Leornars sat rigidly in his study, the quill in his hand moving with sharp, purposeful strokes across the parchment. The ink, a rich, iron-gall black, spelled out a precise, coded message destined for Princess Selrose, a necessary tether in his sprawling web of political manipulation and clandestine justice. The air in the room was thick with the scent of aged paper and dried roses—a stark, almost mournful contrast to the heavy silence.
He paused, the quill hovering. His gaze lifted, finding no answer in the dark, wood-paneled ceiling. A long, weary sigh escaped him, a quiet sound that seemed to pull the very light from the room. The exhaustion wasn't physical; it was the psychic toll of maintaining a thousand different facades.
"Leux, it's almost done," he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly promise. "I'll avenge your death. The old monarchy will fall, and the very foundations of this rotten world will be replaced with something pure... something worthy of your memory."
The click of the latch was the only warning before the heavy oak door swung inward. Zaryter, his second most trusted subordinate and a man whose loyalty was carved from granite, stepped into the room. He carried a small, bundled shape nestled securely in the crook of his arm: Shullah.
Leornars rose, his eyes snapping from the ceiling to the girl. His focus was immediate and complete, a shift so profound it was like watching a predator turn into a guardian. He summoned a single undead knight—not a ghoul, but an ethereal figure clad in shadow-wrought steel—to stand at attention. He sealed the letter with a wax impression of a simple, unadorned ring.
"Deliver this," Leornars instructed, his voice dropping to a command that resonated with cold magic. "To the address specified. As usual, do not get caught or seen. If anyone spots you, civilian or guard, eliminate them. Leave no trace. Understood?"
The knight, whose very form seemed to drink the ambient light, bowed deeply. Its armor made no sound as it stepped back, dissolving into the shadows near the balcony window, taking the letter with it.
Leornars then turned his attention fully to the two people remaining, his expression already softening for one and taking on a polite distance for the other.
"And what brings you here, Zaryter?" he asked, his tone now professional, stripped of the earlier intimacy and the immediate, chilling menace.
Zaryter shifted Shullah slightly, adjusting the child's position as she slept soundly. "I'm going on an investigation with Stacian tonight," he stated. "It's a deeper dive into the recent border smuggling reports—the ones involving the rogue magi."
Leornars walked to his large mahogany desk, picking up a heavy document marked with the royal crest. He scanned a line of text regarding the budgetary allocation for border patrols, his dark brow furrowed in concentration.
"And?" Leornars asked, the word clipped, his attention seemingly fixed on the figures. He was testing Zaryter, as always, making him state his request rather than presuming it.
"I was wondering if you could look after Shullah for me for the time being," Zaryter said, meeting his Lord's gaze. There was no hesitation in his eyes, only trust.
Leornars finally lowered the document. He walked around the desk, his movements fluid and unhurried. He took a long, quiet look at Shullah. Her small face was placid in sleep, a stray curl of sun-blonde hair resting on her cheek. The sight was a grounding anchor in Leornars's storm-tossed soul.
"Is there anything else?" Leornars's voice lost its edge of detachment. He reached out and gently stroked the child's head. "I had already planned to look after her. I canceled all my major political appointments today. Hmmm... I gotta go with her to the Elven Kingdom today or tomorrow anyway—a quick, official visit I've been putting off. The travel will be good for her, a change of scenery. No need to fret your little sister will be with me ."
"Oh, okay," Zaryter replied, a visible wave of relief washing over him. The weight of worry for the girl, which he always carried when he went on deep missions, lifted instantly.
Zaryter then squatted down to give his sister a gentle kiss on the forehead. As he straightened, Leornars already held out his hands. Zaryter transferred the warm, slumbering weight of Shullah into Leornars's arms. Leornars held her effortlessly, securing her against his chest.
"Go," Leornars ordered, his crimson eyes already softening to a more approachable deep mahogany. "And don't return until the threat is neutralized."
Zaryter nodded once, a brief, respectful gesture, and was gone.
The air in the capital city of Avangard, The Lotus Citadel was alive with the bustling symphony of a prosperous day. Sunlight streamed down, warming the cobbled streets and illuminating the vibrant stalls. The noise was a comforting, rhythmic beat: the creak of cartwheels, the melodic calls of street vendors, the distant clang of a blacksmith's hammer, and the ceaseless, murmurous chatter of a thousand lives being lived.
Leornars, momentarily free from the crushing weight of his titles, strode through the main thoroughfare. He had shed the heavy, embroidered regalia and dark armor of his high office. His casual outfit was simple but clean and well-made: blue trousers that were impeccably tailored, a crisp, white linen shirt that billowed slightly in the light breeze, and a simple, black cord necklace that bore no visible insignia and some brown leather slippers. His only jewelry was a single, striking blue left earring—a sapphire, a small nod to a lost memory.
He carried Shullah easily in the crook of his right arm. She was now awake, her curious, wide, golden eyes absorbing the world from her vantage point against his shoulder. His presence, tall and commanding even in civilian clothes, naturally parted the crowd. People recognized him, not always for his rank, but for the inherent, almost magical aura of power that seemed to precede him. They didn't stare with hostility, but with respect and a certain, cautious admiration.
"Look, Uncle Leornars!" Shullah's small, musical voice cut through the clamor. She pointed a tiny finger at a stall overflowing with brightly colored ribbons and silk scarves.
"Ah, the colors of the rainbow," Leornars murmured, turning to follow her gaze. His lips curved into a rare, genuine smile—a difficult expression for him, yet effortless when directed at Shullah. "Would you like to see a ribbon?"
He navigated them toward the stall, his protective arm encircling her waist. The market was a sensory feast: the sweet, rich aroma of caramelized sugar from a bakery, the earthy, fresh smell of flowers and herbs, and the sharp tang of exotic spices. He bought her a tiny, hand-painted wooden flute from a traveling gnome artisan, and a candied rose that glittered with crystallized sugar.
"What's that smell?" Shullah asked, wrinkling her nose as they passed a vendor selling strange, purple, dried roots.
"That, little star, is a root called 'Sleeper's Bane'," Leornars explained patiently. "It is bitter, but when boiled, it helps keep soldiers and guards awake on long, cold nights."
They spent a blissful hour weaving through the marketplace. Leornars, the ruthless political operator and master of the undead, found himself discussing the merits of a sun-dried apricot versus a honey-glazed date, his eyes crinkling at Shullah's enthusiastic commentary.
Finally, they settled at an outdoor café near the main square, one known for its rich, fragrant teas and quiet atmosphere. Leornars ordered two cups of delicate lavender tea—cooled for Shullah—and a plate of small, almond biscuits.
"I need to go to the little room, Uncle Leornars," Shullah declared, having finished her tea and all the biscuits.
"Of course," he said. He watched her skip toward the back entrance of the café, his heart feeling lighter than it had in months. It was moments like this that reminded him why he fought, why he endured the dark sacrifices—to protect the few pockets of light left in his world. He settled back into his chair, the warmth of the sun on his face, a strange, beautiful tranquility settling over him.
He was enjoying the last drop of his tea when the tranquility shattered.
It began subtly, a raised voice that turned into a snarl, followed by the sound of something heavy hitting the ground. Leornars didn't even turn his head at first, knowing full well that in a city of this size, minor altercations were common.
Then came a distinct, guttural roar—the sound of an enraged Beastkin.
No. Leornars's eyes narrowed. Violence was common. Unsanctioned, inter-species violence in a high-traffic area of his capital was unacceptable. He was the reigning authority, the power behind the throne, and chaos was the enemy of order.
He swiveled his head. Twenty yards away, near a fountain, a large, powerfully built Beastkin—a hulking figure with the striped fur and heavy jaw of a wild tiger—was exchanging heated, furious words with a skinny, aggressive human man in patched, rough clothes. The Beastkin had clearly been jostled and had reacted badly. The human, emboldened by a nearby small crowd, was yelling racial slurs.
Leornars rose slowly, effortlessly, his presence instantly radiating a chill that caused a ripple of quiet among the café patrons. He took two steps, his eyes fixed on the confrontation, assessing the danger level—low, for now.
"Keep the change," he muttered, tossing a few silver coins onto the table, his eyes never leaving the fight.
He began to walk toward them, his casual stroll holding an alarming, coiled tension. He was close enough now to hear the Beastkin's frustrated growl, close enough to hear the human's escalating threats. The crowd of onlookers was growing, drawn by the spectacle, the energy spiraling toward violence.
The human, seeing Leornars's approach and sensing the end of his little show, made a sudden, desperate move. With a speed that belied his size, he yanked a knife from inside his coat—a cheap, wicked blade that glinted wickedly in the sun. He lunged instantly, rushing the Beastkin's torso.
Leornars, who had been moving in a purposeful stride, stopped dead. His body didn't flinch. There was no shout, no visible casting of a spell. He didn't even raise his hand.
But the air changed.
The sudden, brutal stillness was absolute. A pressure, heavy and invisible, descended upon the entire square, crushing the very air from the space. The crowd gasped, then fell silent, unable to breathe, unable to move.
A raw, terrifying Aura of Depravity—the condensed, chilling essence of his power over death and shadow—exploded outward from Leornars. It wasn't a visible blast of magic; it was a pure, psychic phenomenon. The shadows under the trees deepened to an unnatural, oily black. The warmth of the sunlight vanished, replaced by the deep, biting cold of the grave. The human, mid-lunge, his knife inches from the Beastkin's side, froze. The Beastkin, mid-snarl, froze. The crowd froze, their eyes wide with fear, unable to look away from the source of the dread.
Leornars's eyes, previously a soft mahogany, were now twin orbs of deep, blazing crimson, glowing with an unnatural inner light that seemed to draw the very essence of mortality toward them. His face was a mask of cold, sublime fury—a fury that was not emotional, but institutional.
He walked the remaining few feet to the immobilized human, every step sounding unnaturally loud in the suddenly silent square. He stood over the pathetic figure, who was straining against the pressure, eyes bulging, unable to move a muscle.
Leornars's voice, when it came, was not a shout. It was a low, resonant baritone that cut through the frozen silence, laced with such raw, cosmic authority that the air itself seemed to vibrate in terror.
"Did I allow bloodshed on my nation?" he asked, the question not needing an answer. "Who are you to defy my government, to defy the law of this land I uphold? Feeble lifeform..."
He leaned closer, and the human whimpered, a barely audible sound.
"...answer me!"
The human looked up into the depths of Leornars's eyes, seeing not a man, but the chilling, merciless guardian of an unstoppable order. The power radiating off Leornars was so absolute, so suffocating, that it broke the man's will instantly.
The pressure lifted abruptly.
The human dropped the knife. It clattered loudly on the cobblestones. His control gone, he scrambled backward, pushing himself off the ground and instantly turning to run, a desperate, whimpering animal fleeing the slaughterhouse. He fled through the panicked, scattering crowd, not caring where he went, only that he escape the crimson gaze.
Leornars didn't pursue. He merely watched the man for a single, disdainful moment, then raised his hand and snapped his fingers.
The sound was sharp, metallic, and conclusive.
Four Undead Knights—darker, heavier counterparts to the ethereal messenger he had summoned earlier—appeared instantly, dissolving out of the shadows beneath the café awning. They wore heavy, archaic plate armor, and their presence was a silent, unholy echo of war.
"Apprehend that man," Leornars ordered, his voice crisp and official once more, devoid of the earlier terrifying resonance. "Secure him. Do not harm the civilians. Do not let him escape. Bring him to the Citadel's court for immediate interrogation on charges of attempted murder and sedition."
The knights moved with silent, shocking speed, their armored boots making no sound as they rushed after the fleeing human.
The Beastkin, who had spent the entire terrifying exchange frozen in place, dropped to his knees, utterly overwhelmed by the sheer, devastating power he had just witnessed. He had been saved, but his mind was reeling from the brush with pure, concentrated authority.
Leornars gave the Beastkin one brief, sharp look—a look that said, Do not cause trouble again. Then he turned, his powerful momentum dissolving instantly.
He saw the back door of the café open. Shullah stepped out, rubbing her eyes slightly, a picture of innocent childhood against the backdrop of the terrified square.
In the space of a single heartbeat, before the first knight had turned the corner, Leornars teleported. He reappeared instantly in his café chair, settling back as if he had never moved, his crimson eyes shifting back to a calm, deep mahogany. The terror in the square was now just a confusing wave of noise and scattering feet.
Shullah walked up to the table, her brow furrowed in concentration.
"I thought I heard a commotion, Uncle Leornars," she said, her child-like tone sweet and pure, an absolute balm to the chilling residue of his power. "Like a loud noise."
Leornars picked up his cold teacup, his expression one of mild, feigned confusion. He looked at her, his gaze gentle, his smile serene.
"Oh, that?" Leornars lied smoothly, gesturing vaguely into the distance. "Probably just someone selling apples. They must have dropped their cart. You know how clumsy vendors can be when they are busy."
"Oh," Shullah said, her curiosity satisfied. She climbed into the chair opposite him. "Can we get another biscuit?"
Leornars laughed, the sound deep and warm, a startling contrast to the icy coldness he had minutes ago radiated.
"We can get ten more biscuits, little Shullah," he said, signaling the waiter. He reached out and gently brushed the stray curl of blonde hair from her forehead, his touch as light and reassuring as the afternoon sun. The world was chaotic, cruel, and desperately needed his intervention. But for now, here in this small, sun-drenched café, everything was ordered, safe, and perfectly, wonderfully wholesome.