Khalazar's steps echoed through the Throne Room as he moved toward the massive double doors at the far end of the hall, the sound reverberating off the high, vaulted ceilings. The faint light of the chandeliers above cast long, flickering shadows across the polished floor, adding to the eerie silence that normally gripped the room.

A cluster of sprites and undead creatures hurried forward, eager to retrieve his scattered equipment and present it to him. But a single glare from him froze them in place, silencing their movements. With their heads bowed in reluctant submission, they hesitated, then slowly began to retreat, clearing his path without a word and allowing him to continue his walk undisturbed.

As he moved, the distant sound of dragging feet grew louder. The corridor stretched ahead, dimly lit by the flickering torches mounted along the walls. As screams of men, women, and children sounded from up ahead, a smile twisted across his lips as he rounded the corner to get a better look at his stock.

"Please... please," one of the cattle gasped, her voice hoarse from fear and exhaustion. "Spare my children... I beg you! Take me, do whatever you want, but leave them be!"

The cattle's trembling hands clutched her children tightly, her tears streaking her dirt-stained face. Khalazar's gaze locked onto her, unmoved by her pleas.

He tilted his head as though considering her offer. A glimmer of hope flickered in her eyes before his voice reverberated through the halls. "Farnoth," he echoed, and her scream was swallowed by the hiss of magic as her flesh hardened into stone.

( End of flashback )

(⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

Khalazar’s steps echoed through the Throne Room as he moved toward the massive double doors at the far end of the hall. Each footfall reverberated off the high, vaulted ceilings, filling the silence with a rhythm that seemed to mock the stillness of the room. The faint, ghostly glow of chandeliers above cast fractured, wavering shadows across the weathered floor, creating a dance of light and dark that seemed alive.

Stolen novel; please report.

There were no sprites or undead to greet him as he moved, which left the path clear before him. He resumed his walk, undisturbed, his pace deliberate yet oddly aimless. The walls were etched with lines of runes and sigils, each one intricately carved into the walls, complementing and amplifying the effects of the others. The runes, shaped like three different sets of opposing alphabetical words, lined the walls in perfect order, crowned by sigils at the top or bottom. Each sigil was empowered by the room itself, its magic waiting to manifest in response to the surroundings.

It was a simple enchantment, yet one he found indispensable. Some of his unwilling captives could be incredibly aggressive when his golems or constructs dragged them toward the experimental chambers—or directly to him. This enchantment, though subtle, kept them subdued, ensuring their resistance was quelled before they could cause any trouble.

There were contingency plans woven into the fabric of the other runes, designed to regenerate the walls in the event of an explosion and to nullify any spells not tied to necromantic magic. The second contingency, which involved runes imbued with flesh magic, was meant to swiftly kill a captive in case they overpowered the golems. However, such measures were never required. Over time, he had perfected a more reliable solution, which was chains imbued with anti-magic.

Perhaps he was paranoid, but it was that very paranoia that had kept him alive time and time again. Yet now, it all felt useless. There were no invaders left to fear, no enemies still alive who could stand against him.

Ahead, the corridor opened into a small, circular chamber bathed in blue light. At its center stood the statue of a woman. Her face was etched with anguish, her wide eyes and open mouth captured in an eternal expression of shock and pain. One pair of her hands reached outward, as though pleading for mercy, while the other clung desperately to three children huddled at her side. The children mirrored her terror, their tiny faces carved with fear, as if they too were caught in a moment of inescapable dread.

Khalazar stood motionless before her, his gaze locked onto her features. The chamber was silent, save for the faint hum of his magic that still pulsed faintly through her form. His skeletal hand lifted, trembling slightly as he reached out to trace the curve of her cheek.

“You begged for them,” he whispered, his voice a dry rasp that barely disturbed the air, “And I… took everything from you, and the others as well.”

It was foolish; that for sure he knew to be certain. The dead could not speak unless he dragged a living soul back into its body. But that was impossible now. Her body was completely petrified, beyond even his ability to manipulate.

"And I suppose…"

…………… "No"

"I was the one who killed her and pillaged her people. I should not be saying any of this. It is wrong."

Khalazar drew his hand back, his bony fingers curling into a fist. His voice, which had wavered with the faintest hint of regret, hardened again, becoming the cold, commanding tone that had brought nations to their knees.

He couldn’t afford to feel such things. His emotions were a distraction he could not indulge in. With a decisive turn, he prepared to leave the chamber to continue his walk when a sudden shift at the corner of his vision made him freeze. His instincts flared. He whipped around, ready to face whatever threat lurked in the shadows. But his breath caught in his chest when he saw that it was only one of his constructs.

“Malfus?”