The castle was quiet. Too quiet. Not the quiet of peace, but the quiet of certainty—of a man who believed knowledge could keep him safe.
Knowledge, Bey's only weapon against chaos. I moved through the halls, silent, my shadow a cloak that swallowed the torchlight.
The air smelled of wax and wood polish, of ink-stained ledgers and leather-bound plans. It was the smell of strategy, of order. But it did not matter. Not here. Not anymore.
Each step brought me closer to him. Each step reminded me of what he had done—not just to Oma, not just to my people, but to the land itself.
I had cleared it, driven back Crutch's men, and ensured that the people of Oma returned to their homes faster than any of the tyrants could have anticipated. I had sent a message.
I had declared war. And now, Bey sat in the office he had chosen over a throne, thinking walls and locks would protect him.
He was waiting. Of course he was.
Bey always thought three steps ahead.
The mind that had survived every war council, every coup, every betrayal in his long career, now sat behind polished wood and a high-backed chair.
The office was neat, efficient, and thoughtfully designed. Nothing here was wasted. He was a man who believed intellect could defeat chaos. A man who had never met me. Until now.
I stepped into the room. Shadows followed, curling at my boots, reaching for corners, hugging walls. The desk was wide, polished, and spotless.
Papers stacked with the precision of someone who measured everything—even the angles of his own breathing.
Bey did not flinch. He looked at me as if inspecting a chess piece, weighing its potential moves, estimating threats.
"So," he said, voice smooth and deliberate, almost casual. "You've come a long way." His fingers drummed lightly on the desk, each tap deliberate, measured. "I suppose by now you know that I've figured out who you are."
I did not answer. Silence was sharper than any blade. Shadows pressed closer, weaving into the edges of the room, coiling around my knees, my waist. Bey did not move. He did not fear. He analysed. Calculated.
"You are from Oma," he continued, leaning slightly forward. "I knew it the moment the reports reached me. Not because of visions. Not because of fate.
Common sense.
The speed of your moves. The precision of your attacks. The way the land emptied for you and filled again with your people.
Only someone who knew Oma could coordinate that. Only someone from your tribe could strike so efficiently and vanish before we even understood what had happened."
His words were precise, methodical. He did not panic. He did not plead. He analysed. And that was the brilliance—and the arrogance—of Bey.
I stepped closer. One foot. Two. Shadows surged at my sides. He did not flinch. He did not rise. He did not reach for a weapon. He assumed calculation would protect him, that intellect could outrun inevitability.
"You knew it," I said, voice low. "You knew who I was. And you chose to sit here. To wait. To talk."
Bey smiled faintly. Not mocking. Not fearful. Simply confident, calm. "I do not underestimate you," he said. "I have never underestimated anyone. I saw the reports.
The devastation. The speed at which your people returned. You cleared the land of Crutch's forces before they even realised what was happening. You left a trail of fear without spilling unnecessary blood. That is… impressive."
"Impressive," I said, stepping closer. "Is that what this is? Admiration for a man who is about to kill you?"
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. Eyes sharp. Mind calculating. "I am a strategist," he said. "I do not act out of fear. I act out of information, probability, and risk management.
You are a risk, Warlord.
A variable I cannot fully control. I understood that the moment you began reclaiming Oma. The moment I realised who you were. And now… You are here."
I stopped just beyond the desk. Shadows pooled around my boots, curling like living smoke. My hand brushed the hilt of the dagger at my side. Cold. Heavy. Ready. Bey did not move. He was calm. Calculating. Waiting for the inevitable.
"Do you understand what happens now?" he asked. "Do you understand what it means to step into the lion's den with a blade?
I know where you come from. That knowledge…" He paused. His voice lowered slightly, careful, deliberate. "… makes me your greatest threat."
I laughed quietly. A low, humourless sound. "Predictable?" I said. "You think your intellect can save you now?"
His eyes narrowed, focusing. "Not save me," he said. "But perhaps… delay."
I moved. Shadows sprang to life, coiling around my legs, climbing the edges of the desk, curling up the walls. My hand struck forward, and steel met wood as I drew the dagger fully, a single, fluid motion.
Bey's eyes flicked toward it, but it was already too late.
The dagger plunged into his chest, straight and deep. Into the heart. Life resisted for a heartbeat, pulsed against the inevitability. I held him there. Eyes locked. Shadows stretched and pressed, consuming the space between us.
"You knew too much," I whispered. "And that… makes you dangerous. To my people. To the land. To yourself."
Bey's pupils dilated slightly, surprise, disbelief, the momentary realisation of failure. Not fear—not yet—but recognition. He opened his mouth, tried to speak, tried to calculate again, but his body betrayed him.
"You…" he gasped, voice choked. "You… you are… Oma…"
"Yes," I said. One word. Absolute. Truth wrapped in steel.
His chest fluttered. The pulse in his neck stuttered. Eyes widening. Life draining in a steady, inevitable tide. I did not remove the dagger. I would not. Not yet. I wanted him to see it. Wanted him to understand that all the strategies, all the intellect, all the confidence—it was meaningless. Against me. Against Warlord.
"You calculated my moves," he whispered, voice fading, rasping. "You… erased Crutch's men… liberated your homeland… all with… precision. But now… now…"
I leaned slightly closer. Shadows clung to my form, draping over him like a silent, suffocating audience. "Now," I said softly, "you die knowing exactly who struck you.
Knowing exactly who you failed to predict. Knowing that the people you sought to control are free because of me. And knowing that you, Bey, could not stop it."
The pulse slowed. The flutter of life became an echo. I held his gaze until the last spark left his eyes. Until the chest beneath my blade stilled. Until the world confirmed in silence that Bey, strategist, king, brilliant mind, was gone.
Finally.
I withdrew the dagger slowly, methodically. Blood slicked along its edge. Shadows receded just slightly, but they did not leave. They lingered, patient, waiting, aware that the room was now mine.
The castle smelled of iron and cedar, of paper and strategy, of life ended and inevitability fulfilled.
I moved to the window. Dawn was bleeding through the horizon, a faint light that did not care. The city outside would not know yet. They would not feel the absence of Bey until they saw the ripples.
Until they understood the calculus of fear had changed. Until they understood that Warlord had arrived in force, silent, precise, unstoppable.
I let a slow breath escape me. Shadows pooled at my feet again. The office, neat and orderly, held nothing but the echo of what had happened.
Papers, plans, ledgers—all trivial. All meaningless. Bey had been a man of intellect, a man of foresight, a man who believed knowledge could protect him. He had miscalculated.
I stepped back into the hall. Silence swallowed me again. The castle trembled, not from walls or guards or doors, but from the certainty of Warlord's presence. From the knowledge that one tyrant had fallen.
And that the next wave would not hesitate.
The Warlord never hesitated.
The Warlord never forgave.
And Bey had learned, too late, that intellect alone could not outmatch the shadow of Oma.
I moved on. The city would not wait. The people would not wait. The kings would not wait. And neither would I.
I was absolute.