Throne of Gods

In Grenmarr, the capital of the Kingdom of the North, Count Errenor Daradia strode through the vast corridors of the winter palace, the click of his boots muffled against fur-lined carpets and polished stone. Behind him trailed more than a dozen servants---scribes, stewards, and guards---moving in quiet efficiency.

He was wrapped in a thick cloak dyed the color of twilight, trimmed in dark fur from some northern beast whose name only hunters still remembered. The cloak swayed heavily with each step, brushing against his tall black boots. Beneath it, he wore a deep blue tunic reinforced with square leather plates. The front was fastened with a column of dark iron clasps, each shaped like a stylized raven feather.

A thick belt wrapped around his waist, cracked and aged but still sturdy, from which hung a short sword in a plain scabbard---unadorned, yet sharp. His arms were covered in padded brown sleeves, the color of old bark, fitted cleanly into bracers of boiled leather. His trousers, spun from rough northern wool and dyed earthy green, were tucked into boots that reached to mid-calf, tied with simple cords.

Sunlight filtered through tall windows on either side of the corridor, casting long slashes of light across the white marble walls. Despite the grandeur, the palace was cold, the kind of cold that lingered in the stones no matter how many fires were lit. Banners hung down from above, faded with age, stitched with the heraldry of the northern houses---wolves, ravens, axes, and mountains.

From an adjacent hallway, a figure emerged, larger and louder than him. Count Ulfrik, stepped into view. He was broad-shouldered and towering, with arms like tree trunks and a chest that looked as though it had never known armor---only scars and strength. His cloak was a simple thing, fur over the shoulders and nothing more. His tunic, like Errenor's, was blue and leather-plated, though sleeveless, revealing knotted muscle and faded tattoo lines from some forgotten tradition. A great axe rested across his back, worn at the handle but freshly sharpened.

The moment the two men saw each other, wide grins spread across their bearded faces.

"Errenor!" Ulfrik's voice boomed like a drumbeat down the hall.

"Ulfrik," Errenor returned, stepping forward. The two embraced, forearms clasping in a gesture that was both greeting and test of strength.

"You look older," Ulfrik said, eyes twinkling beneath heavy brows.

"And you look like you've drowned in your own beer," Errenor replied with a dry chuckle, gesturing toward the slight swell of Ulfrik's stomach.

They both laughed---deep, genuine laughter, echoing off the marble and archways like warmth in a cold place.

As they began to walk together down the corridor, their tones shifted slightly, the weight of duty creeping back into their voices.

"What do you think the king will decide?" Ulfrik asked, his tone now gruff, serious.

"War would be tempting," Errenor said, gaze steady. "The kingdom of light is weakened. The pope is dead. But I don't think the king will move. Not yet. We've still got orcs spilling out of the Shadowland in the north west. That fight alone could drain half our strength."

"Our king is wise," Ulfrik muttered. "But the prince? That boy is arrogant."

"We'll see soon enough."

They reached a pair of heavy oak doors, carved with images of northern beasts---ravens, titanic wolves, and towers half-buried in snow. Two servants moved ahead, pushing the doors open with effort.

The throne hall lay beyond, wide like a cathedral built for giants. The ceiling soared high above, held aloft by marble columns that spiraled upward like twisted trees. Stained glass windows circled the dome, pouring colored light into the chamber. Green and gold shards danced across the floor like fragments of old magic.

The walls were lined with elegant arches, each alcove housing the statue of a past king or queen. Tall candelabras burned with steady, golden flame, casting long shadows that seemed to watch and listen. Crimson banners hung between the pillars, embroidered with sigils nearly faded to ghosts.

A thick red carpet, frayed slightly at the edges, ran the length of the chamber. At the far end sat the throne, sculpted from dark stone, its high back jagged like a crown of thorns. Four black pillars rose around it like watchtowers, framing the seat of judgment.

The throne hall buzzed with quiet tension. Counts and nobles had already gathered, standing in small clusters, whispering among themselves. Silks and polished armor glinted under the high chandeliers, but the atmosphere was far from festive. The largest group stood around the crown prince—his presence magnetic and commanding.

In contrast, Count Errenor and Lord Ulfrik stood silently in a far corner, observing the others. Ulfrik leaned slightly to a wall, while Errenor's eyes flicked from face to face, storing every word, every glance.

It took no more than ten minutes before the king arrived. The announcement of the royal servant echoed like a bell of order.

"All rise for His Majesty, King Harvald of the Northern Kingdom."

The grand doors opened on the right side of the throne hall. The king entered with deliberate steps, surrounded by an entourage of soldiers and robed attendants. The golden crest of the kingdom shimmered on his chestplate. On his right strode the Marshal of War—Lord Varein—one of the kingdom's most feared S-ranks, known for breaking sieges and bending battlefields to his will.

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With him, the king, and the prince present, three S-ranks now stood within the same hall.

A reverent silence fell. Every noble bowed deeply and remained so until the king took his seat upon the obsidian throne. Only once the hall had settled did the king speak.

"Welcome, honored lords," he said, voice steady but cold. "Today, we gather not for ceremony, but for strategy. The Kingdom of Light has suffered a great fall, and the winds of war stir. What action we take next may determine the fate of our realm for generations."

He gestured to a knight, armored in the royal navy and gold.

The knight stepped forward and unrolled a parchment.

"For the past few days, spies and scouts have returned with reports. The capital of the Light Kingdom lies in ruin. The pope is confirmed dead. Their cathedral destroyed. One of their S-ranks, Nikolaus Graf, has turned traitor and joined the attackers. Only one S-rank remains in their service, and even his location is uncertain."

The knight paused, then stepped back.

The king's gaze swept across the room.

"I wish to hear your thoughts."

The prince stepped forward immediately.

"My king, there is no clearer opportunity than now. The Light Kingdom is fractured and leaderless. With one decisive campaign, we could seize their land. That territory, added to ours, would render the Kingdom of Magic powerless against us."

Murmurs of agreement stirred through the hall. Several lords nodded or exchanged approving glances.

But another voice rose, calm and firm.

"And what of the Shadowlands, my prince?"

Count Errenor took a step forward, bowing low to the king, who nodded in response.

The prince's face darkened. "What about it, Lord Daradia?"

Errenor turned, speaking not just to the king but to the room.

"Beyond the north west mountain range, orc movements have increased. My scouts have confirmed it. Small skirmishes, growing numbers, sightings of creatures not seen in generations."

"Are you frightened by orcs?" the prince retorted. "We've driven them back before. Mindless beasts with crude weapons and no strategy."

"Mindless beasts?" Errenor echoed. "Is that what you believe felled the ancient kingdoms? That cities once stronger than ours fell to animals?"

Ulfrik stepped beside him, arms folded. "Their numbers grow fast. Their bodies are larger than ours. They hold more mana. My own soldiers fought them and barely lived to tell the tale."

"And they are not mindless," Errenor added. "What if the ones we've seen were merely scouts? What if we're about to face their real armies?"

The prince scoffed. "What if, what if. We cannot rule through fear and speculation, Lord Daradia."

Errenor's eyes sharpened. "Then let's speak of certainty. The destruction of the Kingdom of Light was not random—it was orchestrated. By a group known as the Shadow Circle. A cult, yes, but one that serves a very real power: the God of Madness."

A hush fell over the hall.

"If he moved against them, what's to stop him from turning his attention toward us next?" Errenor asked. "And if he does—who will be left to stand against him?"

The prince said nothing, but his jaw clenched. Count Errenor was always thorough. Too thorough. His network of spies reached across every border.

Other lords began to weigh in—some in favor of the prince's aggressive approach, others echoing Errenor's concerns. The chamber rang with competing voices until the king raised his hand once more.

"Enough," he said. "I have heard your words. I will consider your counsel carefully, and tomorrow I will make my decree."

With that, the meeting was dismissed.

The nobles began to leave the throne hall, their faces marked by thought—some eager, others troubled. Not one of them left unchanged by the weight of the conversation.

...

Deep within the Kingdom of Magic, in a secluded and shadowy tower, Mr. Immortal, a figure known only as —Aran—sat in a dimly lit chamber. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment, ink, and faint traces of arcane residue. Across from him stood his most loyal companion, Archmage Hakan, a hunched man draped in ancient blue robes, his voice heavy with the weight of centuries.

"What do you think they'll do?" Hakan asked, his tone rasping like wind against stone.

"They won't initiate an attack," Aran replied calmly, eyes half-lidded. "But there's a chance they'll lend aid to the Kingdom of Light."

Hakan scoffed. "Help? That's idiotic. They'd be throwing themselves into chaos."
He leaned forward slightly. "Any word on your plan?"

Before Aran could respond, a slithering sound echoed through the walls. A strange, ooze-like creature emerged—its form gelatinous, shifting as if made of smoke and liquid. Its voice gurgled unnaturally, like someone speaking underwater.

"My lord," it said, "we've located Kenneth Randall."

Aran's jaw clicked open in a mocking gesture.

"At last, some progress."

He rose—floating above the floor with eerie stillness—while Hakan hobbled after him, the sound of the old mage's steps echoing off the stone.

As they descended into the lower levels of the tower, the passage grew darker, colder. The only illumination came from dull, flickering runes embedded in the walls. Each level reeked more strongly of forgotten magic and despair.

"What was your plan again?" Hakan asked, voice lowered.

"Mr. Sage told me the previous Mr. Clone was Kenneth," Aran explained. "But he couldn't see the new one."

Hakan furrowed his brow. "Why not?"

"It seems... he was being protected," Aran said, pausing briefly. "By a higher being."

"And by delving into Kenneth's memories," he continued, "I might learn who the second one is."

They stopped before a massive iron door, lined with ancient wards. It opened with a groan as if recognizing its master's presence. Beyond it stretched the dungeons—a long corridor of empty cells. Only a few were occupied now. They approached one where a man sat in the far corner, muttering to himself, his hair a tangled mess, eyes wild with exhaustion.

"Don't go near him... don't go near him..." he repeated, rocking slightly.

Hakan frowned. "He looks like a madman. Are you certain you want to enter his mind?"

Aran didn't answer. With a wave of his hand, the cell door creaked open. He drifted inside, stopping just in front of Kenneth.

"Good evening, Mr. Clone," Aran said softly.

Kenneth leapt to his feet and lunged at him. "Don't call me that!"

But green spectral chains erupted from the floor, wrapping around Kenneth's limbs and pulling him to his knees, mid-charge.

"What happened to you, Kenneth?" Aran asked, tilting his skull slightly.

Kenneth didn't respond directly—just kept muttering, eyes darting around the cell. "He's watching… he's still watching… don't let him see…"

Aran sighed. "If you could speak plainly, you might save us both time. But now… I'll have to burn through your mind for answers. It may even free you from this madness."

He reached forward and placed a glowing hand on Kenneth's head.

A horrible scream tore through the dungeons, echoing through the tower's many levels, a sound of agony that twisted the air itself.