Newfear

A distant land – inside a small castle where the secret council was held,

In a small hall inside a distant castle, where the secret council was held, Marquess Leon Cypher sat alone in his chair, leaning against the golden armrest, effortlessly swirling the wine glass between his fingers, as if time itself had no meaning to him. The hall was empty of visitors, and the darkness surrounded him except for the faint light filtering through the high windows. On the surface, he appeared calm and indifferent, but inside… his thoughts raced, tracing the memory of what had transpired the previous night.

He closed his eyes for a moment, then spoke in a quiet, almost detached voice, as if the words were meant more for himself than anyone else.

Leon, in a calm voice, almost distant: "We are prisoners of our destinies."

His words echoed in the quiet space around him, as if they were an expression of his complete surrender to the web of fate from which there was no escape. His voice carried a depth of regret, or perhaps indifference. He knew that the decisions he had made had led him to a place from which there was no turning back.

Then he looked out the window, gazing at the distant horizon, as if wondering about the consequences that would follow his actions.

He sighed deeply, as if the very air had become heavy upon him, then returned to gazing into the distant horizon through the window, continuing to ponder what lay ahead, without daring to define anything.

After a few moments of silence, memories began to flood his mind before he attended the funeral ceremony. They were blurry images, blending reality and fantasy, carrying with them exhausting details.

Before attending the burial ceremony, while the crowds gathered there, he had gone elsewhere… to the Duke Vanheim's palace.

Vanheim Palace - Behind the door of Duke Blatir's chamber

He stood before the door of Blatir's chamber. Slowly, he opened it, and the creaking sound tore through the silence, as if the very walls were protesting his entry.

And there, in the darkness of the room, Blatir was not the man he knew… but a broken, shattered figure slumped in his chair, his eyes wild, his hands trembling.

Leon stepped inside, walking directly toward him.

Blatir slowly raised his head, his eyes meeting Leon's. Then, the sound rang out… that sharp sound that struck like a dagger to his chest.

Leon: "What have you done with your own hands, Blatir...?"

As if the air had been cut off. Blatir was stunned by the words, a tremor coursing through his body like a deadly frost, as if the blood had frozen in his veins.

Leon, in a low voice, but heavier than a scream: "I'm asking you… what did you do to her? How dare you unleash your anger on my sister?"

Blatir's face turned pale, his eyes flashing with panic.

Blatir, whispering in madness: "I... I didn't mean to do that!!! I never wanted this!!"

Leon, He felt his blood boiling in his veins, but he tried to control himself.

Leon, in his mind: ["So... he really did it..."]

He clenched his fists tightly until he felt his nails almost piercing the flesh of his hands. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the turmoil that surged through him, then slowly released his grip, as if every step to avoid an explosion required immense effort.

A moment. This was the only chance. He wouldn't waste it.

He smiled, a faint smile, and whispered in a sharp voice, as if cutting through the air around him.

Leon, his tone dripping with disdain: "But you did. You killed my dear sister, Blatir… I will never forgive you."

Blatir gasped, his body convulsing as if invisible chains had wrapped around him. But suddenly...

Leon, with a sharp, mysterious tone: "But… I might forgive you… if you do this."

Blatir immediately raised his head, like a drowning man spotting a lifeboat in the ocean. He didn't know why, but those words were like a hidden key, unlocking a door to an exit that had never existed before.

Leon moved closer, then whispered in a deep voice, but with the chill of hell within.

Leon: "Take revenge."

A heavy silence fell, so thick that even their breaths could be heard. Nothing but the beating of their hearts, sounding like war drums echoing deep inside.

Leon, with a weight heavier than mountains: "Take revenge on those who made you reach this state, who caused the death of your wife...

those who took your right… your right to the throne"

And in that moment, Blatir Vanheim was no longer the same man.

Leon Cypher returned to the present. He steadied the wine glass in his hand and drank it all at once.

In the Dreamcrown Palace – Inside the Throne Hall.

The bright lights danced across the surfaces, and laughter scattered in the air like false notes. The attendees moved among the dancers and the drinks, thinking they were celebrating a happy ending to a bright future, but deep within those lights, the shadows quietly curled around the walls, as if avoiding being drawn on the faces. The shadows watched them in silence, as if they knew something that no one else did. The air was heavy, as though each breath was coming from a weary heart bracing for something terrible, while the words of the guests melted into the void, talking of grandeur and power, of the Kingdom that would reign.

Inside the grand hall, Marchioness Atris Starkov stood near a small round table adorned with exquisite dishes, fine appetizers, and glasses of drink reflecting the dancing lights. The atmosphere was lively, yet threads of tension weaved through the air among the gathered nobility. Atris held her glass, moving it slowly between her hands in hesitation, her eyes scanning the crowd, observing the features of those present. There was something odd in the air, something that hinted at a conspiracy or an impending change.

Suddenly, Count Julian Hartley approached, walking with confident steps toward her, his eyes holding a calm gaze that shifted across the crowd before settling on her. He bowed slightly in respect, his hands making an elegant gesture.

Julian: "My lady... may I?"

Atris turned her head towards him, offering a light smile before nodding gently.

Atris: "Of course, Lord Hartley."

Julian approached slowly and stood across from her, reaching for another glass of drink from the scattered table. They raised their glasses together in a synchronized motion and took a few sips.

Julian: "Not bad... but our family's wine in Caleri will always be the best. Haha."

Atris chuckled softly, as if recalling something, then let her gaze rest on him for a moment. She was thinking beyond his words, then spoke in a calm and balanced voice.

Atris: "I've known Duke Lucas for a long time... but you, Lord Hartley, have known him much longer than I have. What do you think of him... how do you see him performing in his role as king?"

Her voice was soft but carried a precise tone. Count Julian looked at the drink in his hands for a long moment, as if deep in thought, before lifting his gaze to her with a sharp, confident look.

Julian: "I believe he will be worthy of it... A man of his caliber, he is the right one for the position."

A few moments of silence passed before Atris looked at him with surprise, then smiled with a side grin.

Atris: "But... how did you know about this news? As far as I know, no word from the council is allowed to leave the room."

Julian smiled as he raised his glass, taking a slow sip, briefly turning his gaze away, as if trying to hide some secret. Aties had figured something out.

Atris, with a slight smile: "Baron Kimri... isn't it? Perhaps that's why a man like him is in the council..."

Julian returned his gaze to her, smiling mysteriously, then spoke in a low voice, as if commenting on his way of life.

Julian: "Always leave an eye behind you in every place you depart..."

He chuckled softly, then continued.

Julian: "Not because I don't trust anyone, but because I know how this world works."

Their conversation continued in a calm rhythm while the hall was crowded with nobility discussing the upcoming king and the surprising choice that might come from this occasion. The conversations intertwined throughout the room, each person speaking in pure diplomatic language, with eyes watching every movement and gesture.

In a corner of the hall, Katrina Rosefield stood holding her glass, her face marked by confusion and anxiety. Her eyes searched through the crowd, stopping at Isabel Windsword, who stood far away, her hands clasped in front of her, frozen in deep silence.

Those eyes that despise everything in front of them, that smile that belittles those around it... She wasn't there... replaced by blank stares, as if she didn't care about anything anymore.

The throne hall buzzed with nobles, their voices blending into a tapestry of hushed laughter, murmured conversations, and the clinking of raised glasses in celebration of the coronation. In the far-right corner stood Sir Darian Castro, an air of mystery surrounding him despite the lively atmosphere.

He sipped his drink slowly, as if watching time dissolve with every drop. Then, he lifted his glass once more to take another sip... yet suddenly, he stopped.

His gaze was drawn to the window on his right, where the outside world was laid bare. In the distant horizon, he saw it... thick, dark red smoke rising slowly, as if the sky itself was exhaling its final breath.

A strange unease crept into his mind. Something about this sight was... wrong. He didn't understand it, but the mystery slithered into his thoughts, whispering something he had yet to grasp. Quickly, he turned his sharp eyes toward Raymond, Talia, and Dion... the members of House Vanheim, present in the hall. Their faces betrayed nothing, only a composed, practiced calm.

With measured steps, Darian moved toward the window, his pace deliberate, his body unwilling to accept what his mind already suspected. As he stood there, the full scene unfolded before him.

The sky… had turned crimson, as if it had been stained with blood. And in the midst of this ominous shift, he saw a knight standing firm, his emblem unmistakable... the sigil of House Vanheim. The knight raised another weapon toward the heavens, unleashing a burning flare, "Call of Fier"... a signal that carried a thousand meanings.

Darian's hand clenched into a fist, the searing anger spreading through his veins. Through gritted teeth, he muttered under his breath, his words laced with simmering disdain.

Darian: "Those damned fools… They're already here. So why are they indulging in their wretched traditions now!? They can't even restrain their foolishness on the day of the coronation…"

A heavy sensation settled in his chest, as if the very air around him had thickened. He took a step back, scanning the faces in the hall until his eyes locked onto the Vanheim nobles once more.

There was… something. A look, a feeling… Something he couldn't quite define.

But he ignored it.

On the opposite side, in the middle of the hall, Duke Satheron Blackmirth stood with Viscountess Silvia, his eyes scanning the crowd with clear disdain. He paid no mind to the discussions around him.

Satheron, in a low voice: "I never imagined I'd kneel before that silent phantom in my life... I can imagine what he'll say then...

Nothing... just silent, icy stares from his eyes."

He paused for a moment, then looked at the glass in front of him, closing his eyes slightly, before taking a sip. When he lifted his gaze again, his features were more intense, as if commenting on something far beyond their sight.

Satheron: "But at least... he's a man who knows what he's doing. The most suitable to lead this kingdom toward a better future... for now."

In the left corner at the start of the hall, Talia stood near her brother Dion, whispering in his ear.

Talia: "Any news about our father?"

Dion, who had been looking at the crowd without lifting his head, turned slowly to her. His expression showed concern, but he didn't hide his frown.

Dion, in a low voice: "No one has seen him, not even my guards or my agents. He disappeared after the funeral ceremony ended."

Talia sighed, her expression reflecting deep concern.

As the royal guards moved toward the large door, as if walking through other worlds, Lucas Nightover stood in the center, his heart pounding with intensity, but his eyes were lost in something else. It wasn't the crown that moved him, nor the power he was about to possess, but something invisible surrounded him. Something ancient, mysterious, carrying within it countless bloodlines. His feet dragged him toward the throne, but his soul was searching for a way out.

And in that moment, when light and shadow intertwined, and eyes were drawn toward the closed entrance door in awe, everyone felt something strange creeping into the atmosphere of the hall. It wasn't just the sound that changed, but existence itself seemed to be on the brink of rebellion. Suddenly, as the sound in the throne hall shifted to tense silence, something unexpected descended from the ceiling of the entrance.

In that fateful moment, as the first beats of drums echoed and the sounds of instruments rose, Blatir Vanheim descended from the ceiling of the hall as if falling from a bottomless abyss. His fall was not just a movement; it was a brutal strike, silent as a divine judgment. His inverted sword sliced through the air like a muffled scream before piercing Lucas Nightover's skull in a killing blow, shattering the bone, driving the blade through his chin, as if he wanted to tear apart his soul before killing his body.

An explosion of blood. Hot droplets filled the gap between the royal guards, falling like red rain, landing on their faces, clothes, and their mouths wide open in horror. Everyone stood frozen, as if time itself refused to move after that catastrophe. Lucas's body fell to the ground like a lifeless doll, trembling without life, his head striking the floor, and his eyes still bearing the trace of astonishment, disbelief, and the terror that had no chance to escape.

But Blatir didn't stop.

In the blink of an eye, Blatir turned toward the guard on his right. The flash from the sword's blade reflected the faint light from the torches before it disappeared into the body of the first guard, splitting his head in two with a clean, swift cut. His eyes were still blinking, as if his mind hadn't yet realized that he was already dead. There was no scream, no chance for panic, only death, raw and brutal, executing its judgment in complete silence.

The second guard wasn't any luckier. He didn't meet a merciful death but received a deep stab to his guts, not killing him immediately, but leaving him staggering, gasping, his trembling hands trying to hold his entrails, futilely attempting to keep them inside before they collapsed through his fingers. The air around him froze, his body betrayed him, and his vision began to fade, but he heard footsteps... heavy steps approaching him, with them came the voice, cold as the sword that had been driven into his body.

Blatir, in a faint voice, as if it were a passing phrase among the murmurs of the wind.

Blatir: "How awful it is to die while trying to stay on your feet."

He lifted his foot and shoved the fallen guard's body, causing it to crash to the ground, lifeless.

Then, in the end, there was the third guard… but he did not move. He didn't draw his sword. He didn't take a single step back. He stood there, silent, as if time had frozen around him.

But Blatir didn't need to look into his eyes to understand the truth. He knew. This was no ordinary guard...

This was Sir Elliot.

A silent moment passed between them. One glance was enough to understand everything. Blatir didn't ask him, didn't threaten him, didn't raise his weapon. All he did was approach, slowly, then place his heavy hand on his shoulder, pressing gently, as a sign… or as a judgment.

Elliot didn't move at first. That was his dividing line… the moment that separated what he had been from what he would become. He was a noble knight, a man who had lived his life by principles, and now, he stood above the corpses of those who were supposed to be his brothers in arms.

Slowly, he took a trembling breath, then exhaled as if expelling something from deep within.

Then, without a word, he moved.

He bent, took the bodies one by one, and dragged them out, where the prying eyes of the curious could not see them. His hands, which had once carried the flag of honor, now carried the blood of betrayal. And when he finished, he looked at his hands for a moment… then wiped them on his cloak, as if he could erase the truth.

But he wouldn't be able to.

He had crossed the line, and he would never return to what he once was.

Then...

Then came the silence.

It wasn't an ordinary silence, but a void, a deep abyss that seeped into the hall, absorbing everything. The laughter that was, the music that had played, the whispers that preceded the crime. Nothing remained but the sound of slow footsteps.

Blatir, with a chilling calmness, began to remove his black cloak, as if shedding an old skin. Beneath it, the royal attire gleamed, stained with the blood it had absorbed. He paused for a moment, inhaling the air thick with death. The door opened slowly. He lifted his head and looked ahead.

He gazed it...The Throne of Arcadia.

The Throne... of 'Newfear'.

At the heart of the grand hall, where light fades before it touches the ground, rises the Throne of Newfear... a creation beyond a mere royal seat, more akin to an eternal sculpture that commands both awe and reverence. This throne is not made of gold or silver but of obsidian stone, polished to a mirror-like surface, fractured as if holding within it the secrets of past ages.

Its back extends upward like twisted branches of living black metal, stretching as if trying to embrace whoever dares sit upon it.. yet never quite touching them. These branches are not chaotic; they intertwine with deliberate artistry, resembling veins of power coursing through the throne, or frozen tongues of fire caught in a moment of defiance. If one gazes long enough, they might discern faint faces hidden within the entwined structure... not faces of agony, but of souls staring toward the horizon, searching for something forever out of reach.

The armrests extend forward in the form of two massive hands, sculpted from black onyx veined with fine threads of gold, as if bearing the weight of the world itself. Upon touching them, one might feel a faint pulse... not the cold stillness of stone, but the subtle hum of something alive, watching, judging, determining who is worthy of the throne.

The seat itself is not a mere smooth surface but crafted from a metallic fabric, soft to the touch yet unyielding, reflecting a faint glow as though preserving the lingering presence of past rulers. Sitting upon it does not bring absolute comfort but rather a strange sense of balance, as if the throne demands vigilance, forcing its occupant to remain ever aware, ready to decide at any moment.

At its base, four pillars extend outward in the shape of meticulously carved fangs... a symbol of the throne's unbreakable power and the inescapable fate it carries. Each fang is engraved with ancient inscriptions, not in any known language, yet to those who sit upon the throne, the meaning becomes clear... not through reading, but through an understanding that resonates within their very soul.

Before the throne, there is no royal carpet... only a black glass floor, its surface reflecting the image of the seated ruler, though distorted, sometimes even twisted... as if reminding them that power does not show our true selves, but rather reveals them.

The Throne of Newfear was not traditionally beautiful, yet it stood as a masterpiece... darkly enchanting, a blend of majesty and mystery, of artistry and fear. Everyone who beheld it felt an unshakable urge to reach out and touch it, yet not all had the courage to sit upon it… for those who did had to be ready to become a part of it.

Then Blatir took slow, deliberate steps forward, each movement carrying the weight of the thousands of feet that had walked before him on this path, every step echoing like the slow toll of a death knell.

As soon as he passed through the door, he turned to the guards and gave them a quiet but firm command.

Blatir: "Close it."

They immediately obeyed, and the heavy doors slammed shut with a sound like the end of one chapter and the beginning of another.

He continued walking. The sound of his footsteps filled the vast hall, as if the marble floor itself was listening to him alone. The assembly clapped warmly, their eyes glowing with excitement. To them, this was a day of celebration, the day of the new king's victory, Blatir Vanheim.

No one realized the truth.

No one understood that this moment was not a coronation... but the end.

Krevius, the old sage in a purple robe, stood before the throne, his back slightly curved under the weight of time. He knew this moment was pivotal, but he hid the tremor in his voice as he breathed slowly and then raised it to speak across the hall.

Krevius: "By the authority granted to me... I declare that Duke Blatir Vanheim shall ascend to the throne of Newfear."

Silence.

The hall held its breath, as if time itself had paused for a fleeting moment. Then the old man continued, his voice rising with its echo as if declaring a fated destiny.

Krevius: "From this moment onward, he shall be known as King Blatir Vanheim, the First of His Name, King of Arcadia, Protector of its Lands, and Lord of Varlom."

The hall erupted in cheers... Blind cheering.

"Long live the king! Long live the king!"

The applause was deafening, like the roar of a turbulent sea. The voices rose, echoing through the marble columns and ornate walls.

Everyone believed, without a shadow of doubt. Everyone, except Raymond. The eldest son of the king. He stood frozen in place.

He didn't clap. He didn't cheer. He stared. His eyes scanned the hall as if his mind was trying to catch up with what was happening. How? When? Why?

He turned his gaze to his siblings, Talia and Dion. Talia, her lips half open, her eyes reflecting shock. Dion, his brow furrowed, his features frozen in a mix of disbelief and doubt.

Neither of them understood.

Because something was wrong.

But… there was no time to think.

"Congratulations, Your Majesty..." Aqua whispered, laughing lightly, trying to ease the tension, but Raymond was not in a mood to laugh. He wondered to himself, was this the plan from the beginning? Was Blatir always meant to be crowned!? And why hadn't his father told him what was going to happen?

Raymond's eyes met Blatir's, but there was no response from the latter. Blatir looked at him coldly, as if nothing had happened. Raymond Remembered that moment, when he saw Sir Darian kneel to Duke Lucas. Without hesitation, he whispered in Aqua's ear, trying to make sense of the situation.

Raymond: "Didn't your father tell you anything? About tonight?"

Aqua looked at him in confusion but answered in a low voice.

Aqua: "No... I was somewhere yesterday, so I came back home at night, but he wasn't there. I was relieved to learn I wouldn't have to argue with him and went to sleep quickly. But... what? Is there something you want?"

Raymond didn't say anything. While all eyes were on the new king, he was still in shock. His eyes wouldn't stop scanning the crowd, but the words twisted in his mind, floating in meaningless gaps. The air was filled with the chants that filled the space, but amidst all the noise, Sir Darian Castro stood motionless, his body stiff like a statue, his wide eyes scanning the hall in shock.

Atris and Julian exchanged a look of shock and disbelief. Their eyes met, wide with astonishment, as the reality of the moment set in. Neither of them could comprehend what had just unfolded before them. They stood frozen for a brief instant, as if the world around them had stopped, their minds racing to make sense of the unexpected turn of events.

On the golden throne, where Lucas Nightover was supposed to sit today, sat Blatir Vanheim, wearing the royal crown of Arcadia, while the royal banner was draped over his shoulders, announcing his coronation as the new king.

Darian, whispering, unable to move: "This couldn't be..."

Darian began to glance around quickly, his eyes searching the crowd for a familiar face, for the former king Irvin Luskarth or Duke Lucas Nightover. But neither was anywhere to be found.

He gritted his teeth hard, the feeling of anxiety growing within him. How did this happen?! Where is Lucas?! And where is King Irvin?!

Without hesitation, Darian turned and left the hall, ignoring the cheers and shouts. His steps were quick and tense as he made his way through the marble corridors of the palace.