The Dark Lord’s Court
The throne room felt different now. The floating violet flas still cast their pale light across the obsidian pillars. The tapestries still depicted centuries of conquest. The advisors still stood in their appointed places, faces hidden beneath dark hoods.
But everything had changed.
The Dark Lord sat on his throne, one hand resting on the armrest, the other loose at his side. His silver hair caught the light, his pale face unreadable. But his eyes—those ancient, calculating eyes—held sothing they hadn’t held in centuries.
Acceptance.
"He’s here," the Dark Lord said quietly. His voice carried through the vast chamber, bouncing off stone and shadow. "The prophecy child. The Absolute of Energy and Matter. The one who will supposedly end ."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"Today couldn’t get any better."
A soft, humorless chuckle escaped him. He leaned back against the throne’s hard surface—the sa throne Kahdijah had sat in not long ago, the sa throne that had felt comfortable for five hundred years and now felt like stone.
"So today is the day I die to a boy." He shook his head slowly. "A boy. After everything—the wars, the conquests, the gods I’ve killed, the empires I’ve crushed—a boy walks through my door and I’m supposed to fall."
His advisors said nothing.
The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable. The Dark Lord looked at them—his council, his most trusted servants, the minds that had helped him build his kingdom. They stood frozen, their faces hidden, their postures rigid.
"Well?" The Dark Lord’s voice sharpened. "Soone say sothing. Anything. Advice, comfort, a witty remark. I’ll take whatever you have."
The head advisor, an old man who had served for three centuries, slowly raised his face. His eyes were tired, lined with the sa fear that gripped the entire court.
"My Lord... we don’t know what to say."
"Try."
"We’ve never faced anything like this. These beings—these Absolutes—they’re beyond anything in our experience. The woman who sat on your throne, who moved us through nothingness..." He swallowed hard. "If she’s their ally, if the boy has her support..."
"He does." The Dark Lord’s voice was flat. "These beings, whatever they are, they will always find themselves drawing to each other."
Another advisor spoke, a woman whose counsel had saved kingdoms. "My Lord, perhaps... perhaps we could negotiate. Offer terms. A truce. We have resources, knowledge, armies—"
"He doesn’t want my armies." The Dark Lord cut her off. "He doesn’t want my resources. He wants my head. That’s what prophecy children do. They kill the Dark Lord. It’s in the job description."
"Then run."
The words ca from the youngest advisor, a man who had only been on the council for a decade. His voice trembled, but he forced himself to continue.
"My Lord, I an no disrespect. But if you cannot win, if the outco is certain—why stay? Leave a decoy. A double. Retreat to one of your hidden fortresses, regroup, plan. Live to fight another day."
The Dark Lord looked at him.
For a long mont, he simply stared, his ancient eyes boring into the young man’s soul. The advisor’s trembling increased. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
Then the Dark Lord chuckled.
It was not a cruel sound, not mocking. It was tired. Wistful. Almost sad.
"Do you know my na?" he asked quietly.
The young advisor blinked. "My Lord, everyone knows your na. You are the Dark Lord, ruler of—"
"No." The Dark Lord shook his head. "Not my title. My na. The one my mother gave . The one I had before I beca this."
Silence.
"I don’t rember the last ti anyone spoke it," he continued. "Centuries ago, probably. Maybe longer. I’ve been the Dark Lord for so long that even I forget there was soone before."
He stood, rising from the throne with the fluid grace of soone who had spent centuries in command of his own body.
"His na was Theron."
The advisors stared.
"Theron." The Dark Lord tasted the word. "Son of a farr. Brother to three sisters. He wanted to be a carpenter, actually. Liked working with wood. Liked the sll of it, the feel of it under his hands." He smiled faintly. "Then the war ca. Then the power found him. Then the world made him into sothing else."
He walked down the steps, toward his advisors, his voice growing stronger.
"Theron would have run. Theron would have left a decoy, hidden in a fortress, hoped the prophecy child would get bored and go ho." He stopped, looking at each of them in turn. "But Theron died a long ti ago. What’s left is the Dark Lord. And the Dark Lord does not run."
"My Lord—" the young advisor started.
"I appreciate the advice." The Dark Lord’s voice was gentle now. "Truly. It’s the first honest counsel I’ve heard in decades. Everyone else just tells what they think I want to hear." He patted the young man’s shoulder. "But I can’t run. Not because I’m brave. Not because I’m stubborn. Because running would an admitting that everything I’ve built, everything I’ve beco, was built on sand. That at the first real challenge, it all crumbles."
He turned away, walking toward the great doors at the end of the hall.
"If I run, I’m just a coward with power. If I stay, at least I’m still the Dark Lord." He paused at the doors, his hand resting on the cold tal. "There’s dignity in that. Maybe the only dignity I have left."
The advisors watched him, frozen, uncertain.
"How do you want us to rember you?" the old advisor asked quietly.
The Dark Lord looked back over his shoulder. His ancient eyes held sothing unexpected—peace.
"Rember that I was afraid," he said. "And I faced it anyway. That’s all any of us can do."
He pushed open the doors and walked out to et his fate.
Elsewhere
"Who is Dagon and what does he have to do with Adam?"
Reviews
All reviews (0)