The golden gates swung open, vast and flawless, as the carriage rumbled into the heart of the palace.
Guards stood in rigid rows, motionless, their eyes trained on the path ahead. Not a battlefield, yet every stance spoke of war. Reverence. Fear. Respect. Tenebrarum had arrived.
No one dared look at his mask. Even among demons—no, dark creatures—his presence alone silenced them. They knew his anger, even before he spoke.
"Master… this way, please," a young attendant stammered, pale and trembling, stepping forward with hands that shook like leaves in a storm.
Tenebrarum said nothing. He walked slowly, deliberately, savoring the tension that gripped the hall. Each heartbeat, each intake of breath from the attendants, pressed like iron against the silence.
Camilla followed behind him, her movements restrained, measured, yet small—deliberately careful in a world that would bend for him but crush anyone else.
The palace swallowed them in gold and shadow. Walls rose like cliffs, each veined with metal, each etched with the history of conquests no mortal dared whisper aloud. Gold pulsed from the ceilings, seeped into the floors, traced veins along the walls as if the palace itself were alive—watching, judging, aware of its own power.
They were led through one door, then another, then another still—layers upon layers of opulence, corridors that gleamed brighter than the last, until the sheer weight of it threatened to crush anyone not born to bear it.
At last, they arrived.
King Mortifer made the slightest motion with his eyes, and the guards scattered like leaves in a storm.
The chamber was enormous—a world unto itself. A long black table stretched across its center, and along it sat Tenebrarum's stepbrothers, each radiating the same twisted majesty, draped in robes that whispered seduction and danger. Their eyes gleamed with ambition, hunger, and calculation.
At the far end, on the throne, sat his father.
King Mortifer.
He was more statue than man, tall and impossibly broad-shouldered, his posture perfect, immovable. His hair was the color of midnight, streaked with silver at the temples, slicked back to reveal sharp cheekbones and an expression carved in ice. His eyes were cold, dark pools that seemed to measure every soul in the room and deem them unworthy.
His robes were a masterpiece of power and intimidation: black silk embroidered with threads of molten gold that traced the history of the Dominion across the fabric—victories, bloodlines, conquests. On his fingers, rings glittered with gemstones older than most kingdoms, and the throne beneath him seemed less like furniture and more like an extension of his will. Every inch of him screamed authority.
Tenebrarum didn't wait to be told.
He strode forward, every step deliberate, and took his seat without asking, without bowing, without hesitation. Any other man would have been struck, scolded, or cast from the hall. But here, no one dared breathe.
They had already acknowledged the truth:
He needed no permission.
He answered to no one.
---
"I have conquered the Kingdom of Feeland," the Queen's first son, Rhazor, declared, leaning back in his chair with smug pride. "In just one month."
For a heartbeat, the chamber held a rehearsed silence.
Eyes flicked toward him, then quickly away—one by one—until no one dared meet his gaze. No one, except one.
Tenebrarum.
A shadow passed across his lips—something between a smile and a sneer. He did not laugh, though the sound almost slipped from him. Almost.
It was… impressive. To crush a kingdom in a single month. A fine performance, worthy of applause—if only the fool had known the truth.
Velmara had returned.
That was the problem.
Every victory Rhazor claimed, every conquest he boasted of, now hung in the shadow of a force neither he nor the rest of the court dared imagine: a witch alive, rising again, capable of toppling them all.
And didn't he hear the other rumors?
Tenebrarum hadn't conquered a kingdom.
He had devoured a region.
In just a week, his army had reduced the entire southeastern human territory to ash and ruin—a land fourteen times the size of Feeland. Not a single soul remained to speak of it.
Yet he said nothing.
He leaned back, the shadow of his smirk sharp and silent, his presence louder than any boast. The air seemed to bend around him, heavy with inevitability.
Rhazor leaned back, chest puffed, expecting praise.
None came.
Instead, a subtle ripple moved through the chamber, like unseen wings brushing against the walls. Every breath felt tighter, every heartbeat louder.
One of the younger stepbrothers cleared his throat—then froze, suddenly aware of the suffocating silence that had settled over them all.
Tenebrarum didn't need to speak. His dominance, his terror, and the memory of what he had done whispered it for him.
He was the storm. And they were nothing but leaves.
The king's advisers exchanged glances, careful not to let their eyes linger on Tenebrarum.
Velmara was the reason they were here—and yet, here sat this boy, boasting of nothing that mattered.
It wasn't respect that kept their tongues.
It was comparison.
And comparison—when Tenebrarum was in the room—was nothing short of humiliation.
Every boast, every claim, every puffed-up word from Rhazor fell flat, crushed beneath the shadow of what Tenebrarum had done, of what he was.
Even in silence, he devoured the room.
Someone at the far end exhaled shakily. Another adjusted his collar.
Rhazor blinked, uncertainty flickering across his face. His fingers drummed on the polished wood of the table, but the sound was hollow, like the desperate rhythm of a funeral procession.
He couldn't understand why he was treated like nothing.
Every boast, every conquest he had bragged about, every display of power—ignored. Rendered meaningless by the presence of a single shadow in the room.
For the first time, fear crept in, cold and slow, curling around his chest. He realized he wasn't just overlooked—he was insignificant.
Then, finally, one of the generals—grey-haired and battle-scarred—spoke without lifting his head.
"Feeland was... a worthy conquest," he said carefully. "But the southern region..." His voice caught, then steadied. "What Lord Tenebrarum did there... hasn't been seen in centuries."
The words struck like quiet thunder.
The Queen's son turned pale, his proud jaw locking. His eyes flicked toward Tenebrarum—just once—and then dropped, as if the very act of looking might summon death.
"This is not why we're here," King Mortifer's voice roared, echoing off the gilded walls.
He leaned forward, fingers steepled beneath his chin, gaze heavy with calculation, with legacy. The candlelight danced across his crimson robes, flickering against the black diamond ring on his finger—a symbol of dominion, of power that had spanned generations.
His voice cut through the chamber like a blade dipped in honey—smooth, precise, but sharp enough to draw blood.
"Velmara… that witch is back."
He paused, letting the weight of the words settle, letting it hang in the air like a storm about to break.
Most in the court hadn't heard the news. Their eyes widened, heads turning in disbelief, murmurs rippling like waves through the room.
"I… I thought she was dead."
The whisper floated across the chamber, fragile but impossible to ignore. Even those who had never seen Velmara felt the weight of her name, the power it carried.
Shock hung in the air, thick as incense, as every gaze slowly shifted—some to King Mortifer, some to Tenebrarum, and some into the shadows where the memory of Velmara's might lingered like a warning.
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To be continued...