Chapter 7: Whispers Beneath the Crown

  Back in the sanctuary of the forest shadows, the princess—Elira—follows Lucian in silent awe and fear. Her once-royal garments are torn and muddied, her hair tangled, but her gaze never leaves him. There is a strange devotion in her eyes now—manufactured, yes, but absolute.

  Lucian sits within the hollow of a twisted black tree—his temporary throne—calm, contemplative. Vorlith, ever-watchful, coils near the edge of the clearing.

  Elira kneels before Lucian without instruction. She offers him information: court secrets, Lydia’s daily routine, weaknesses in the capital's defenses, names of those who were involved in “the ritual.” She does not even flinch at the mention of betraying her bloodline. Lucian’s manipulation—both mystical and mental—has rooted itself deeply.

  But this night, Lucian is still.

  The system hums in the back of his mind.

  ---

  [SYSTEM UPDATE: BOND ACCEPTED – ROYAL THRALL CREATED]

  **> Elira is now bound to you. Loyalty: Unbreakable.

  > New Feature Unlocked: “Abyssal Court”**

  Description: Establish a hierarchy of loyal pawns. Manipulate status, influence politics, bend kingdoms to your design.

  ---

  Lucian smiles, shadows stirring around his fingers.

  But he is not satisfied.

  He rises. “We move at dawn.”

  Elira asks softly, “Back to the capital?”

  “No,” Lucian replies, voice cold. “To the origin. To the graves of the others who watched me burn.”

  Lydia sat upon her throne, surrounded by trembling nobles and jittery guards. The court had become a nest of fear, rumors thick as fog—some whispered of cursed shadows, others of a vengeful demon wearing a man’s face.

  But none dared say Lucian’s name aloud.

  Not after what happened to Lord Halvern. Not after the audience where Lydia herself had broken down in fear, begging for her children’s lives.

  And now, her daughter—Princess Elira—was gone.

  “Kidnapped,” Lydia announced to her court, her voice firm despite the slight tremor in her hands. “Taken by the monster we once betrayed. As queen, I will not allow this kingdom to bend to terror.”

  She turned to the captain of her knights—Sir Dalen, loyal and broad-shouldered, armored in silver. “Take your best. Track the beast. Retrieve my daughter. Bring his head.”

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  The court applauded weakly.

  But as Sir Dalen bowed and turned to leave…

  A chill spread across the marble floor.

  Unseen by all, his shadow lengthened, stretched unnaturally behind him—rising up in jagged silence. Within it, two faint pinpricks of abyssal red pulsed like a heartbeat.

  Then, a whisper.

  “They come, my King,” the shadow hissed in Lucian’s mind, miles away in the deep woods.

  “Four knights. Two trackers. One fool with a holy charm. They ride fast. They believe they’re the hunters.”

  Lucian opened his eyes, seated beneath the blackened tree, fingers drumming softly against the roots.

  Elira watched him from the side, half-cuddled against Vorlith. “What is it?” she asked softly, voice gentle, obedient.

  Lucian smiled. “Visitors.”

  He rose.

  “The first lesson in war,” he said calmly, “is never march into the Abyss thinking it doesn’t stare back.”

  The woods grew darker the deeper they rode. Trees twisted unnaturally, their branches like reaching arms. The birds had long stopped singing. Only the steady clink of metal and hooves remained.

  Sir Dalen led the charge, visor down, his hand clenched tightly around the hilt of his blessed sword. The holy charm around his neck pulsed weakly — flickering as if afraid.

  “This place is cursed,” muttered one knight.

  Dalen silenced him with a look. “Stay sharp. The princess may still be alive.”

  They pressed forward.

  That’s when the first scream rang out.

  Behind them, one of the trackers was gone — no body, no noise, just vanished. The other panicked and turned his horse. It bucked. Shadow tendrils lashed out, grabbed his legs, and dragged him into the trees.

  Bones cracked. Flesh tore. Something laughed softly.

  The holy knight raised his charm. “Begone, demon!”

  The charm crumbled to dust in his hands.

  Another knight’s horse was sliced clean in half—no warning, no sound, just red mist and meat. The knight rolled, got up—and his own shadow stabbed him through the chest. He died staring at it, eyes wide.

  Sir Dalen drew his blade. “Show yourself!”

  Lucian emerged from the treeline—slow, calm, hands behind his back.

  “You were warned,” he said. “But she sent you anyway.”

  Dalen charged. “For the Queen!”

  Lucian’s fingers twitched.

  The remaining knight burst into flames, screaming as crows made of shadow tore at his face.

  Sir Dalen reached Lucian and struck. Steel met flesh—

  And passed through nothing.

  Lucian stepped sideways, untouched, and whispered in his ear:

  “Your soul reeks of loyalty. Let’s see how long it screams.”

  As Lucian whispered in his ear, Dalen’s body convulsed with pain—not death, but a curse far worse. The armor didn’t crush him completely. Instead, it tightened, forcing him still—alive, choking, barely conscious. His eyes bled black tears as the Abyss etched symbols into his soul.

  Lucian knelt beside him and whispered, “You’re my message.”

  Then he stood and walked away, shadows gathering like a storm around him.

  As the captain lay broken among the twisted remnants of his battalion, his body shattered and bleeding out beneath the pale light of a dying moon, he clawed at the earth—dragging what was left of himself away from the carnage.

  His eyes were wide, unblinking, locked on the black trail of withering corpses behind him. The screams still echoed in his skull—his comrades torn from life in ways no man should witness. And above it all… that presence. That thing that stepped through shadows like smoke and silence. That voice like death whispering through your spine.

  His hand trembled as he reached the edge of the forest clearing, pain nearly blinding him. He collapsed, coughing blood, his breaths thin and shallow.

  Then, as if pulled from the marrow of his bones, he whispered a single word. The name now etched into his soul.

  “…Shadeborne…”

  The word left his lips like a prayer… or a curse.

  Back in the shadows, far beyond the reach of dying torches, Lucian paused.

  A smile touched his lips.

  The name had taken root.