At the Gates of Ruin

Whispers in the Throne Room

The royal hall lay cloaked in shadow.

Only the lazy crackle of the fireplace broke the suffocating silence.

King Edrian, slouched in his throne of iron and bone, tapped his fingers against the cold armrest, impatience radiating from his every movement.

Hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor.

A knight stumbled into view, smeared in dry blood and dust, and collapsed to his knees.

"Your Majesty..." he panted, trembling.

"We... we have a problem."

Edrian didn't blink.

"Speak," he ordered, his voice slicing the air like a blade.

The knight glanced around, as if fearing the shadows might listen.

"The troops sent to collect taxes..." he swallowed hard, "were slaughtered."

"Not by men. Not by beasts."

"They say... the darkness itself came for them."

"Reports speak of bodies dragged into the earth. Others... vanished like dust on the wind."

The entire hall seemed to shrink.

Even the fire in the hearth shriveled, dimming to unsteady embers.

Edrian drew a deep breath.

"And Zathiel?" he asked, voice taut.

The knight hesitated.

"No word, Your Majesty. Since he left... he disappeared like smoke."

The king's tapping ceased.

The silence grew unbearable.

At last, Edrian murmured:

"Prepare the walls."

The knight, pale as wax, dared to ask:

"But... against what?"

The king lifted his gaze, and in his eyes shone something between hatred and inevitability.

"Against what should never have been summoned."

The March of Darkness

Far from there, at the edge of the kingdom, the world seemed to hold its breath.

The trees bowed like anxious subjects.

The sky spun in sickly circles, swallowed by black clouds that promised no rain.

Lucas advanced.

Each step made the ground groan and crack.

Behind him, something darker than night slithered.

Ahead, patrols of soldiers stood on alert.

Rigid. Unprepared.

They didn't see the darkness swelling behind them.

They didn't hear the whispers curling into their ears.

Not until it was too late.

The first shadow tore through the earth.

Brief screams.

Swords vanished without a final clang.

An entire patrol was devoured within seconds — not by the wind, not by beasts, but by the absolute absence of hope.

The Abyss cackled in delight:

"Look at that, little puppet... Crushing drunk ants is almost cute!" it snarled, whirling around Lucas like a living tide of madness.

Lucas pressed forward.

Unshaken.

Unstoppable.

Like a sentence no one dared read aloud.

More patrols came.

More shadows devoured them.

No hymns were sung.

No memories remained.

Only silence... and the growing hunger of the void.

The Last Feast

In the grand hall of the castle, music echoed.

Nobles danced beneath golden chandeliers, their immaculate clothes clashing with the unrest in their eyes.

It was Prince Alric's birthday.

Tables overflowed with food. Wine spilled into crystal goblets. Laughter strained too hard to sound natural.

The music, though flawless, seemed to falter between beats — as if even the instruments sensed what was drawing near.

A drunken noble stumbled, laughing too loudly, splashing wine across his own cloak. A lady nearby feigned a smile, her gaze fixed on the sealed windows.

In the shadows, ministers whispered and exchanged nervous glances.

One of the elder lords, tense, approached the throne and bowed low.

"Your Majesty... should we not cancel the celebration?"

King Edrian leaned back against the cold iron of his throne, caressing the armrest with idle fingers.

"And why would we?" he said, so calmly it froze the entire hall.

"Our army is this kingdom's wall. Our defenses, unbreakable."

He raised his goblet, as if toasting fate itself.

"Let them laugh. Let them dance. Tonight, we celebrate Alric's future."

The nobles hesitated for a heartbeat.

Then forced themselves to smile.

The music resumed, louder. Faster.

As if trying to drown out the sound of something that was already at the gates.

At the Gates

The walls rose before him.

Tall.

Proud.

Already doomed.

The wind now moaned like a wounded beast.

Lucas stopped before the gates.

The Abyss, vibrant and writhing like a living tide, coiled around him.

"We've arrived, little puppet..." it hissed, almost singing. "Time to dance. Time for the feast. Time to show these little worms what the void truly births."

Before him, an army was gathering.

Ten thousand men.

Ten thousand spears.

Ten thousand shields trembling without knowing why.

Lucas raised his arm.

"Rise."

The shadows crawled beneath his feet.

First came the echoes:

Not ordinary soldiers, but shattered reflections of what they once were.

Eyeless soldiers, still trying to lift broken swords.

Children with drooping heads, dragging mangled legs.

Women with torn bodies, cradling empty air.

Warriors who bled until no color remained.

Forgotten civilians.

Nameless souls.

Countless.

Unrelenting.

The ground shook.

They emerged.

Not merely dead.

Not merely shadows.

Generals forged in the void.

Towering giants clad in black armor that devoured the light.

Their breastplates throbbed like ancient, living hearts.

Broken horns and jagged spines grew from their shoulders like twisted crowns.

Their faces were fragments of molded darkness — stitched mouths, eyes opened far too wide, fixed on the condemnation ahead.

They wielded spears and swords far too massive for mortal men.

They marched like hunger itself.

Nameless. Merciless. Endless.

The world seemed to shrink beneath their steps.

Lucas clenched his fist.

His voice, saturated with pure abyss, ripped across the horizon:

"Devour everything in your path."

Behind him, the void marched — and before it, the world forgot how to pray.