The Golden Gates Of Mortifer
The golden gates swung open, vast and flawless, as the carriage rumbled into the heart of the palace.
Guards stood in rows as if ready for war—but this was no battlefield. It was reverence. It was fear. They stood for one reason alone: Tenebrarum had arrived.
No one dared meet his eyes. Even among demons—no, dark humans—they knew he was something else. Something worse.
"Sir... this way, please," a voice stammered. A young attendant, pale and shaking, rushed to him with trembling hands.
Tenebrarum said nothing. He moved forward, savouring it—the dread in their throats, the silence that pressed like iron. He found beauty in ruin. He found joy in fear.
The palace swallowed him in gold and darkness. Walls rose like cliffs around him, each one veined with metal and carved with the history of conquests no mortal dared speak aloud. Gold bled from the ceilings, soaked into the floors, dripped in veins along the walls like the palace itself was alive—and very much aware of its power.
He was led through doors. Then through more doors. Then through more still—layers upon layers of opulence, each corridor outshining the last, until the weight of it all could suffocate a lesser man.
At last, they arrived.
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King Mortifer made the slightest motion with his eyes, and the guards scattered like leaves in a storm.
The chamber was enormous—like a world unto itself. A long black table stretched across its centre, and seated along it were Tenebrarum's stepbrothers, each glowing with the same twisted majesty, dressed in robes that whispered of seduction, their eyes gleaming with ambition.
At the throne's far end sat his father.
King Mortifer.
A being more statue than man, flanked by advisers whose silence said more than any words ever could.
Tenebrarum didn't wait to be told.
He walked forward and took his seat without asking—without bowing, not even pausing for a bit.
Any other man would've been struck, scolded, cast out. But no one moved. No one breathed.
They had already accepted the truth.
He didn't need permission for anything.
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"I have conquered the Kingdom of Feeland," the Queen's first son, Rhazor declared, leaning back with smug pride. "In just one month."
For a moment, the chamber fell into a rehearsed silence.
Eyes shifted away from him, one by one—until none dared meet his gaze. None, except one.
Tenebrarum.
A shadow flickered across his lips—something between a smile and a sneer. He didn't laugh, but the sound of it almost escaped him. Almost.
It was admirable, really. To crush a kingdom in a month. A fine performance.
If only the fool had heard the whispers.
Tenebrarum hadn't conquered a kingdom.
He had devoured a region.
In just a week, his army had reduced the entire southeastern human territory to ash and ruin—a land fourteen times the size of Feeland, and not a single soul had survived to speak of it.
Yet he said nothing.
He only leaned back, his silence louder than any boast, his smirk carved in shadow.
Rhazor leaned back, waiting for praise.
But none came.
Instead, a subtle shift rippled through the chamber like the flutter of unseen wings.
One of the younger stepbrothers cleared his throat—then stopped, suddenly aware of the silence that had become suffocating.
The king's advisers exchanged glances, their eyes careful not to linger on Tenebrarum.
It wasn't respect that held their tongues.
It was comparison.
And comparison, when Tenebrarum was in the room, was humiliation.
Someone at the far end exhaled shakily. Another adjusted his collar.
Rhazor blinked, uncertain now. His fingers drummed on the polished wood of the table—but it sounded like a desperate rhythm in a funeral procession.
Then, finally, one of the generals—grey-haired and battle-scarred—spoke without lifting his head.
"Feeland was... a worthy conquest," he said carefully. "But the southern region..." His voice caught, then steadied. "What Lord Tenebrarum did there... hasn't been seen in centuries."
The words struck like quiet thunder.
The Queen's son turned pale, his proud jaw locking. His eyes flicked toward Tenebrarum—just once—and then dropped, as if the very act of looking might summon death.
Still, Tenebrarum said nothing.
He didn't need to.
He sat there like a god among children, the ghost of a smile still playing on his lips.
King Mortifer leaned forward, fingers steepled beneath his chin, his gaze heavy with calculation and legacy. The candlelight danced across his crimson robes, reflecting faintly in the black diamond ring on his finger — the symbol of dominion.
His voice cut through the chamber like a blade dipped in honey.
"Let it be known," he said, low and deliberate, "that while some of my sons take a month to crush a kingdom…" —his eyes briefly passed over the Razor, who stiffened like a corpse waiting for burial— "…my crowned son, Tenebrarum, silenced fourteen nations in seven days."
He paused.
"Not with noise. But with terror."
The room held its breath.
"The South-East now kneels. Not because they were conquered… but because they were shown what he is."
Tenebrarum didn't move, didn't smile.
He didn't need to.
He was the silence that followed thunder.
Around him, his stepbrothers shifted in their seats — not from respect, but hatred.
One bit his lip until blood kissed it.
Another gripped his wine goblet so tightly that it cracked.
If they had a blade in hand, they'd have carved him apart right there — ten stabs each wouldn't have been enough. Not because they wanted the crown.
But because they couldn't stand the fact he didn't—yet still wore it better than any of them ever could.
But Tenebrarum? He only leaned back in his chair, just slightly.
Almost bored.
As if their hatred was a lullaby.
As if their dreams of his death were nothing more than music to pass the time.
The room fell into that cruel, glittering silence again.
Until one voice broke it. Sharp. Mocking. Almost smiling.
"Tenebrarum…"
All heads turned.
It was Kaelen, the second son of the Queen.
His blonde hair spilt past his shoulders in gleaming waves, each strand catching light like molten gold. His lips, red as fresh blood and unnaturally polished, curved into a smile too perfect to trust. Ice-blue eyes watched the room without warmth—sharp, unreadable, dangerous.
His outfit screamed power: a black velvet coat embroidered with gold, lined with sapphire threads.
He was forever burning beneath the shadow of the crown he could never wear. He stood, cup in hand, and raised it lazily toward his half-brother.
"That was… impressive. Conquering the south-east in a week?" He clapped once, slow and sarcastic. "Truly, you outdid yourself."
Tenebrarum didn't look at him, he didn't seem to be worth it.
"But," Kaelen went on, voice growing colder, more venomous with each word, "while we speak of victories, I can't help but mention…" —his eyes gleamed— "…the lady you purchased. For fifty bags of silver. Fifty! That's quite a price to pay for fragile nonsense."
A breath caught somewhere.
And then the entire room stilled, as if death had walked in through the walls.
Did he just say that?
Did he just speak that name in that tone?
Did he just taunt Tenebrarum Mortifer?
The air thickened. Advisers stopped breathing.
Even the flickering torches seemed to dim in anticipation of blood.
One of the younger brothers shifted in his chair, eyes wide with horror.
A general at the corner of the room whispered something to the man beside him. Neither moved again.
Because everyone knew:
Tenebrarum could kill Kaelen in a blink.
No trial. No consequence.
Just one movement of his hand and there would be blood on polished floors.
But Kaelen?
He stood tall, drinking deeply from his goblet.
As if daring death to come.
As if he'd rather die than keep watching the monster be crowned.
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To be continued...