namesh—were ushered toward a side door. Rya rose, her legs trembling, and followed, her boots scraping softly against the floor. She cast a glance back at her mother, but Nyxelene's gaze remained fixed on the horizon, as if Rya were invisible, a ghost in her own kingdom.
Ramius's voice cut through the hall again, sharp and cold. "I'll count to five," he said, his brows furrowing, his sapphire eyes blazing with barely restrained fury. He reached out, his movements deliberate, and took a longsword from a nearby Runevale soldier, the blade glinting like ice under the chandelier light. He gripped it tightly, his knuckles whitening. "If King Jones doesn't show by then, you'll all die by my hand."