King Saran

The throne room of Arlindale’s grand palace was vast and imposing. Dark marble pillars stretched toward the high ceiling, torches casting flickering shadows against the obsidian walls. Deep, blood-red velvet drapes hung from the towering windows, the gold trim glistening in the dim torchlight. At the far end, seated on a magnificent throne of polished black steel, was King Saran of Arlindale. He was a man in his early fifties, though age had done little to dull the sharpness of his features. His jet-black hair, streaked faintly with silver at the temples, was combed back, giving him a regal, almost statuesque appearance. Golden eyes gleamed beneath heavy brows, reflecting the firelight with an eerie glow. A long, jagged scar ran down his left cheek, a remnant of a battle he never spoke of, but one that only added to his intimidating presence.

Draped in deep crimson robes, the king leaned back against his throne, fingers idly tapping against the metal armrests. He was waiting. The air smelled faintly of incense—amber and myrrh—a scent he had chosen to calm his nerves. He wasn’t sure if it worked, but the habitual practice gave him something to focus on, something to distract him from the constant, gnawing presence of his thoughts.

The doors to the throne room creaked open and Lord Lucian stepped inside. Clad in his dark military uniform, his silver embroidery catching the torchlight, Lucian approached with his usual unwavering composure. He walked with purpose, stopping a few feet before the throne before dropping to one knee.

"Your Majesty," Lucian greeted, his voice calm and measured.

King Saran let out a slow, pleased hum. "Ah, my most trusted commander. Rise."

Lucian obeyed, standing tall once more.

"I assume you have good news for me," the king continued, his golden eyes narrowing slightly.

Lucian clasped his hands behind his back. "Yes, Your Majesty. The Veldrosians have been defeated. Their forces have suffered great losses, and they have retreated beyond their borders."

Saran nodded, pleased with the report. He had expected no less from his young commander. “How many casualties?”

Lucian hesitated for a moment, as though unwilling to reveal the toll the battle had taken on his new recruits. His loyalty to them ran deep, though Saran suspected that loyalty wasn’t born from genuine affection but from the satisfaction of training them. They were his tools, his creation.

“We lost thirty men, Your Majesty,” Lucian said at last.

Saran’s expression darkened for a moment, but he quickly masked it. Thirty was nothing in the grand scheme of war. Those were the necessary sacrifices. “And the outcasts?” Saran asked, his voice laden with a taunting curiosity.

Lucian’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly. “They fought as well as any seasoned soldier, my king.”

King Saran chuckled, the sound low and sinister. "So it seems your little experiment worked after all."

Lucian stiffened. "Your Majesty?"

The king waved a dismissive hand. "Those strays you picked off the streets. Those outcasts. Those lowlifes you’ve trained into soldiers." His lips curled into a smirk. "It is amusing, is it not? The very people society discarded are now the ones fighting for its so-called justice."

Lucian remained silent, but inwardly, he bristled. He had fought for these warriors. Trained them. Watched them bleed and rise again. To hear them reduced to nothing but "lowlifes" left an uncomfortable weight in his chest. But he did not speak.

He could not.

King Saran rose from his throne and strode toward Lucian with slow, deliberate steps. When he reached him, he placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

"You are a great man, Lucian," the king murmured, his voice almost fatherly. "Your parents would be proud of you."

Lucian's jaw tightened.

The mention of his parents always left an ache in his chest. They had died long ago, leaving him to carve his own path. King Saran had taken him in. Trained him. Made him who he was today.

And yet, standing here, hearing the way the king spoke of his soldiers—the very people Lucian had saved—he felt something inside him shift.

He said nothing.

The king withdrew his hand and stepped back. "Go now. Prepare for tomorrow’s ball. Celebrate the victory you have won for Arlindale."

Lucian bowed. "As you command, Your Majesty."

Without another word, he turned and exited the throne room. The heavy doors closed behind him and silence filled the chamber once more.

And then—King Saran laughed, a low, mocking chuckle that echoed against the stone walls.

"Fools," he muttered, shaking his head. Everything had gone exactly as he had planned.

For years, he had poisoned the minds of Arlindale’s people, weaving a narrative of hatred and vengeance against their neighboring kingdoms. He had painted them as thieves and murderers, convincing his subjects that war was not just necessary, but righteous. And they had believed him.

Oh, how easily they had believed him.

He had been the puppet master, pulling the strings for years.

The wars, the conflicts, the bloodshed—they were all part of his design. And now, with the Veldrosian war won, he could feel the wheels of his plan turning ever faster. The time would come when he would finally have everything he wanted.

No one questioned why Arlindale was always at war. No one asked why their enemies had never launched an attack first. No one suspected that it was he who had orchestrated the conflicts from the very beginning. He had stirred the flames of war, manipulated events to ensure Arlindale always saw itself as the victim, always sought retribution.

And now, he had an army of devoted soldiers, warriors who had nothing else in this world except their loyalty to him.

A cruel smile curled his lips.

"They fight for a kingdom that never fought for them," he mused aloud. "They believe they serve justice, when in truth, they serve only me."

He turned toward the massive window that overlooked the palace grounds. Below, soldiers moved in organized lines, preparing for the celebrations. Among them were the very warriors Lucian had recruited—Aeris, Kael, and the others.

His pawns.

Saran’s smile deepened as he stared into the flickering flame of the torch. The darkness seemed to grow around him, swallowing the light. His mind raced with possibilities, each darker than the last.

He would win. He always did.

Golden eyes gleaming with satisfaction, King Saran whispered to himself:

"Let the fools dance and drink… for soon, they will march once more."