The Dark Trinity

Chapter 1

The palace was a masterpiece of grandeur and cruelty. Vast halls of polished marble reflected the flicker of torches, their flames swaying like ghosts caught in an eternal dance. Heavy crimson drapes hung from high arched windows, their fabric embroidered with intricate golden patterns that seemed to ripple like blood.

Every corner of the structure was steeped in decadence, yet it carried a strange, foreboding aura, as if the very walls were whispering secrets to one another.

The air was thick with conflicting scents: the sharp tang of iron from polished armor, the smoky residue of extinguished torches, and the cloying sweetness of incense that failed to mask the stale odor of the gathered court.

A chill pervaded the atmosphere, creeping into the bones of anyone who lingered too long.

The heart of the palace, the king's court, was a space where power was both displayed and contested. It was an imposing chamber, its dimensions vast enough to make even the most arrogant noble feel small. Towering columns lined the walls, their surfaces carved with scenes of war and conquest.

These depictions of triumph and dominance were reminders to all who entered: this was a kingdom built on blood and sacrifice.

At the center of the room stood the throne, an unyielding structure of black iron and leather. It rose from a dais of polished black marble veined with crimson, resembling veins of blood frozen in time.

The chair itself was not designed for comfort but for intimidation, with jagged edges and a crest of iron spikes that formed a crown above the king's head. Resting against the base of the throne was a single wolf pelt, a relic from one of the kingdom’s many wars, its fur still matted with traces of dried blood.

Seated upon the throne was the new king, Malcolm. He was a figure that demanded attention, his presence filling the room like a storm about to break. His frame was broad, his muscles honed from years on the battlefield. His skin was sun-kissed, a testament to his years spent under harsh conditions rather than the shelter of the palace walls. His face was angular, with sharp cheekbones and a square jaw that gave him a perpetual look of severity. His dark hair was cropped short, exposing a scar that ran from his temple to his cheek—a memento from a battle he never spoke of.

But it was his eyes that held the court captive. They were the color of tempered steel, cold and unyielding. When they swept across the room, it was as though he was stripping each individual of their pretenses, laying their vulnerabilities bare. His gaze promised no mercy, only judgment.

To Malcolm’s right stood his brother, Viktor. Where Malcolm was built like an iron fortress, Viktor was a tempest of raw power. His golden hair fell in unruly waves to his shoulders, framing a face marked by countless battles. A deep scar ran from his brow to the corner of his lip, cutting through his rugged features and giving him a perpetual snarl. His piercing blue eyes were as restless as a stormy sea, scanning the room with a mix of disdain and wariness.

Unlike Malcolm, who sat with calculated composure, Viktor stood as if ready to spring into action at any moment. His hand rested on the hilt of a sword that hung at his side, his fingers drumming against the pommel.

Though he bore no crown, his presence was commanding, a stark contrast to the courtiers who cowered in the shadows.

The court was eerily silent, save for the occasional creak of leather boots shifting on the stone floor.

The gathered nobles, dressed in their finest silks and brocades, avoided meeting Malcolm’s gaze. They were like moths drawn to a flame, compelled to witness his power yet terrified of being consumed by it.

Finally, Malcolm’s voice broke the silence, deep and deliberate, each word heavy with authority.

"My father is dead."

The statement hung in the air, devoid of emotion. There was no tremor of grief, no hint of nostalgia. It was as if he were announcing the change of seasons rather than the death of the man who had ruled the kingdom for decades.

The courtiers shifted uncomfortably, their whispers rising in a wave of rehearsed condolences.

"May he rest in peace, Your Grace."
"A great loss to the kingdom."
"The sun has set on a glorious reign—"

"Enough," Malcolm interrupted, his tone sharp as a blade. The murmurs ceased instantly.

"Let us not waste time on platitudes," he continued, his gaze sweeping the room. "My father ruled for decades, yes. But what did he leave behind? A kingdom teetering on the edge of ruin."

His words were met with silence. The courtiers exchanged wary glances, but none dared contradict him.

"It falls to me to correct his mistakes," Malcolm said, his voice steady and unyielding. "This kingdom will not crumble under my rule. I will rebuild it, no matter the cost."

To his right, Viktor stood motionless, his face a mask of impassivity. But beneath the surface, his thoughts churned. He hated Malcolm, hated the cold, calculating way he spoke of their father as though the man had been nothing more than an inconvenience. But then again, Viktor had hated their father too.

The old king had been a tyrant in his own right, more interested in expanding his territories than tending to the needs of his people. Viktor had spent years fighting his wars, shedding blood for a crown he would never wear. It was Malcolm's birthright, a twist of fate that Viktor both resented and accepted.

As Malcolm spoke, Viktor’s mind wandered. He thought of the battles he had fought, the scars that marred his body, the men he had lost under his command. And for what? To stand here as a shadow to Malcolm’s light—or rather, his darkness.

A sharp snap of fingers pulled Viktor from his thoughts. He blinked and found Malcolm’s cold eyes fixed on him.

"You will be my Hand," Malcolm declared, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

The court stirred, uneasy murmurs rippling through the room. Then, from the far side of the chamber, a man stepped forward.

It was the former Hand of the King, an older man with a face lined by years of service. His robes were immaculate, his bearing dignified despite the tension in the air.

"Your Grace," the man began, his voice steady but his eyes pleading. "I have served this kingdom faithfully for decades. I have guided your father through wars and treaties. I implore you to reconsider—"

Malcolm raised a hand, and the man fell silent.

"You believe yourself indispensable?" Malcolm asked, his tone icy. "That this kingdom cannot survive without your wisdom?"

The former Hand swallowed hard but stood his ground. "I do not mean to question your authority, Your Grace, but—"

"Guards," Malcolm interrupted, his voice a whipcrack.

The guards stepped forward, their armor clinking as they flanked the old man.

"No, please!" the man protested, his composure crumbling. "I have only ever served the crown!"

Malcolm’s gaze didn’t waver. "And now you serve it in death."

The guards didn’t hesitate. A blade flashed, and the man’s head rolled onto the cold stone floor. Gasps rippled through the court, but no one moved.

Malcolm rose from his throne, his presence even more imposing as he descended the dais. His boots echoed against the stone as he walked past the lifeless body, the blood pooling at his feet. He didn’t look back.

Viktor watched him go, his jaw clenched tight. He hated his brother, but in that moment, he couldn’t help but admire his ruthlessness. Malcolm was a tyrant, yes, but he was also a king who would not hesitate to do what needed to be done.

With a grimace, Viktor turned and followed Malcolm out of the chamber, leaving the court to stew in the aftermath of their new king’s reign.