Malketh's armored footfalls echoed ominously in the vast expanse of the barren wasteland, each heavy step sending vibrations rippling through his metallic frame. The clanking of his mechanized limbs against the unforgiving earth reverberated through his very essence, a haunting reminder of the countless torments that weighed upon his soul. Once, he had been a proud warrior, a master assassin whose name struck fear into the hearts of his enemies. Now, however, he was little more than an empty vessel, a puppet bound to serve as the harbinger of destruction at his mistress's whims. The intricate patterns etched into his armored plating seemed to shimmer in the pale moonlight, casting eerie shadows across the wooded hills as he trudged forward, a silent sentinel of doom. The weight of his mechanical form bore down upon him like a crushing weight, each movement a laborious effort that served only to remind him of the hollowness that gnawed at his very core. Gone were the days of free will and autonomy, replaced now by an existence devoid of emotion or agency. He was a mere shadow of his former self, a soulless automaton bound to serve the twisted desires of his mistress without question or hesitation. As he marched alongside Orelia's conquering forces the woods soon gave way to mountainous terrain; rocks crushed into sand beneath his weight, turning a once picturesque sight into a twisted vision, akin to the tale of his descent into darkness. The chilling howl of the wind whispered through the mountainous terrain, the mountain peaks singing an opera of painful tragedy. With each ponderous step, Malketh felt the weight of a thousand torments pressing down upon him, a suffocating reminder of the proud warrior he had once been. But now, his mechanical form offered no respite from the ceaseless march of time, no solace from the endless cycle of destruction and despair that consumed him from within. He was a prisoner of his own design, shackled to a fate of eternal servitude, condemned to walk the path of destruction until the end of days. And as he trudged forward into the darkness, his armored footfalls echoing in the emptiness that surrounded him, Malketh knew that there would be no escape from the torment that awaited him at the end of his journey.
As Malketh and Orelia's conquering forces drew nearer to the towering spires of Sanctum Eternus, the air grew heavy with the weight of impending doom. Malketh found himself assailed by fragmented memories of a life long since lost to the ravages of time and torment. Flashes of his former home – a bastion of honor and duty, a place where he had once walked as a proud warrior – flickered through his consciousness like ghostly embers, casting fleeting glimpses of a past he could scarcely recognize as his own. The memory of his childhood home, nestled amidst the rolling hills of the countryside, lingered in the recesses of his mind like a half-remembered dream. The scent of wildflowers carried on the breeze, the laughter of children echoing through the air – these were the fleeting moments of happiness that now seemed like distant echoes of a bygone era. But even as Malketh's mind wandered through the hazy corridors of memory, the cold reality of his present existence threatened to shatter the fragile illusion of nostalgia. The weight of his mechanical form pressed down upon him like a leaden cloak, a constant reminder of the hollow shell he had become. The once-proud warrior, revered for his skill and prowess on the battlefield, was now little more than a puppet, a slave to Orelia's insatiable thirst for power and domination. The memories of his former life – of honor, duty, and the bonds of brotherhood forged in the crucible of war – seemed to mock him as he trudged ever closer to the heart of darkness.
Further in the depths of his mind, amidst the echoes of time's passage, Malketh found himself transported back to a haunting memory—a vivid flashback to the forsaken halls of Sanctum Forge. The anguished cries of the fallen souls reverberated through the corridors, painting a spectral tableau of regret and sorrow etched in the annals of his conscience. As if caught in a time warp, the shattered figure of King Arkhonen lay crumpled before him, a fragmented remnant of a harrowing past. Each broken shard of memory pieced together in Malketh's neural pathways, a mosaic of remorse and reflection—a poignant reminder of the path he had trodden, strewn with the ashes of the fallen. The ghostly whispers of betrayal and despair mingled with the flickering torchlight, casting shadows of doubt and introspection across the chamber. The throne room, once a seat of authority, now stood frozen in time, a sepulcher of lost aspirations and shattered alliances—a poignant ode to the price of ambition unchecked. In this ethereal moment, the clang of metal against metal resounded like a memento mori, a solemn dirge for lost innocence and tarnished ideals. The searing heat of the forge melted the barriers of time, immersing Malketh in a crucible of remembrance—a timeless specter of his past deeds, waiting to be reconciled. Within the tapestry of memories woven by the ghosts of Sanctum Forge, Malketh stood at the precipice of redemption, his soul laid bare to the echoes of a bygone era—a haunting melody of regret and reflection that whispered of a journey yet unfinished.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
In the ethereal realm of memories, Malketh found himself ensnared in a web of twisted recollections, each thread leading back to that pivotal moment of betrayal. The phantom sensation of his hand closing around the king's throat lingered, a ghostly embrace of guilt that refused to release its grip. The echoes of the sickening crunch reverberated through the fabric of time, intertwining with the haunting whispers of remorse that danced in the shadows cast by his actions. The symphony of bone and sinew yielding beneath his touch played on an endless loop, a macabre melody that clawed at the recesses of his mind. As Malketh traversed the corridors of memory, the grotesque tableau of violence unfolded before his eyes once more, each detail etched in blood-red hues of regret. The shattered fragments of his former self lay scattered across the chamber, a mosaic of shattered loyalties and fractured ideals that mirrored his own internal turmoil. Despite the cybernetic veil that shrouded his consciousness, an icy chill crept through the neural pathways, a reminder that some stains could never be erased. The horror of his actions loomed like a specter in the darkness, a relentless apparition that whispered of the irreparable damage wrought by his hand. In this continuation of his haunted reverie, Malketh stood at the precipice of redemption, grappling with the weight of his choices and the shadows of his past. The chamber of memories quivered with anticipation, as if holding its breath for the next turn in this surreal dance of remorse and redemption.
"You dwell too much on echoes of the past, my weapon," Orelia's silken voice cut through his tormented reverie like a razor's caress. "The man you were is dead, sloughed away like so much dead flesh. You are reborn in my image – a perfect instrument of subjugation and dominance.” Her words carried a hypnotic weight, threatening to drown out the last vestiges of Malketh's former self. He could feel her insidious influence worming its way deeper into his psyche, rewriting his very being to serve her twisted desires.
"Do not delude yourself into believing you still possess some semblance of the misguided honor that guided your actions in a life long since rendered obsolete," she continued, her tone dripping with disdain. "That path led only to your own undoing, your hubris blinding you to the true nature of power until it was far too late." Malketh's stride faltered ever so slightly as the memory of his ill-fated attempt to outmaneuver the queen resurfaced. He had foolishly believed that he could match wits with her, that his own cunning and manipulation could somehow turn the tables in his favor. But Orelia had seen through his deception, her own machinations ensnaring him in a web of subjugation from which there was no escape.
"You sought to play the game of dominance against one who had mastered it long before your ancestors drew their first breaths," Orelia's laughter was a cruel thing, sharp as obsidian shards. "And in your arrogance, you sealed your own damnation. Now, you are naught but an extension of my will, a blade to be wielded against all who would dare defy my ascendance."
As they pressed ever onwards, the landscape around them seemed to shift and morph, the dense forestry giving way to towering mountains and windswept steppes. It was as if the very world itself had been sculpted to serve as a grand stage for Orelia's ambitions, each new vista more breathtaking – and foreboding – than the last. The architectural marvels of Sanctum Eternus soon came into view, their gleaming spires and sweeping colonnades reminiscent of the ancient Greek cities of old. Malketh could not help but be struck by the sheer majesty of it all, even as his hollow soul rebelled against the notion of laying waste to such wonders. Yet, he knew that Orelia's thirst for dominion would not be sated until even this bastion of enlightenment had been reduced to smoldering ruin. As they crested the final rise, the City Eternal lay before them in all its glory, nestled within a vast quarry like some great, glittering jewel. Orelia's eyes burned with a fierce intensity as she surveyed her next conquest, her lips curling into a predatory smile.
"Behold, Malketh," she purred, her voice laced with the promise of unspeakable violence. "The vaunted font of Eternum's 'enlightenment' – a monument to stagnation and complacency that shall soon be rendered unto oblivion by your unstoppable might." Raising one imperious hand, she signaled the vanguard of her forces to advance, their weapons glinting in the fading light.
"Burn it."
Her words carried the weight of a divine proclamation. "Burn it all to the ground and salt the ashes. Let these smug archivists of false wisdom be less than echoed footnotes in the chronicle I shall etch across fate's upturned face." And Malketh, hollow and broken though he was, felt the first stirrings of something akin to dread coiling in the empty pit where his soul had once resided. For he knew that the path ahead would be one of unimaginable carnage and that he, the once-proud champion of honor and justice, would be the instrument through which it was wrought.