While inside the majestic palace hall, the stone walls vibrated with the cacophony of the cabinet and high-ranking military officials—a riotous sea of voices drowning in the chaos of emergency plans and overlapping, panicked whispers...
Separated only by the thickness of ancient stone, just outside those walls, the life of the Kingdom of Carta pulsed with a deceptive rhythm: business as usual.
The city was still drenched in drizzle.
Not the raging storm envisioned in the generals' minds, but a constant, cold twilight drizzle. The water droplets fell in a monotonous rhythm, turning the asphalt streets into giant black mirrors, shimmering wet and reflecting the distorted glow of streetlights.
Pedestrians still flooded the sidewalks, forming a river of humanity unaware of their fate. Umbrellas of various colors—black, red, transparent—brushed against each other in a chaotic yet harmonious urban choreography. People hurried home from work, their faces tired but peaceful, their thoughts fixed on warm dinner menus, not on the "Period of Darkness" lurking just beyond the horizon.
The cafés lining the main streets were even livelier, offering an escape from the gray afternoon. Warm, old-fashioned tungsten lights began to flicker on one by one, their glow piercing through fogged-up windows, creating a romantic blur. Inside, silhouettes of people could be seen laughing, blowing steam from hot coffee cups, and sheltering from the chill, creating small islands of comfort that felt so safe.
In the central district, the pulse of capitalism still beat strong. Shopping activity was bustling. Neon lights from designer store displays shone bright and sharp, reflecting in the puddles on the sidewalk, painting abstract light beneath the feet of passersby. Shoppers carried paper bags, hurrying into yellow taxis or their private cars, closing the doors on the outside world.
And in another part of the city, the university complex that had buzzed all morning with gossip about Bentleys and Porsches now began to disperse and quiet down. The last students hurried to zip up their jackets as they headed for bus stops, leaving the parking lots nearly empty. Lights in the classrooms began to go out one by one, leaving the academic buildings as dark silhouettes.
Under the same sky, in the same city, two realities existed in parallel but never touched: one world was preparing for the apocalypse, and the other... was preparing for dinner.
✧✧✧
Back inside the luxury of the banquet hall, now repurposed as an emergency strategy room.
The Minister of Spirituality set down his silver spoon with a slow, measured movement. The porcelain plate in front of him was half-clean. He lifted a linen napkin, wiped the corner of his mouth, and stared at the crowd of officials still scrambling like ants in a burning hill across the room.
"They panic as if it's the end of the world," hissed the Minister, his voice low, filled with cynical amusement.
"For them, this is the world," Rajendra replied calmly, his jaw still moving as he chewed a piece of meat casually, as if enjoying a picnic in the park rather than sitting on the brink of war.
"Their minds are narrow. They forget."
Rajendra swallowed, set down his cutlery, and looked at his best friend with sharp, serious eyes that cut through the pleasantries.
"This 500-year cycle is a certainty," he said, his tone as hard as bedrock.
"And this isn't just a matter of the Kingdom of Carta fighting against the unseen. This is a global threat."
Rajendra leaned forward slightly, candlelight dancing on his old face etched with experience.
"That Fog," he continued,
"Knows no passports. It does not care for borders. It will spread to every republic, nation, kingdom, and empire on this earth."
He let out a long sigh, an exhalation that sounded heavy. His voice was now filled with the resonance of the thousands of years of history he carried on his back.
"The ancient empires across the desert... those who still worship the old gods... they documented this catastrophe as well. They called it the 'Demon's Breath' or the 'Endless Night'."
Rajendra's hand lifted, pointing toward the dark window, toward the vast world outside.
"But look at the other countries," Rajendra gestured vaguely at an imaginary map in his head.
"The modern republics, arrogant with their science."
His eyes narrowed, recalling the recurring patterns of human folly.
"500 years ago, when the fog of paranoia swept their continent, they called it the 'Hundred Years' War'. They wrote it in history books as an era of brutal warfare that erupted without logical reason."
"1000 years ago," he continued, his voice deepening.
"When the plague of madness struck, they called it the 'Black Death' or a 'Natural Disaster'. They wrote it down as a history of pandemics."
Rajendra snorted, a dry, humorless chuckle escaping his lips.
"They only recorded the symptoms," Rajendra hissed.
"Not the disease."
He leaned further across the table, ignoring the din of shouting generals in the background. His voice was now barely a whisper between the two of them, a secret amidst the crowd.
"Only we—and a handful of ancient clans across the world—know that all of it... the wars, the pandemics, the disasters... comes from the same source. Only we know that the true enemy is invisible."
The Minister of Spirituality nodded grimly, his face cast in shadow.
"And when the chaos begins again in 30 days," he said,
"The world will blame each other. Republics will blame Kingdoms. One nation will accuse another of releasing biological weapons."
"Of course," Rajendra said casually, reaching for a dessert plate as if this conversation about global apocalypse were merely light banter.
"And we must clean up this mess... in silence."
The Minister of Spirituality wiped his mouth once more with the cloth napkin, folding it neatly beside his plate.
"They are too panicked," he said, gesturing with his chin toward the crowd of cold-sweating officials.
"New generals. New ministers. They forget."
Rajendra didn't lift his head from the bowl of fruit soup he had just taken.
"Forget what? That they can die?"
"Forget," said the Minister, his tone heavy and solemn with the dust of history,
"That this Kingdom of Carta has been doing this for 3,500 years."
His eyes gazed distantly, penetrating the walls of the room to the deepest foundations of the palace.
"Not the history they read in universities," he continued.
"But the history written on sacred arks, kept in the deepest halls of secrecy beneath the King's palace."
Rajendra nodded slowly, his mouth still busy chewing with relish.
"And they forget," Rajendra added after swallowing, his voice flat but deadly,
"That the name of our great King, King Lavin the 135th, recorded on the lowest iron stele... is merely the last name on a very, very long list."
The Minister of Spirituality smiled thinly, a smile full of melancholic pride.
"A kingdom that never dies, swallowed by history."
"And a kingdom that was never colonized," Rajendra chimed in quickly.
"Exactly," said the Minister, his finger tapping the table in rhythm with his words.
"Throughout thousands of years of history, our power has only expanded and contracted. Like lungs breathing. We shrink during the Dark Period, we expand again when dawn arrives."
Rajendra snorted softly, this time his tone sounded cynical, his eyes glinting sharply.
"And now," he said,
"We 'breathe' inside a box."
He looked at his friend, his expression sharpening.
"Thanks to that international pact 150 years ago. That ridiculous 'Global Conference'."
"Ah," the Minister of Spirituality nodded, understanding the bitter reference.
"When borders were clarified and sovereignty recognized by consensus."
"Consensus," Rajendra repeated, as if the word tasted bitter and poisonous on his tongue. He grabbed another piece of bread with a rough motion.
"They drew lines on a map," Rajendra said as he broke the bread,
"But they forgot that the Fog... cannot read maps."