The chamber was vast, yet the dim lighting made it feel smaller, almost suffocating. Shadows stretched across the obsidian walls, flickering as golden sconces burned with restless flames, their glow barely reaching the farthest corners of the room. The only true warmth came from the grand fireplace, where embers smoldered in silence, casting a dull orange haze over the polished floor.

  At the heart of the chamber, seated behind an ornately carved wooden desk, was King Iberius.

  His golden hair fell loosely over his shoulders, strands spilling onto the fabric of his finely made yet unpretentious noble attire. Though his frame was strong, built by discipline rather than vanity, his posture betrayed exhaustion, the weight of kingship pressing heavily upon him. His golden eyes, a mark of divine blessing, scanned the scattered parchments and letters before him, searching for a moment of respite that would never come.

  With a quiet sigh, he unfolded the latest letter.

  "Your Majesty, I shall soon arrive at the capital. Please, do not trouble yourself with an extravagant welcome."

  The words, penned in careful formality, belonged to High Lord Verathis. Iberius' lips pressed into a thin line. The request was nothing more than a carefully veiled demand; a man like Verathis expected grandeur, not modesty. As if Iberius had time to indulge such things.

  The kingdom stood on the precipice of collapse. Loyalists of the fallen empire stirred unrest in the east, clinging to the past like ghosts refusing to fade, while the treasury ran dry, the land yielding less with each passing season. Hunger crept through villages, unrest grew in the cities, and even those sworn to him whispered doubts in the dark. He could feel it - the weight of a world fraying at the seams.

  His gaze drifted toward the framed paintings hanging along the walls. Each depicted warriors locked in battle with dragons, mighty beasts of legend, untamed and unshackled by duty. For a fleeting moment, he envied them.

  But dreams of freedom were a luxury he could not afford. Dipping his quill into ink, he composed a letter addressed to the Keeper of the Treasure, folded it with precision, and rose from his seat. He would deliver it to his assistant personally.

  The halls beyond his chamber stretched long and silent, the stillness almost unnatural. Walls and floors of polished obsidian swallowed the light, their mirror - like surfaces reflecting the golden sconces that flickered weakly against the darkness. The air was thick, pressing in from all sides, the kind of silence that felt too deep, too aware. He arrived at his assistant's door and reached for the handle, only to find it locked. A frown creased his brow. Eldrin never left without leaving a note. Knocking firmly, he called out, "Eldrin?"

  Silence.

  Then, just barely audible, he heard it - a faint, rhythmic dripping. A single droplet. Then another. The sound sent an unnatural chill through his veins, his body recognizing what his mind had yet to process. Something was wrong. He knocked again, this time harder. "Eldrin, open the door." His voice, though steady, carried the unmistakable edge of command.

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  Nothing.

  His unease sharpened into certainty. Taking a step back, he drove his boot into the door, splintering the wood as it burst open.

  The room was still. Too still. Everything remained in its place - the bookshelves neatly arranged, the desk undisturbed, a single wax candle flickering weakly beside a stack of documents. Yet something was undeniably wrong. Iberius' gaze fell upon the chair behind the desk. It was high - backed, turned away from him, obscuring its occupant from view. A tightness formed in his chest.

  "Eldrin?"

  No response.

  Steeling himself, he stepped forward and moved around the desk. The moment he saw Eldrin's face, his breath caught in his throat.

  The assistant was dead, his eyes wide open, pupils dilated in terror, his mouth gaping as if frozen in a silent scream. His lips were black, veins bulging like darkened roots beneath his pale skin, spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. His eyes, frozen wide in death, were veined with black tendrils, his expression twisted in a horror Iberius could only imagine. From his parted lips, thick, blackened blood dripped - slow, deliberate, the steady rhythm the only sound in the room.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Pooling on the floor, spreading like ink spilled upon a forgotten page.

  A cold weight settled in Iberius' stomach. He knew this death. He had seen it before. And if what he feared was true, then there was no time to waste. Turning sharply, he strode from the room, his footsteps urgent, his heart hammering in his chest.

  Back in his chamber, he threw open the drawers of his desk, parchment flying as he frantically searched.

  "Where is it?" The words hissed through clenched teeth, his hands moving faster, desperation setting in.

  It was gone.

  Without warning, pain tore through his skull - a searing, unbearable agony, as if something immense and unnatural had reached inside his mind. Iberius stumbled, hands clutching his head as his vision blurred.

  Then the voice came.

  "IS THIS WHAT YOU WERE LOOKING FOR?"

  The words did not echo in the room, but rather inside him, reverberating through his very bones. With great effort, he turned toward the fireplace, his golden eyes widening as he beheld the figure seated in one of the grand armchairs.

  The figure stood like a void given form, clad in pitch - black armor that swallowed the light around it, as if it were not made of metal but of pure darkness forged into shape. Each jagged plate interlocked seamlessly, its surface rough yet fluid, resembling the scales of an ancient, long - forgotten beast. Faint, intricate engravings, barely visible against the abyssal blackness, wove along the armor's surface like veins of frozen shadow, as though the armor itself pulsed with a dormant, otherworldly force.

  The pauldrons were large, though not grotesquely spiked, their ridged edges curving like the folded wings of a dragon, giving the figure a presence both regal and terrifying. The gauntlets, sharp - fingered and claw - like, gleamed faintly in the dim light, their deadly points built for far more than mere combat. No chainmail, no cloth, no exposed joints - just pure, unbroken darkness wrapping its wearer in an impenetrable shell.

  But the most unsettling part was the helmet. It bore no engravings, no mouthpiece, no slits for vision - just a smooth, featureless void, a crown of jagged ridges curving subtly backward like the spines of some abyssal predator. It was as if the very concept of identity had been erased, leaving only the crushing, suffocating presence of something that should not exist.

  No cloak, no sigils, no banners - just the oppressive weight of something beyond death.

  In its gauntleted hands, it held a stone seal.

  Iberius' breath came in short, shallow bursts as he recognized the ancient symbol of Balance - two figures locked in eternal struggle. The Light. The Darkness. The last safeguard.

  "THIS TIME, THIS WON'T SAVE YOU."

  The creature's grip tightened, and with unnatural ease, it crushed the unbreakable seal into dust.

  Iberius' throat tightened, a cold horror creeping over him.

  The creature rose, inhumanly tall, its presence pressing against the air itself. In a single step, it was upon him, its metallic fingers curling around his throat, lifting him from the ground with effortless strength. Gasping, Iberius clawed at the armored hand, but when his eyes met the darkness of the helmet, his struggles ceased. Inside the abyss of the visor, staring back at him, were 2 piercing blue eyes, surrounded by black sclera, like 2 lonely beautiful stars in the vast ocean of darkness which is called cosmos.

  A choked breath escaped his lips.

  "Impossible..." His voice barely formed the words. "I saw you die a thousand years ago!"

  The figure laughed. A terrible, grinding sound, like rusted metal scraping against bone, filled the chamber.

  "I'VE ALWAYS KNOWN YOU WERE A FOOL, IBERIUS," the voice rumbled, carrying something far worse than hatred. "BUT I NEVER THOUGHT YOU DELUDED ENOUGH TO BELIEVE I WOULD STOP AT SOMETHING AS IRRELEVANT AS DEATH."

  The fingers tightened. A sickening crack echoed through the chamber.

  Then, silence.

  The armored figure released the lifeless body, turning toward the shadows as it faded into nothingness. One by one, the flames in the sconces flickered out.

  And darkness swallowed the room.