Brought to his knees before the kingdom after ten years of hiding, Kyros believed that he would be sentenced to death for the murder of his pack. His sentence would mean the end of it all - his torment, his abuse, his turmoil.
But his destiny change...
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A land blanketed in darkness and swollen with the shadows of death lingered in the air like a wraith. The presence of the foreign kingdom ignited a chill whenever anyone spoke about the Nether Kingdom.
It was corrupt in its ways, society there was heavy with oppressive and cruel lifestyles. The wealthy crushed the vulnerable in their fists like sand, the king was permitted to do what he pleased because not an ounce of goodness could be found dwelling in his heart.
It was where King Athros not only lived, but thrived. His eyes held dark circles around them, and even then, his orbs held a completely black shade. Devoid of emotion, lifeless, soulless. Empty. Dead. Nothingness.
Was there a soul living in there somewhere?
His skin was pale, creepily so. It was an unnatural pale which brought out the black color of his neat, short hair. His jaw was strong, his body was tone and his height was terrifyingly tall and sturdy.
Some would say he smelled of death.
He was also the bringer of death as well.
He was hauntingly beautiful, though. Gracefully placed upon his throne in a room that bore the whispers of the dead and cloaked in the blanket of death he sat. The sun shone through the darkly stained glass windows behind him, painting the room in an eery and dark yet alluring light.
Gothic-style arches hung above him, opening up the room with a lavished elegance and a sight that was pleasing to the eye. The ground was made of stone, cold stone that matched a body in death.
A man drenched in darkness, he no longer could hear the cries of his people. If only he would step down from his throne and fall to his knees and humble himself as king.
But the dark thorns blocked the path of redemption. He could only look ahead and travel deeper into the charred forest so that those very same thorns wouldn't wrap around his legs and strangle him. Because if he dared to stop, doom would grab him by the legs and drag him down to the darkest depths of hell.
What he didn't know was that hell was waiting for him at the end of the forest like a patient predator.
His people were slaves to the land he reigned over. To the land he had selfishly sacrificed half of his male population for. And though an ocean separated himself from all of the other kingdoms, it didn't stop the other nations from fearing his next move.
A dozen soldiers suddenly marched through the open doors leading into his throne room. A loud clang of armor echoed through the air with each organized, synchronized step the soldiers took. Not a beat out of place.
In their hands, they held long spears. Their faces were painted in a blank look and the armor in which they were clad in boasted of a shiny steel color. Devoid of emotion, they stood before their king.
Perhaps they were as heartless as the one who they served was. Or perhaps they suppressed all of their thoughts and emotions since every aspect of their lives were controlled. From their looks, their emotions, their words, their clothes, their food rations, their thoughts, and even the items that they were not permitted to hang in their own homes. One wrong look, one wrong word, one wrong action, one wrong appearance, and their lives as well as their family's lives could be snuffed out.
