The forest still burned.
Smoke curled into the darkening sky, thick and viscous. The crack of snapping branches and the hiss of flames twisted together like a chorus of anger.
I stepped out from the shadows. The fires were theirs—or rather, they had started them. Crutch's men. Reckless. Cruel. Believing that burning my childhood home would come with no consequences.
Nothing would stop me from paying them back.
They had no idea.
On my command, the darkness beneath the trees moved. A thin wave crept along the edges of the forest, crawling up the trunks, following the flames, climbing upward, seemingly consuming the fire itself.
The heat sharpened. The smoke deepened. Then it began to bend, curl, leap. It was no longer mine to watch. It was mine to wield.
I didn't just extinguish it. I sent it back.
Every ember, every tongue of flame, every dying branch returned to those who started it.
Darkness stretched outward, hungry, greedy, and I pulled the fire with it—across the land, across rivers and hills.
Crutch's kingdom waited unaware. Too busy staring at the sky. Too busy mourning their fallen men. Too busy thinking the worst was over.
The first sparks erupted in the farms.
Flames ignited from the shadows of the crops themselves. A field of wheat became a sea of fire, each stalk a screaming tongue of orange.
Corn twisted, husks flaring bright. Vineyards shrieked under the heat, grapes exploding in blackened bursts, spilling juice like blood across the dirt.
Livestock panicked.
Cattle lowed in terror, hooves tearing at the mud as they fled, herds scattering toward the edges of the kingdom, abandoning owners and homes alike.
Chickens flapped blindly away from fences.
Goats slipped into rivers. Pigs squealed as the fire crept closer. No one could catch them.
No one could even stop the noise.
The rivers, long thought a safeguard, became distant and unreachable. Darkness pressed down on their banks.
The flames swallowed them whole. Juicy fruits hissed, steamed, and vanished into smoke. Every hope of quenching the fire disappeared.
And still, I let the people watch.
Smoke stretched across the land like it had teeth. It clouded the sky. Trees and hills scorched together.
It was strange how the flames showed no remorse.
The fire continued through leaves and vines. It formed a ring around the kingdom—a perfect circle. A prison of fire.
It was beautiful.
Terrible.
Precise.
For thirty minutes, their kingdom was hell on earth.
Honestly, I felt sorry for them.
The people were already broken. Already terrified. The crops burned. The livestock fled. Their food became ash. Worse still, the pain and loss would live on in every witness.
Hunger—not death—was the knife I sharpened.
The only mercy I allowed.
Fear, not cruelty, was the weapon I wielded.
No one died in the burning fields. No innocent screamed. Only the crackle of flame and the hiss of burning green. Smoke coiled into shapes, as if it remembered the forest it had consumed and wanted revenge. Every shadow flickered like a heartbeat.
Every ember pulsed.
The flames burned for thirty minutes. They felt the heat on their skin. Smelled ash, scorched wood, the wet panic of fleeing animals.
By the time the fire died, Crutch's kingdom lay stripped bare. No grain. No vegetables. No livestock. Only smouldering soil, smoke crawling over walls, tendrils of fire clinging to the outer gates like chains.
Then I let the darkness recede. The sky cleared briefly, revealing a fading sunset that did not care.
Crutch's guards ran toward the fields—or tried to. They stumbled over charred earth, hands scraping dirt, eyes wide. The livestock were gone. The crops were gone. Smoke still clung to the air, curling into their nostrils, choking them.
Crutch rose to his feet. Marble stone, ash, dirt, and cinders pressed into his palms. His teeth ground together as he barely held back grief and rage.
From the castle gates, his messengers fled.
They carried the news he needed for the Council of Kings. He called for a meeting.
All the Tyrant Kings.
Tomorrow.
At dawn.
Exactly what I wanted.
I smiled as I rested within the shades of Oma's trees.
Shadows wrapped tighter around me. Darkness obeyed. I had sent a message. A promise. A threat. More importantly, I had reclaimed my people's land and avenged my fallen animal companions.
At dawn, the Council would gather in a single room. A secret chamber. Locked. Guarded.
All of them. Every king who believed himself untouchable.
Every mind that had plotted against Oma. Every hand that had wielded cruelty. All in one place.
And I would step from the shadows.
Not with armies.
Not with fire.
Not with chaos.
Just me.
They would see the King of the Dark. They would finally know me.
This was only the beginning.
I couldn't rest yet.
Not until the first crown shattered.
Not until I saw every face I intended to erase.
The meeting was held the very next day.
The room was quiet. Too quiet.
The Tyrant Kings had gathered at dawn. Crutch sat at the head of the table, shoulders slumped, eyes hollow. The weight of his son's death still clung to him, thick as smoke.
Outside, the sun cut through the windows in thin shafts of light, catching dust and ash that hadn't yet left the kingdom.
One king leaned forward, fingers drumming on the polished wood. His eyes were sharp, calculating. He was a strategist, cruel and patient.
"Tell me," he said, voice smooth, venom beneath the words. "Anything. Anything at all about this… Warlord. Where he came from. Who he is. Which family, which house, which tribe?"
Crutch shook his head slowly, his hands gripping the edge of the table. "King Bey, I… I don't know," Crutch answered.
His voice cracked, raw, broken. "I know nothing but his words. Nothing about him. Nothing about his lineage. Nothing about his family. Nothing at all."
Bey leaned back, steepling his fingers. "You must remember. Think carefully. Did he speak? Did he show a face? A mark? A sign?"
"I don't know!" Crutch said, a little louder now, his voice brittle, snapping. "I told you. I know nothing!"
Bey's eyes darkened. "Crutch… you forgot the most important part. He killed your son. He took him from you."
Something inside Crutch broke. The mourning, the grief, the hollow vacancy—it exploded into rage. His hands slammed onto the table, rattling the wood, the sound echoing in the enclosed chamber.
"You think I don't know that?!" His voice was thunder. "If I knew who this Devil was, he would be hanging on my roof with his throat slit. His family—burnt to ash. His children—butchered like pigs.
His wife was whipped to death. His people, his lineage, his tribe, his clan, his very name—erased from the face of the earth. And his death… slow enough for me to watch it all happen!"
Silence fell across the room. Even Bey, sharp as he was, felt the weight of Crutch's fury.
He remembered why Crutch was not just the head of the council, but the worst of them all—the tyrant who ruled with iron and fire, the king who did not forgive, who did not forget.
And then I moved.
"Finally," I said.
The word slipped from my mouth, low, effortless. My right hand wielding a dagger, appeared from behind Crutch's chair. Steel glinted. A single, sharp motion. His throat opened to the world in an instant.
Crutch's eyes widened. Shock. Confusion. The first taste of terror, hot and metallic, rushed into the air around him. The sound—high, strangled—cut through the room. His hands clawed at his neck, fingers slick with blood, trembling, grasping for a life that was already slipping away.
I could smell it—the iron, sharp, sweet, filling the air in clouds that burned at the nostrils. Heat from the table seemed to intensify, mixing with the coppery scent of spilt life. His body jerked, reflexive, trying to rise, trying to turn, trying to survive.
The room froze.
The other kings watched, faces pale, lips parted. Hands shook. One king dropped his dagger; it clattered against the floor like a bell tolling doom.
Crutch's knees hit the floor, blood pooling around them, soaking into the polished wood. His mouth opened, gurgling, as if trying to form words, but the world had stolen his voice. Every breath was a struggle. His hands scraped at the floor, marble, wood, anything that might keep him anchored to life.
The sound was wet. Sloppy. Terrifying. His life spilt in slow arcs, painting everything it touched, leaving red fingerprints across the walls, the table, the floor.
I stepped closer. Calm. Silent. Shadows clung to my form like a second skin. I watched the slow, inevitable collapse of the man who had ruled, who had plotted, who had forgotten fear until now.
The other kings moved instinctively, some closer, some back, but all frozen in awe and horror. Every eye followed the motion of his blood, the tremor of his shoulders, the widening of his eyes. They smelled it. They saw it. And they understood immediately who controlled this room.
"Run," I said, my voice low, sharp. Simple.
Chaos erupted. Chairs scraped, wood cracked, papers flew. Bey was first to the door, slamming fists against the locked wood, shouting for the guards. The others surged behind him, panic flaring like sparks.
Their breaths came in short gasps. Heartbeats drummed in their ears.
Outside, the guards reacted too late. By the time they reached the door, we were gone.
I had already melted into the shadows. My presence lingered only in the echoes of blood, the copper-laced air, the horror etched onto every face.
Bey paused mid-step. Eyes darting. Mind racing. "How… how did he get in?" he muttered.
I watched him. Shadows coiled at the edges of the room, stretching, alive. They pressed closer, whispering threats in the language of fear. Bey's sharp mind might've guessed the truth, but it didn't matter. He would be next.