The morning light poured through the high windows of the throne room, casting long, pale beams across the polished marble floors. Nahra sat beside her father, The Sultan, her face a mask of calm composure. Across the room, Aza and Bazzle stood with their own advisors, though their expressions bore stark contrasts. Aza’s irritation was barely concealed, his fingers drumming against his sword hilt, while Bazzle’s disappointment was an extravagant display of flamboyant frustration.
With a grand, exaggerated sigh, Bazzle waved his arms, casting the blame on the now-dead spirit hunters. “I swear, I thought they were competent!” he announced, his voice loud and melodramatic, his hands flaring in all directions as if he were narrating a tragedy. “Honestly, to be bested by a mere spirit—pathetic! I would never have wasted His Majesty’s resources on such incompetent people had I known. A real disappointment, they were!”
The advisors exchanged wary glances, some nodding in agreement, while others cast worried looks around the room. Whispers filled the air as they pondered what kind of entity could have torn through trained hunters so effortlessly. Fear was etched on their faces, the unspoken horror of something beyond mortal power lurking within the palace walls making their breaths shallow.
Aza, impatient and simmering with irritation, finally spoke up, his tone curt. “This ends today. Clearly, if those so-called spirit experts failed, it’s because none of them understood the true strength needed.” He turned to The Sultan, giving a sharp nod. “With your permission, I’ll bring my best troops. If need be, I’ll confront this thing myself.”
Just as he spoke, a cold silence settled over the room, as if the very air had thickened with an unseen presence. Aza’s words trailed off mid-sentence, and all eyes turned to the entrance. From the shadows of the doorway, the figure of a black cat with gleaming golden eyes emerged, its elegant form moving with slow, deliberate steps across the vast room.
Its gaze was unflinching, each movement drawing the attention of all who watched. Those golden eyes flickered across the room, piercing each onlooker with an unsettling, quiet intensity. Nahra felt a strange calm wash over her, but her heart quickened as the spirit approached. The Sultan’s face remained composed, though a flicker of recognition glimmered in his eyes.
Bazzle’s dramatic gestures froze, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. Even Aza, who had moments ago exuded such confidence, found his hands lowering from his sword hilt, his boldness wavering as he locked eyes with the spirit.
The cat’s gaze lingered on Aza for a moment, unblinking, as though measuring him, before it finally spoke, its voice echoing softly yet with an undeniable power. “You… thought to dispose of me?” The voice was smooth, calm, but carried a cutting edge that struck fear deep into the hearts of those listening.
The advisors shrank back, terror plain on their faces, one muttering a quiet prayer under his breath.
The cat walked forward, its elegant, fluid movements capturing every eye in the throne room as it approached the Sultan. It stopped just before him, its golden eyes meeting his with an intensity that seemed to pierce through the air itself. “Amir,” it began, addressing the Sultan by his first name, a sign of both familiarity and finality, “our work is done, as we agreed. I have protected you and your kingdom as long as was necessary.” The voice was soft yet unwavering, filled with a profound sense of purpose.
The cat’s gaze shifted to Aza, watching him with a look that lingered, assessing. It seemed to peer through his very being, weighing his intentions in a way that made the room feel colder, heavier. Then, with a flick of its tail, the cat’s attention returned to Nahra. “The cards have fallen into place,” it said in its smooth, deep tone, “and soon, the truth will come to light.”
Its eyes then found Bazzle, who remained silent, an unusual glint of something unreadable in his usually flamboyant expression. The cat’s gaze was unwavering, conveying a silent warning. “The Origin will judge,” it declared, its tone now firm and resolute, as if pronouncing a prophecy. Finally, it looked back at the Sultan, the faintest hint of approval in its eyes. “You have been a good ruler, Amir, loyal to The Origin. And as long as your successors follow the path of The Origin, they shall be maintained. But if they turn away, know this—the Kalkan Federation will surely fall.”
A hush fell over the room as the cat’s gaze swept one last time over the advisors, each of whom sat motionless, their faces pale with a mix of awe and fear. Without another word, the cat turned, its form melding seamlessly into the shadows. Its presence slowly faded from the room, leaving behind an air of finality as it vanished into the darkness, departing the palace—and for most; their lives—for good.
In the throneroom of the Sultan’s palace, Bazzle stood with a theatrical sigh, gesturing around him as he addressed the court. “It has been days since the baker left on his fool’s errand,” he said, a smirk playing on his lips. “Surely, we can assume by now that this ‘mission’ is a failed endeavor. I mean, honestly—a common baker retrieving the Sword of Righteousness?” He let out a loud, flamboyant laugh, and many of the courtiers joined in, chuckling and murmuring their agreement.
Aza took this opportunity to step forward, his face a mask of amusement and disdain. “Indeed, the thought is ridiculous. No mere baker can accomplish a task that has eluded the mightiest warriors for centuries. It’s absurd to think otherwise.”
The laughter echoed louder in the hall, and it stung Nahra. She stood up, her voice cutting through the noise like a blade. “Enough!” she commanded, her eyes blazing. “This ‘mere baker,’ as you call him, had the courage to risk his life for the kingdom and for me. He is out there, in the desert, facing unspeakable dangers, and you laugh at his sacrifice?” Her voice shook with barely-contained fury. “Malin is more than you understand, and he deserves our respect.”
The court fell silent at her words, a few uneasy glances exchanged among the nobles. Aza, however, seemed unimpressed. He shrugged, a condescending smile on his lips. “Respect is earned by deeds, Princess, not by dreams. And the deed of retrieving that sword will likely prove beyond him. If, by some miracle, he returns empty-handed, who will save our kingdom then?”
The Sultan raised his hand, calling for quiet. His expression was serious, a diplomatic balance of neutrality as he regarded both sides. “Aza, Nahra,” he began thoughtfully, “there is wisdom on both sides. While it is true that Malin’s mission is a gamble, he is on a quest we promised him. I made a vow to that young man.”
Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.
Aza’s face twisted in frustration at the Sultan’s measured response. He looked around, his eyes narrowing as he addressed the room, his voice taking on a chilling edge. “Perhaps we are being too cautious,” he sneered. “Perhaps we should be thinking about... other options, should this boy fail.”
Nahra’s eyes flashed with anger, but before she could speak, Aza’s tone turned dark. He straightened, his voice carrying a menacing undercurrent. “Maybe we’ll just have to say the Sultan died of… unnatural causes,” he suggested, a thin smile creeping onto his face.
At his words, a ripple of movement spread through the hall. One by one, the courtiers, advisors, and nobles in the room turned, their forms twisting, distorting, as if shedding a disguise. Their flesh warped and shifted, revealing eerie, pallid beings—the same ghoulish figures Malin had encountered in the desert. The once-human courtiers now stood in the hall as grotesque, immortal creatures, their haunting eyes gleaming with malice as they focused on the royal family.
Nahra took a step back, her heart pounding as she registered what was happening. She looked at Aza, her voice barely a whisper, thick with disbelief. “What... what are they?”
Aza chuckled, his expression cold and triumphant. “Allow me to introduce my true companions, Princess. These are Fiends—lost demons of the desert, shape-shifters, immortal creatures who answer only to me.”
The Sultan, though visibly shocked, held his ground, his gaze sharp and unwavering. “Aza…”
Aza’s lips curled into a sneer. “Aza Ames is long dead. That name is nothing more than a mask, a convenience. My true name is Azazel, a demon loyal to the great Youma. This kingdom, this throne—these belong to us now. I am here to restore the supremacy of our kind upon this earth.”
A murmur of horror rippled through Nahra and the few remaining humans in the room. But the worst was yet to come, as Bazzle turned with a sly smile, offering a mock bow to the Sultan and his daughter. “And as for me,” he said, his tone almost gleeful, “I am not Bazzle, but Baazale, Azazel’s cousin and co-conspirator. I’ve planned this moment since I first entered your court.”
The Sultan’s eyes narrowed as he gripped the hilt of his scimitar, his face grim with determination. “I swore to protect this kingdom from anyone or anything that threatened it,” he said, his voice steady. “And I will not allow you or your demons to defile this place.”
Azazel laughed, a sharp, mocking sound. “You think your promises mean anything to us, Sultan? We are beyond such mortal concerns. And in case you think sunlight will save you, know that I’ve improved these Fiends.” He gestured to the monstrous beings surrounding them. “They can survive daylight now. Your kingdom will have no sanctuary from us.”
Nahra took a steadying breath, her mind racing. She had to think fast; they were vastly outnumbered and overpowered. But she wouldn’t back down. Her gaze hardened as she drew her staff, holding it with resolve.
Azazel scoffed, sneering as he observed Nahra’s defiance. “And what do you plan to do, Princess? Your staff against a legion of Fiends? It’s almost amusing.”
Ignoring him, Nahra looked to her father, who met her gaze with a fierce nod, stepping in front of her protectively. The Sultan’s voice was low and full of authority as he raised his scimitar, addressing the demonic figures before him. “This kingdom is under the protection of The Origin,” he declared. “And as long as we serve The Origin, we shall not fall.”
The Fiends hissed, recoiling at his words, but Azazel held up a hand to calm them, his smile dark and sinister. “Believe what you will, Sultan. Your faith means nothing here. This throne, this power, belongs to us now. And soon, you will know true despair.”
With that, the Fiends took a menacing step forward, their eyes glowing with anticipation. But Nahra and her father held their ground, ready for the battle that would determine the fate of their kingdom.
The Sultan took a steadying breath, his expression resolute as he took his position at the center of the throne room. "Nahra," he called, his voice steady despite the chaos erupting around them. "Get out of here. Now." His gaze turned to steel, glancing back only once before facing forward, his stance strong and unwavering. "I will hold them off."
Nahra’s heart clenched, but she didn’t hesitate. She clutched her staff tightly, channeling all her strength into it as she turned to the wall behind her. With a deep breath, she summoned a powerful gust of wind from the depths of her being, directing it at the stone until it cracked and shattered, creating an opening. Dust and debris flew as the wind howled through the new exit, carving her a pathway to freedom. She glanced back at her father one last time, her heart heavy with worry and love.
The Sultan spared a brief look, the pride in his eyes unmistakable. "Go!" he shouted, his command firm. Nahra took a step back, her face set in determination before she disappeared through the breach. The few remaining loyal humans in the room moved to stand beside the Sultan, each determined to fight for their lives and their kingdom, prepared to follow his lead into battle against the swarming Fiends.
With a sharp movement, the Sultan slammed his foot to the ground, summoning a wall of earth that rose up to cover the exit Nahra had just created. The barrier would buy her some precious moments—moments he hoped would make the difference between life and death.
Turning to face the oncoming Fiends, his gaze hardened. Aza—no, Azazel—stood among the dark horde, watching with a cold smile. "So, Sultan,” Azazel taunted, “you choose to die here, then?”
The Sultan raised his scimitar, his voice echoing with authority as he took his stance. "I will protect my kingdom and my family until my last breath. You may have brought your monsters, Azazel, but this throne was blessed by The Origin. You are not as powerful as you think."
But even as he spoke, a flicker of doubt tugged at his heart. The spirit that had vowed to protect his family—why had it left so soon? He was outnumbered, his kingdom under siege, and Nahra was his last hope. He knew he would likely not survive this. But he reminded himself that his faith in The Origin was unwavering, that somehow, they would be protected.
His mind raced as he drew upon all his power, his magic a mixture of strength and desperation. He struck out, sending sharp cracks of earth toward the nearest Fiends, who staggered back, surprised by the force of his attacks. He swung his scimitar with the practiced precision of a seasoned warrior, striking down one Fiend after another, creating space between him and the relentless horde.
Aza’s laughter echoed in the chamber, dark and mocking. "You think this little display will protect her? There’s no one coming to save you, Sultan. Not now."
Ignoring him, the Sultan poured everything into his attacks, sending blasts of earth and stone, striking down Fiends left and right, though more continued to advance. His mind remained focused on Nahra, the strength of his love and determination fueling every swing of his sword, every burst of magic. He would stand firm, no matter the cost, trusting in the power of The Origin to bring deliverance to his daughter and his kingdom.