CHAPTER 2 Threads of Fate

The dark room was quiet, apart from the slight creaking of wooden marionettes suspended from the ceiling. Their empty eyes gazed into the darkness as if awaiting their master's instruction. The figure in black, The Puppeteer, stood still, his fingers tugging at unseen strings.

A deep, measured breath escaped his mouth. Tonight, it starts.

With a sweep of his wrist, the strings seemed to quiver like thread-thin veins of silver in mid-air. The puppets shuddered, their inanimate bodies spasming upright as if invaded by invisible forces. They fell into the room one by one, their wooden limbs gliding with unnatural accuracy.

Then a voice resonated in the room.

"You shouldn't be playing with such power."

The Puppeteer did not blink. His fingers stayed suspended, holding the strings as he shifted his attention to the darkness. A figure stepped forward a man clad in a black coat, his face partially hidden beneath a hood. The dancing candlelight caught the glint of sharp, calculating eyes.

"Who are you?" the Puppeteer inquired, his tone even but authoritative.

The stranger stepped forward, unimpressed by the puppets now standing like silent guards around the room. "Someone who knows what you are. and what you're trying to become."

For the first time, the Puppeteer's fingers twitched not with fear, but curiosity.

"And what do you think I am?"

The man smiled. "A master of strings… but not yet a master of fate."

There was silence between them. Suddenly, and swiftly, the stranger jumped forward—dagger extended. The Puppeteer's fingers tapped into movement, and the puppets leaped alive.

War had come.