Shadows of the past
The throne room was shrouded in eerie silence ,its grand pillars cast in crimson light. the air was heavy, dense with the stench of decay, and the marble flor beneath the king's feet was slick with a dark, viscous liquid. he staggered forward, his breath quick and shallow, as shadows began to move around him, twisting into grotesque shapes.
A piercing wail was erupted from the darkness, and he turned, only to find a sea of faces staring back at him. their eyes were hollow, filled with accusation, their mouths whispering words he could not understand.
The king's gaze fell to his hands, trembling and slick with blood. A blade rested in his grasp, its edge dipping with fresh crimson. Around him, bodies littered the floor-guards, servants all lifeless bodies their faces frozen in terror.
"No.... i didn't do this", he muttered, his voice hoarse and trembling.
The sound of the footsteps echoed in the chamber, slow and deliberate. He turned to the throne. his breath catching his throat. A figure sat upon it, cloaked in shadows, its face, obscured but its presence suffocating.
"Leave the throne", the figure hissed, its voice a chorus of tormented souls. "its not yours to claim".
Suddenly the room erupted into chaos. creatures with jagged teeth and glowing eyes crawled from the walls and floors, their movements walls and floors
, their movement jerky and unnatural. they lunged at him, clawing, biting, tearing at his robes. he swung the blade widely, but for every creature he struck down, two more appeared in its place.
Amid the chaos, he saw a woman, she stood still, dressed in a flowing white gown, her face pale and emotionless. her eyes bore into him, unblinking, as if silently accusing him.
The woman came close to him, to his surprise it happens to be his first wife.
"no", he whispered, his voice cracking. "No, this can be... you're dead!
Suddenly, avoice piereced through the darkness. "Your Majesty, are you awake? Your Majesty!
The sound broke through the nightmare like a sharp blade. The king jolted awake, his chest heavily, sweat soaking his clothes, his wide eyes darted around rhe room as he tried to catch his breath.
"Your Majesty!" The chief palace guard at the door, his voice filed with concerns. "Are you alright?'
the king did not answer. his body trembled, his hands gripping the bedsheets tightly.
Fetch the royal physician!" the guard shouted. "Now!".
Moment later, a group of attendants rushed into the chamber, their footsteps hurried. they found the king sitting on the edge of his bed, his face pale, his body drenched in sweat.
"No need for the physician" the king finally muttered, his voice hoarse. he looked up his eyes clouded with unease. "Summon the Queen and the female shaman. "Now!".
The guards exchanged hesitant glances but obeyed his command, leaving the room to fulfill his orders.
The Queen and the female shaman entered the throne room an hour later. The King sat on his gilded throne, his eyes dark and unyielding. The room was eerily quiet, with only the crackle of torches breaking the silence.
"My King," the Queen began, bowing low. "You summoned me?"
The King's gaze was sharp as a blade. "Do you know what you've done?"
The Queen froze, her face betraying a flicker of fear. "I... I do not understand, my King."
"Do not lie to me!" he roared, slamming his fist against the armrest. "I saw her. My first wife. She came to me in my dream, standing amidst creatures of the dark. She accused me... of betrayal. Of death."
The shaman stepped forward cautiously. "Your Majesty, dreams can often be—"
"Silence!" the King snapped. "You know something about this. Both of you do. Speak!"
The shaman hesitated, her hands trembling. Finally, she spoke. "Your Majesty... There is a truth I have kept hidden. The Queen—"
"Enough!" The Queen interrupted, her voice shrill. "Do not listen to her, my King. She lies to divide us!"
"Then tell me the truth!" the King bellowed, his voice echoing in the hall.
The shaman took a deep breath, steeling herself. "Your Majesty, your first wife did not die as you were told. It was not an illness that took her. It was treachery. She was... sacrificed."
The Queen's face turned pale, her lips trembling. "Lies! All lies!"
The King rose from his throne, his presence towering over them. "Sacrificed? By whom?"
The shaman's voice was steady, though her eyes betrayed her fear. "By her. The Queen. She wanted to take the throne, to become your wife. Your first wife... she was with child. She would have secured her place forever."
The Queen fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face. "My King, I swear to you, I know nothing of this! She lies!"
"Enough!" the King shouted. His voice carried the weight of his fury. "Guards! Take them both to the dungeons until I decide their fate."
"No!" the Queen screamed as the guards dragged her away. "You cannot do this to me! I am your wife!"
The King turned away, his mind racing. The image of his first wife haunted him. Had he been blind to the treachery around him? Had he failed her in her time of need?
As the King sat in his chamber, lost in thought, The door creaked open, and the Queen Mother stepped inside, her regal presence filling the room. She was calm, yet her sharp gaze carried an unspoken warning. She approached him, sitting across from him.
"My son," she began softly, "I hear you have ordered the Queen and the shaman to the dungeons."
"They deserve it," the King said firmly, his voice cold. "They lied to me. Conspired against my first wife. I trusted them, and they betrayed me."
The Queen Mother frowned, shaking her head. "You are too hasty in your judgment. Do you truly believe the woman who has stood by your side all these years would conspire to harm you?"
"She had motive," the King replied. "She wanted to secure her position as Queen. The shaman's testimony—"
"Testimonies can be twisted, my son," the Queen Mother interrupted, her voice firm. "You know this better than anyone. The shaman speaks to save herself. And as for your Queen, she has only ever sought to protect you and this kingdom."
The King's jaw tightened. "You're defending her?"
"I am," the Queen Mother said, rising to her feet. "Because I know what it is to be a Queen, to bear the weight of a kingdom's expectations. Do not let the past poison your present. You've seen your first wife in a dream, yes, but dreams are not truth. Do not punish the living for the actions of the dead."
The King stared at her, his mind torn between anger and doubt.
"If you must seek answers," the Queen Mother continued, "do so carefully. Investigate. But do not let the whispers of a shaman destroy the woman who has been your partner in all things. She is innocent, my son. And you will regret it if you let her go."
*
The moon hung low in the sky as Maria tiptoed through the darkened corridors of the house. She clutched a small satchel close to her chest, her steps light but purposeful. Her heart raced as she approached the door.
"Maria."
The voice startled her, and she froze. Turning slowly, she saw Marissa standing in the shadows, her arms crossed and her expression stern.
"Where do you think you're going at this hour?" Marissa asked.
Maria hesitated, her grip tightening on the satchel. "I have to find Tristan," she said, her voice trembling. "He's in the Demon Lord's hands. I can't just sit here and do nothing."
"And you think you'll find him?" Marissa stepped closer. "Do you even know where the Demon Lord's lair is?"
"I have an idea," Maria said defiantly. "The riverside… or maybe the deep forest. I'll search everywhere if I have to."
Marissa sighed, her gaze softening. "Maria, listen to me. You can't do this alone. The Demon Lord is far more dangerous than you realize."
"I don't care!" Maria cried, tears streaming down her face. "He saved me. He risked everything for us, and now he's gone. I can't just sit here and wait for something to happen."
Marissa stepped forward, pulling Maria into a comforting embrace. "I understand how you feel. But rushing off blindly won't save him—it'll only put you in danger. Come inside. We'll find another way."
Maria sobbed into her shoulder, her resolve faltering. After a moment, she nodded, allowing Marissa to guide her back into the house.
"We'll pray," Marissa said firmly. "We'll call upon every spiritual force we know to protect Tristan and guide him back to us."
*
The market buzzed with life as merchants hawked their wares and townsfolk bartered for goods. The air was thick with the scent of spices and freshly baked bread.
A man in black strolled through the crowd, his wide-brimmed hat casting a shadow over his face. He moved with an air of confidence, his presence drawing the curious glances of passersby. Some women giggled as he walked by, captivated by his striking features and mysterious demeanor.
But beneath his calm exterior, the Demon Lord was focused. His eyes scanned the market, taking in every detail. He wasn't here for idle curiosity—he was gathering information.
He paused near a fruit stand, picking up an apple and tossing a coin to the merchant. As he bit into it, a young woman approached him, her steps hesitant.
"Sir," she whispered, her eyes darting around nervously. "I have news."
"Speak," the Demon Lord said, his voice low.
"The King is growing suspicious," the woman said. "He's questioning the Queen and the shaman about his first wife's death."
The Demon Lord smirked. "Let him. The more he questions, the more chaos will spread."
He handed her a small pouch of coins. "Continue your work at the inn. Make sure the men who visit you leave with stories that will sow distrust in the palace."
"Yes, my Lord," the woman said, bowing her head.
The Demon Lord watched her leave, a sinister smile playing on his lips. The seeds of discord had been sown, and soon, the palace would crumble under the weight of its own secrets.
*
The King stormed out of his chamber, his face a mask of fury and frustration. The conversation with his mother had left him reeling, doubts swirling in his mind like a storm. Unable to sit idle, he headed toward the palace's secret archive—a hidden chamber where the kingdom's darkest truths were recorded.
He descended the narrow stone staircase, the torches on the walls flickering as though the shadows themselves whispered warnings. At the bottom, a heavy iron door awaited him. He hesitated for a moment before pushing it open, the hinges groaning in protest.
The air inside was thick with the scent of old parchment and damp stone. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with scrolls and books that chronicled the palace's sordid history. The King's gaze swept over them, his heart pounding.
"This is where the truth lies," he muttered to himself.
He began pulling books from the shelves, flipping through them with an urgency born of desperation. Each page revealed tales of betrayal, forbidden pacts, and bloodshed. The deeper he delved, the more his stomach churned.
Finally, he came across a ledger bound in black leather, its edges worn with age. The title, scrawled in faded ink, read "The Dowager's Testament."
His fingers trembled as he opened it, scanning the pages. The words painted a chilling picture:
The Dowager's Bargain: A pact with the Demon Lord to secure her son's ascension to the throne.
The Betrayal: A scheme to eliminate the Demon Lord once his role was fulfilled, casting him as an enemy of the realm.
The Consequences: A curse placed upon the royal bloodline, ensuring turmoil and destruction until justice was served.
The King's breath caught as he read further. His first wife's death, the Demon Lord's wrath, even his recent nightmares—they were all threads in a tapestry woven by the late Queen Dowager's hand.
His blood ran cold as he reached the final entry:
"The demon was wronged, and he will not rest until his throne is reclaimed. The sins of the past will consume us all."
The King sank into a nearby chair, the book slipping from his grasp. His entire life, the foundation of his rule, had been built on lies.
And the Demon Lord… he wasn't just a monster seeking vengeance. He was a victim, betrayed by the very family he once aided.
The realization hit him like a thunderclap. He needed to act, but how could he right the wrongs of the past without tearing his kingdom apart?
He clenched his fists, determination hardening his features. "I must end this cycle," he whispered. "No more lies. No more bloodshed."
With renewed purpose, he rose and left the chamber, the weight of the truth pressing heavily on his shoulders.
*
The council chamber buzzed with tension. The room, grand yet austere, was illuminated by a crystal chandelier that cast shadows across the polished marble floor. A long, oak table stretched through the center, surrounded by the kingdom's most powerful advisors. Each of them wore robes signifying their roles—deep crimson for the Chief Counselor, emerald green for the Welfare Advisor, and royal blue for the Chief Advisor.
The Chief Advisor, Lord Eamon, stood at the head of the table, his expression grave. His flowing blue robe was adorned with golden embroidery, marking his esteemed position as the King's closest advisor—and the father of the Queen.
"Why does the King persist in this battle against the Demon Lord?" the Welfare Advisor asked, his voice low and cautious. "Would it not be easier to relinquish the throne? To avoid further bloodshed?"
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room.
"The Demon Lord has a claim," another advisor chimed in. "A claim rooted in betrayal. If the King continues this war, it may bring ruin to us all."
The chief advisor jaw tightened. He slammed his fist on the table, silencing the room. "Are we cowards, then? To suggest abandoning the throne to a creature who thrives on chaos and destruction? Have you no loyalty to your King?"
The room fell into an uneasy silence, save for the faint crackling of the hearth in the corner.
Suddenly, the door creaked open. A messenger, clad in the livery of the palace guard, stepped in and bowed deeply.
"My lord," he addressed Lord Eamon, his voice trembling slightly. "A message from the Queen Mother."
Lord Eamon's ( chief Advisor) face darkened as he took the scroll from the messenger. The wax seal was unbroken, bearing the Queen Mother's insignia—a dove clutching an olive branch. With steady hands, he broke the seal and unrolled the parchment.
His eyes scanned the message, and his face paled. Without a word, he rose abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.
"Lord Eamon, what is it?" the Chief Counselor asked, his brow furrowed in concern.
Chief Advisor shook his head, his lips pressed into a thin line. "Nothing that concerns this council," he said tersely.
The Welfare Advisor leaned forward, suspicion etched across his face. "Surely, if it involves the Queen Mother—"
"It is none of your concern!" he snapped, his voice echoing through the chamber. Without waiting for a response, he swept out of the room, his robe billowing behind him.
Chief Advisor stormed through the palace halls, his heart pounding. He reached the Queen Mother's chamber and pushed the doors open without knocking.
The room was opulent, filled with rich tapestries and the scent of lavender. The Queen Mother, dressed in an elegant gown of ivory and gold, sat by the window, her face serene.
"chief Advisor," she said, not turning to look at him. "I was expecting you."
"What is this?" he demanded, holding up the scroll. "The King has sent my daughter to the dungeons?"
The Queen Mother sighed, finally meeting his gaze. "Yes. The King discovered the truth about his first wife. He knows now… about her death, and about our involvement."
"Our involvement?" chief Advisor hissed, his voice barely above a whisper. "You dragged me into this mess, and now my daughter pays the price?"
"Lower your voice," the Queen Mother said sharply. "Do you want the whole palace to hear?"
He fists clenched. "You told me this would never come to light. That the past was buried."
"The past has a way of clawing its way back," the Queen Mother replied, her tone icy. "The King has grown too curious. He found the records. And now, he seeks retribution."
Chief Advisor paced the room, his mind racing. "We must act. If the King punishes the Queen, it will bring disgrace to our family. What do we do?"
The Queen Mother rose gracefully, her expression unreadable. "We wait," she said. "The King is emotional now, I will speak to him."
The chief advisor stopped pacing, his eyes narrowing. "And if he refuses to listen?"
"Then we prepare for war," the Queen Mother said quietly. "We protect our own, no matter the cost."
*
The palace corridors were eerily quiet, the sound of the King's footsteps echoing through the halls as he emerged from the secret chamber. He could feel the weight of his discovery pressing on him, his mind racing with thoughts of betrayal, secrets, and the impending storm. The walls around him seemed to close in as the air grew heavier, thick with the gravity of the decisions he had to make.
The King's expression was one of fury, his lips set in a hard line, eyes blazing with a newfound determination. But as he made his way back toward his chamber, something unusual caught his attention. There, in the distance, he saw the imposing figure of lord Eamon —the father of his Queen—walking steadily toward him.
The two men had never truly seen eye to eye, and this moment seemed destined to change that.
As they drew nearer, the tension between them was palpable. The King and chief Advisor were like two opposing forces, each with his own secrets and ambitions. The moment they crossed paths, their gazes locked. It was as if the world around them paused, holding its breath in anticipation of the words that would follow.
The chief Advisor stopped in his tracks, his eyes scanning the King's face. He knew something had changed—there was a storm brewing in the King's demeanor.
"What is this I hear, Your Majesty , chief Advisor voice was smooth but filled with hidden accusation. "You are punishing your wife? What could compel a man to imprison the Queen of the kingdom in a cell? What madness is this?"
The King's face twisted with anger at the implication, his nostrils flaring. He took a step forward, towering over chief Advisor "You dare question me, old man?" His voice was low, venomous. "You, who have been the puppet-master behind so many of these schemes? You think I don't know of your manipulations?"
Lord Eamon took a step back, his expression unreadable. "I am only trying to understand why you would allow the Queen—my daughter—to suffer. She is your wife, the mother of your heir. You have betrayed her trust, Your Majesty."
A flicker of guilt passed across the King's face before it was quickly replaced with steely resolve. He raised his voice, booming in the cold hallway. "Enough! I will not let you or anyone dictate my actions any longer."
With a sharp gesture, he motioned to the palace guards who were standing nearby. "Take him," the King commanded, his voice icy with fury. "Take tye chief Advisor and the Queen to the cells. They are no longer to walk freely in this palace."
Lord Eamon eyes widened in disbelief. "You cannot do this! You will regret this decision, my son," he hissed, but the King's anger burned brighter than ever.
The guards rushed forward, seizing the Chief Advisor struggled, but he was no match for their strength. His eyes never left the King, filled with a mixture of rage and betrayal.
As he was dragged away, the King stood still, his heart pounding. The air was thick with the weight of the choices he had made. He had made his decision: there would be no turning back now.
The palace was on the brink of war once again. The King had set a course that would change everything.
The King's decree had set the wheels of fate in motion, and it wasn't long before the news spread through the corridors like wildfire. The Chief Advisor was imprisoned, and the Queen, her mother , was locked away with him. The whispers among the courtiers grew louder, each one trying to make sense of what had just transpired.
The King, however, had no time for the murmurs of the court. His mind was focused on one thing: securing his throne, and doing whatever was necessary to protect his kingdom. He had made his choice, and now he would stand by it. But even as the guards secured the Chief Advisor and the Queen, there was a part of him that feared what the repercussions would be. The kingdom was fractured, the loyalty of his closest advisors shattered, and the enemies of the throne were already moving in the shadows.
The King retreated to his private chamber, the weight of the crown heavier than ever. He paced the room, his mind working furiously. How could he have been so blind to the plots that had been woven around him? His gaze fell upon the royal seal—the symbol of his authority—sitting on his desk, its gleaming surface now a reminder of the power he had nearly lost.
In the dim light of his chamber, the King's thoughts turned to the Demon Lord. He had discovered too much about the true nature of his kingdom's darkness, but the question remained: what was the Demon Lord's true goal? Was it revenge? Power? Or something far more insidious?