Far out in the embrace of an unnamed ocean, unseen by satellite or ship, lies an island. It rises from the turquoise waters like a jewel, draped in emerald forests teeming with life, its beaches pristine crescents of white sand kissed by gentle waves.
Waterfalls cascade down mossy cliffs into hidden lagoons, and the air hums with the calls of exotic birds and the scent of unknown blossoms – a paradise untouched by the modern world.
Yet, this natural beauty serves merely as a preamble. At one end of the island, dominating the landscape, a great hill surges towards the sky. And upon that hill stands a citadel, less a palace or fort, and more a declaration carved in obsidian and veined marble that seems to drink the sunlight. Towers pierce the clouds, connected by impossible bridges shimmering with faint energy. Intricate carvings writhe across its walls, depicting cosmic battles and forgotten gods. It radiates an aura of immense age and power, a silent testament to grandeur beyond human comprehension.
Within, the extravagance continues, but with a chilling undertone. Vast halls stretch onwards, floors polished to a mirror finish reflecting ceilings lost in shadow, inlaid with patterns that seem to shift when not directly observed. Priceless artifacts rest in alcoves lit by captured starlight; fountains murmur with liquids that glow faintly. Luxury is woven into the very fabric of the place, yet it feels cold, untouched, less a home and more a monument to absolute dominion.
Deep inside lies the heart of the citadel: a chamber vast enough to hold an army, yet designed for singular authority. A throne room. Pillars of black stone veined with pulsing red climb towards a vaulted ceiling where constellations unfamiliar to Earthly eyes wheel slowly. Upon a raised dais sits the throne itself – a monolithic seat carved from a single piece of star-metal, radiating palpable power.
And upon the throne sits a man. His form is cast mostly in shadow, his attire indistinct, but his presence is absolute. It warps the very space around him, silencing sound, thickening the air. The only discernible feature: his eyes, which glow with a steady, internal crimson light – embers of ancient malice and unfathomable power.
Below him, arranged in tiers on seats grand in their own right yet utterly subservient, sit numerous figures. Their faces are shrouded, hidden deep within cowls or veils of shadow, yet their outlines speak of coiled strength, of potent energy barely contained. The subtle lines suggest powerful, imposing men, side-by-side with the silhouettes of women whose very stillness emanates authority, whose unseen voices, when they murmur, carry mesmerizing, sultry tones laced with command.
The silence stretches, heavy and expectant, until the man on the throne speaks, his voice calm yet possessing a weight that presses down on everyone present.
The status. Of the man.
A ripple of unease passes through the assembled figures. Shadows shift. Low murmurs begin, whispers exchanged between hidden faces like the rustling of dry leaves. Then, after a moment, one figure – a man, judging by his outline – stands.
Lord
His voice is steady, betraying no fear,
Our search continues across all continents, all spheres. We have... investigated... several potentials.
He pauses.
Regrettably, eliminations were carried out based on strong indicators. These proved to be... incorrect.
The implication hangs heavy.
False positives. Innocents, ultimately. Their removal has caused... friction. Unwarranted complications in sectors we preferred remained undisturbed.
He takes a shallow breath.
We counsel caution. Striking down every flicker of potential, every soul who carries even a faint echo... the cost is becoming disruptive. We must be certain before—
His voice cuts off. Not by his own volition.
The man on the throne has merely flicked a finger, an almost dismissive gesture.
Where the speaker stood, there is a sudden implosion of shadow, a sickening wet thump. Darkness momentarily coalesces, then sprays outwards. Blood, thick and dark, splashes across the polished floor and the robes of those seated nearby. The speaker's body crumples, headless. The head itself is gone, disintegrated into nothingness.
A suffocating silence slams back down upon the chamber, absolute and terrified. No one moves. No one breathes.
Then, the man on the throne speaks again. His voice is different now. Deeper. Resonant with the grinding of tectonic plates, the rumble of an ancient mountain stirring from slumber. It is utterly regal, chillingly calm, radiating an aura that brooks no dissent, no thought, only obedience.
We cannot let him grow.
Each word is a decree.
History serves one purpose: as a warning. Allow the vessel to reach maturity, allow the confluence... and the cycle repeats. This time, he will become something... else. Something troublesome.
He leans forward slightly, the red glow of his eyes intensifying, sweeping across the frozen figures below.
I find trouble... tiresome.
His voice drops, yet loses none of its terrifying authority.
There will be no more caution. No more certainty. Find the echoes. Find the sparks. If you suspect... you will act. Eliminate anyone who carries his taint. I want silence. I want oblivion.
He settles back into his throne, his command absolute, his gaze lifting away from the chamber, past the impossible architecture, towards the sky visible through a vast crystalline dome far above.
His crimson eyes fix upon a point of light that has begun to pulse in the heavens – a red star, burning with renewed, ominous intensity against the cosmic dark.
To be continued.....