warriors heart

The grand doors of the palace creaked open, and the Dark Squad strode in, their boots striking the marbled floor with an ominous rhythm. Their movements were deliberate, unified, and commanding, as if they were the embodiment of a living shadow. Each member's blackened armor glistened with streaks of crimson, the blood smeared across it still fresh. The air grew heavier with their presence, suffocating any flicker of light that dared to enter the hall.

Upon laying their eyes on Kane, who loomed over his council like a god of wrath, their steps slowed. Almost as one, the squad knelt down, heads bowed low in deference, their hands clenched over their hearts as if pledging their very souls to him. Their leader, Dren, led them in this act of submission. His expression was stoic, but his sharp, angular jaw twitched slightly—a fleeting moment of pride at delivering success to his lord.

Kane, seated high on the throne, was mid-sentence when he noticed their arrival. His voice, deep and commanding, trailed off as his piercing eyes locked onto them. The council members immediately stiffened, their faces pale with fear. They dared not utter a word of objection as Kane lifted a single hand—a signal that dismissed them without ceremony. Chairs scraped hastily, papers fluttered, and the council members scurried out, their trembling forms betraying the relief they felt at escaping his presence.

Kane descended the throne slowly, his every movement deliberate, predatory. His dark cloak billowed slightly with his steps, trailing like a shadow of malice behind him. His chiseled features, framed by strands of raven-black hair, were calm, almost serene, yet his sharp, predatory smile hinted at the storm of cruelty brewing beneath.

As he approached the kneeling Dark Squad, his gaze dropped to the blood-streaked armor. He extended a hand, his long fingers curling as he touched the congealed blood on Dren's chest plate. Kane's movements were slow and methodical, as though savoring the moment. His lips curled further into a wicked grin, and his golden eyes glimmered with a twisted satisfaction. The subtle tilt of his head as he smeared the blood between his fingers betrayed a hunger barely contained—a predator admiring the fruits of his hunt.

When Kane spoke, his voice was low but resonant, carrying both power and menace. "How was the task?"

Dren, his head still bowed, answered without hesitation, his gravelly voice unwavering. "It was successful, my lord. We did all that you commanded. There were no survivors."

The silence that followed was broken by Kane's laughter—a sound so chilling it seemed to echo endlessly through the vast hall. It started as a low rumble, building into a sharp, cruel crescendo that reverberated off the marble walls. The squad remained perfectly still, though a flicker of unease crossed the face of one member—a barely perceptible clenching of the jaw. The others maintained their composure, their faces void of emotion but their muscles taut, as if waiting for judgment even in their triumph.

Kane gestured for them to rise, and the squad obeyed in unison, their movements fluid yet purposeful. As they stood, Kane circled them, his hands clasped behind his back. His footsteps were measured, echoing like the ticking of a clock. He studied each of them intently, his sharp gaze stripping away their armor, as though peering into their very essence.

"Look at you," he said, his voice dripping with pride and malevolence. "My instruments of chaos, my harbingers of despair." He paused behind Dren, his hand resting briefly on the man's armored shoulder, a gesture that carried both approval and a silent reminder of who held the leash.

Dren's expression remained stoic, but his sharp intake of breath betrayed a fleeting tension. Kane's touch was like fire, both a blessing and a threat. The other squad members shifted almost imperceptibly, their eyes flicking forward as they waited for their master to continue.

Kane's grin widened, his teeth gleaming as if sharpened for cruelty. "You've done well. But this..." He raised the bloodied fingers to his lips and licked them, his eyes darkening with an unholy pleasure. "This is only the beginning."

The squad stood tall now, their faces masks of cold determination. Yet beneath the surface, subtle emotions danced—a spark of pride, a hint of fear, and the smallest trace of anticipation. They had pleased their master, for now, but they knew that in serving Kane, satisfaction was as fleeting as mercy.

Kane turned from the Dark Squad, his black cloak sweeping across the floor like liquid shadow. His boots struck the marble with purpose, each step echoing like a distant thunderclap. As he ascended the short dais to his throne, he stopped abruptly, whirling around with a sharpness that sent a chill through the air.

His piercing eyes locked onto the squad, their glow burning with an intensity that made even Dren hesitate for a split second. His voice erupted, sharp and cutting, each word a blade aimed directly at their hearts. "I have let the evil in," he growled, his tone both a confession and a command. His hand rose to his chest as if gripping something unseen yet powerful, his fingers curling into a claw. "And you should too. The darkness comforts, its embrace everlasting."

The squad stood rigid, their faces blank masks of obedience, but within them stirred unease. One soldier blinked, just once, as if to ward off the weight of Kane's words. Another's gloved hand flexed briefly, betraying the tension they all felt. Even Dren, stoic and unflinching, furrowed his brow ever so slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line as he absorbed the weight of his lord's proclamation.

Kane's voice rose to a roar, echoing through the great hall with the force of a storm. "I WILL NEVER LOSE!" His fist slammed into the arm of his throne, the sound reverberating like a hammer strike. The squad stiffened further, their disciplined forms barely concealing their instinctual flinch at the sheer force of his voice.

He paused, his shoulders rising and falling with his labored breath. His face twisted with rage, yet beneath it flickered something deeper—betrayal, anguish, and a dark hunger for vindication. His eyes softened momentarily, as if lost in the memory of his brother, before hardening again with cold resolve.

"My brother was a failure," Kane spat, the venom in his voice palpable. His lips curled into a snarl as he began pacing, his movements sharp and deliberate. "No one knew I was of royal blood. No one cared. He was the golden one, the hero. I fought beside him, shed blood for this kingdom, but only he received the glory."

The squad remained silent, their heads slightly bowed in deference. Dren, however, raised his eyes ever so slightly, watching Kane intently as if searching for a deeper meaning in his words.

Kane stopped again, this time turning his full attention to them. His gaze swept over their blood-streaked armor, lingering on each of them as though weighing their worth. His lips parted into a sinister grin, his teeth glinting in the low light. "But I never wanted the throne," he hissed, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "It was his arrogance that made me crave it. And now that I have it, nothing—nothing—will take it from me."

The squad stood motionless, yet tension rippled through their ranks like an unspoken current. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on the temple of one soldier, another shifted their weight imperceptibly. These were warriors who had faced countless battles, yet Kane's presence and unrelenting fury made their armor feel fragile, their strength insignificant.

Kane stepped closer to them, his movements slow and deliberate, like a predator circling its prey. "As my soldiers, you must embrace evil. You must make peace with darkness. It has only just begun. You'll see." His voice dropped again, softer but no less terrifying. It carried the weight of inevitability, a promise of horrors to come.

The leader of the Dark Squad, Dren, moved then, as if pulled by an unseen force. His boots echoed as he stepped forward, his head held high yet his posture deferential. His dark eyes locked briefly with Kane's before he lowered himself to one knee at the king's right hand. The movement was smooth and purposeful, yet there was a hint of hesitance in the way he rested his gloved hand on his knee.

Kane's eyes flicked to Dren, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his lips. He leaned back into the throne, his body settling into its seat of power with a satisfaction that was almost tangible. His fingers drummed once on the armrest before curling into a fist.

The other members of the Dark Squad remained standing, their eyes forward, their bodies statuesque. Yet their minds raced, each one weighed down by the sheer force of Kane's presence. They were strong, deadly, and loyal, yet even they could not deny the cold grip of fear that Kane instilled. His mere existence was an unrelenting reminder of the cost of failure—and the reward of unwavering submission.

From his throne, Kane's grin widened as he surveyed his loyal warriors, the faintest glimmer of pride mixing with his overwhelming thirst for domination. The hall seemed to darken, the very shadows growing deeper, as if the darkness Kane spoke of was coming alive to bear witness.