The grand throne room of the new king's palace was filled with a tense silence. Majestic black marble columns rose high, while the shimmering golden frescoes on the ceiling depicted scenes of conquest, subjugation, and triumph. But today, there was no celebration—today, the world bowed its head to the new power.
Before the king stood a long ceremonial table, laden with gifts. Ambassadors from various kingdoms, races, and even neutral cities stood in line, waiting for their turn to present their offerings and confirm their positions.
The first to step forward was the messenger from Virenia, the largest of the three human kingdoms. Queen Lianisa Estelaris, who had been struck by the current king just days ago, had not sent her own representative. Instead, her messenger handed over a box adorned with silver. It opened—inside lay a crown, broken in two halves. It was a silent protest, a challenge, but also a symbol that she would not wage war... yet.
The king glanced at the shattered pieces, and a cold smile curled his lips. He remembered the day he struck the blow meant to be a symbol of her humiliation, but instead, it had only hardened her will.
Next came the ambassador from Vestria, a kingdom that controlled the trade between humans and dwarves. He lowered his head and offered a chest filled with jewels.
— "On behalf of the King of Vestria, we bring a token of our goodwill and our desire to continue the trade," he spoke, not daring to lift his eyes.
He understood.
Though their kingdom was the smallest in terms of territory, it was critically important to the economy. If they ended up on the wrong side of history, the dwarves could quickly dispose of this inconvenient partner.
A massive ork in heavy armor took several heavy steps forward. His face was covered in numerous scars, and there was no trace of fear in his eyes.
— "We serve you, as agreed. Our swords are yours, our legions are yours," his voice thundered like a war drum.
The king nodded. The orcs did not obey easily. Their loyalty came at a steep price—and this alliance had been forged long before his brother's death.
When the messenger from the self-proclaimed ruler of the Beastfolk entered, the silence in the hall grew even heavier. There was something rotten, decayed, almost repulsive about him.
Beside him stood a girl in chains—the very embodiment of perfection, capable of driving any man mad who would dare to lock eyes with her for even a moment. Her silver hair cascaded in luxurious waves, as if created by the hands of gods, each strand reflecting the light like the shimmer of precious metal. Her eyes, the color of ripe raspberries, radiated a mix of passion and fury, a magnetism that was hard to resist.
Her figure was flawless, sculpted by nature itself to captivate. Her slim waist emphasized her rounded hips, as if made for dancing, and her breasts—large, firm—seemed made to seduce. Every curve of her body, every contoured line seemed deliberately crafted to make men lose their minds.
Her skin was smooth, radiant, like it was coated with a light layer of mother-of-pearl that caught the light, accentuating her perfect form. Her lips—full, seductive—looked as though they were made for sweet promises. Even in chains, her posture remained proud, defiant, and in her eyes burned a wild fire.
She was a rare treasure, one of a kind, a priceless creation now belonging to the king.
The messenger lowered his head.
— "A great gift from our lord. She will entertain you on cold evenings, my king."
These words cut through the hall like a blade. Several messengers from different races visibly flinched. The sheer cruelty of this gift was a challenge. It was not an act of loyalty—it was mockery. A blatant humiliation of a free people.
The king smiled, gazing at the girl, feeling the wave of discontent ripple through the room. But no one could object. They all knew that the Beastfolk ruler was not just the king of his people—he was the world's greatest slave trader. He controlled the markets of the shadowy powers, supplying slaves for gladiatorial battles, trained mercenaries for underground wars, and his network of spies stretched far beyond his own borders. He was untouchable, for all who held power in the shadows benefited from him.
The king studied the girl, savoring every moment, allowing his eyes to fully appreciate every refined contour of her body. She was not made for rough hands, but for royal pleasures, for long nights filled with desire. She stared straight into his eyes, not lowering her head, like a wild goddess who had no intention of bowing to the ruler of this world. Her anger was pure, her hatred unyielding. And that amused him.
— "Take her to my chambers," he said indifferently.
The messenger bowed and, without saying another word, left. He knew his task was complete.
The king rose. He looked around the hall, at the ambassadors standing before him.
— "The world has made its choice. Now my game begins," he spoke coldly.
No one dared to object. They all understood perfectly.
"Those who try to break this system will be the first to fall."
Deep within the ancient forest, hidden from prying eyes, stood the majestic Hall of the Supreme Houses. It was a grand rotunda woven from millennia-old trees, their branches forming a natural dome, pierced by the emerald glow of magical light. Here, representatives from the most powerful elven houses had gathered to discuss the death of the human king and the changes that might threaten their dominance in this world.
Lord Airilion Sirolist — the elder of the Long-Eared Leaf Elves, draped in a golden-embroidered cloak, his gaze one of disdain for all others.
Lady Eydriel Duskleaf — a representative of one of the oldest dark elven families, her voice always a venomous whisper of conspiracy and intrigue.
Archmage Eltaris the Wise — the oldest magical authority, with long silver strands of hair flowing down to his waist. His eyes were always watchful, as though they saw more than others could imagine.
Lord Velian Suncrest — ruler of the Southern lands, known for his affinity with trade with humans and his excessive greed.
Prince Ailnor Shadowpath — the most mysterious figure among those present, his line controlling the espionage networks within the elves, and perhaps beyond.
— "So, the human king is dead," Airilion Sirolist spoke coldly, swirling his elven wine. — "This cannot be a coincidence."
— "This is a wonderful opportunity for us," Lady Eydriel boldly declared with a smile. — "Their world is chaotic, they always destroy themselves. We can direct this chaos into the right course."
— "The right course?" Lord Velian sneered, leaning back in his chair. — "And what do you propose? Attack the humans? They've long lost value to us, either as potential allies or enemies."
— "Foolishness!" Archmage Eltaris sighed. — "An attack will lead to war, and war brings instability. We must remain apart, while others destroy themselves."
— "That sounds logical," Prince Ailnor agreed, his eyes gleaming. — "But I'm more interested in something else… Who now rules the humans? Who is this self-proclaimed king?"
— "He is strong," Airilion mused. — "Cruel. He is not like his predecessor."
— "So, he must either be subdued or destroyed," Lady Eydriel declared.
— "Enough," raised a hand the Archmage. — "We will do nothing. We wait."
— "This waiting strategy again!" Lord Velian exclaimed irritably. — "We could have acted first, and now it is too late!"
— "Someday, you'll understand that patience always triumphs over impulsiveness," Eltaris coldly responded.
A heavy silence fell over the room. Each of those present had their own plans, their own ambitions. They did not trust each other, each was playing their own game, pursuing their own goals.
— "So, we do nothing?" Lady Eydriel asked defiantly.
— "No. We wait. While others play their war games, we will observe. And when the time comes..."
Eltaris glanced at all those present, his voice soft as a whisper.
— "... we will take everything."