My Empire

Prologue

                                                   ~~~Unknown~~~

The shadow-wreathed figure stalked through the halls, every guard who charged them falling moments later, choking on nothing and tripping on sinuous threads of darkness.

More soldiers rushed them, they died too, bodies piling in a way that reminded one of a battlefield, awful and desecrated and bloody, but neat and organized, barely a drop of blood or a broken body between them all.

They did not need swords or bombs or violence to kill, not when a single thought led to the deaths of dozens, seamlessly, a peaceful horror that lulled you to calmness with how simplistic it was, the viciousness of such a clean and unnatural death lurking just beneath the surface.

Many sacrificed their lives that night. Many banished beyond the realm of the living to the dark, dark afterlife beyond. Not that they cared. They had more important deaths to focus on that night, the night of darkness and evil, the night a shadow with the power to topple empires strolled into the home of the royal family, laughing as people fell like game pieces, an utter lack of empathy. Just glee and enjoyment that could be called anything but pure.

The destination of the monster: two towering doors ahead, barred and shut, not that it would stop them for long.

With a blast of dark, furious crimson energy, the doors crumbled as the demon stormed over the threshold, a dark smirk hidden behind their shadows as the guards in the throne room rushed to defend their rulers.

Less than a minute later, their bodies twitched in the throes of death as the evil force stepped over them, crushing a femur under their boot. The guard didn't cry out, already dead, the Queen letting out a gasp of horror at the cracking sound of the bone shattering.

They laughed at that. "All the suffering you've caused, and a mere bone makes you squeal like a toddler?"

Their voice was raspy, dark and gravelly like the shriek of swords biting into one another, the sound of flesh being rendered by an arrow, of blood bubbling out of a gaping wound, all sounds of war and battles and death.

The King held a shaky hand out, sword clasped loosely in his hand as he pointed it at the demon. "Stay back, devil!" He said fiercely, almost entirely concealing the tremor hidden in his voice.

A snort, the first near human sound from the dark being. They advanced further, deliberate steps closer to the cowering royals, until the sword penetrated the shadows hiding the form below, the tip pressing lightly into their sternum.

A quiet pause, almost thoughtful, in the way one considers whether to commit to a dark, dark choice that would change everything forever, or the rare and elusive light, forever reached for and always denied.

Slowly, the darkness hiding their face dissipated, allowing the King and Queen to see the face of the monster that had entered their home, killed their guards, and swept into the throne room as if they owned it, cruelty alight and death rampant.

"Would you do it now?" The voice was lighter, younger. A lie, perhaps, or the truth? Faces cannot lie, and what they bared to the rulers, something that could not be hidden, once seen. "Would you kill me, kill the child you spared once?"

The sword, once pressed firmly into skin, slackened. The world, teetering on the brink of change, to raise into light or to fall into shadow.

Outside the walls, soldiers rushed to and fro, gathering in numbers too great for any one person to defeat, as powerful as any could be.

They would be too late. It would always be too late.

"You gave me mercy once." Softly, like a solitary snowflake landing on the first shoots of spring, dissolving into the warmth of a world no longer meant for it. "I return it to you, unblemished by my sins. Only by yours."

Outside the room, outside the halls filled with the dead and dying, a wail, filled with grief and pain and fury, reached out, raising itself to the heavens with a final cry, a plea, a battle cry, a call for action, before falling silent, death reaping the life once held so tenderly and treasured by the hosts, once among the living but no longer.

A bloody sword, the first blood drawn that fateful night. Unsheathed, dripping, cooling as it fell, landing in the gathering pools of the draining life of the royals. The King was dead. The Queen was dead.

Death to the new King.

One mission complete, a second to accomplish. Turning away from the empty bodies, shadows overtaking them once more, they were met with the bristling fury and grief and the now forever present knowledge that it was too late, that no matter how hard the battle was fought, the enemy had already won.

Too many soldiers, and one too powerful at the helm of them all, the heir to the throne, almost glowing with radiant anger and pain and raw, potent grief, glaring with vicious intent in hate-filled eyes.

This one would be a fight for another time. Their work here was done. For now.

A thousand spears thrust, a hundred arrows, a dozen swords. All in vain, the shadows receding as their master vanished, the only trace the bodies scattered, broken, and the final trace of laughter lacing the air, sick satisfaction derived from a job well done.

The King was dead.

Long live the King.