The atmosphere in the grand hall remained thick with unspoken power, the very air seeming to hum with Lord Nyxos's silent authority.
Kaelen remained kneeling, the sharp edge of one knee pressing into the cold, polished stone floor, his head still lowered in practiced deference, the shadow of his helmet obscuring his expression.
"How interesting," Lord Nyxos mused, his voice echoing in the vast space, each syllable resonating with a controlled power that spoke of absolute command. He leaned back against the smooth, obsidian of his throne, the dark stone seeming to absorb the faint light filtering through the high, narrow windows, a curious glint in his deep-set eyes. "To think that those villagers wouldn't simply yield, their faces etched with fear… instead, they chose to fight back, a futile resistance against the inevitable tide." A faint smile played on his lips, a subtle curve that held an edge sharper than any blade, belied any genuine amusement.
"Your Majesty," Kaelen replied, his voice firm and unwavering, betraying no hint of the brutal efficiency he described, "we did not anticipate such… unyielding defiance from such insignificant people.
There are no survivors. We followed your decree to the letter: the village was annihilated, the cries of every living thing extinguished under the Legion's might, and the settlement set ablaze, a pyre against the twilight sky." His tone held a chilling efficiency, devoid of any flicker of remorse, as if reporting on the disposal of mere refuse.
"What a pity," Lord Nyxos said, a note of genuine disdain lacing his voice, the sound like the rustle of dry parchment. "They were delusional to think they had any other choice, their hopes as fragile as spun glass. Only fools fight a battle knowing they will die, clinging to a fleeting sense of pride.
No matter how one may try to frame it in tales or songs, the strong will always remain superior in this world, their will an unyielding force. Strength is the ultimate authority, the bedrock of our dominion, whether wielded for perceived good or for what the weak might ignorantly call evil." Although Kaelen had delivered his report with stark clarity, a flicker of disbelief, a shadow of incomprehension, remained in Nyxos's dark eyes, like a ripple in a still pond. He found it difficult to fully comprehend such pointless resistance, such a blatant disregard for the natural order of power.
Nyxos sighed, the sound heavy and laden with the weight of his responsibilities in the vast chamber. Inwardly, he mused, the thoughts echoing in the silent corners of his mind, 'Dreams don't come true when you are weak, fading like mirages in the heat. If only that pathetic village had understood that simple truth, the futility of their struggle. All their struggle, their defiance… utterly meaningless, like sandcastles against the crashing waves of overwhelming power. Then, another thought, sharper and more intriguing, wormed its way into his consciousness: 'Dreams don't come true when you're dead, their aspirations turned to dust. Had the villagers truly known this, faced with the stark reality of our might? If they did, then why would they defy the Legion, embrace certain oblivion? A flicker of genuine curiosity, unsettling in its intensity, sparked in his dark eyes, momentarily eclipsing the cold disdain. Curious. I wonder, what was their driving force? What desperate hope, what ingrained stubbornness, fueled their pointless rebellion?
Looking down from his obsidian throne, its surface cool and smooth beneath his touch, at the still-kneeling Kaelen, he waved a dismissive hand, the gesture abrupt and final. "You may leave, Herald. Your duty is done for now. Rest assured, I will summon you when the need arises."
Upon hearing this dismissal, Kaelen rose, the dark steel of his armor creaking softly, the sound echoing in the stillness like the grinding of stone. "Your Majesty," he said, his voice respectful and devoid of emotion, his gaze never quite meeting Nyxos's, "your servant takes his leave." With a final, curt bow, a subtle inclination of his armored form, he turned and exited the grand chamber, his footsteps, heavy and measured, echoing on the polished stone floor until the colossal doors, adorned with intricate carvings of past conquests, closed behind him with a resounding thud.
In a few moments, Nyxos was left alone in the immense throne chamber, the silence amplifying the weight of his solitude.
He leaned back against the cool, smooth surface of the obsidian throne, his long fingers tracing the sharp angles of the carved armrest, his dark eyes focused on some unseen point in the distance, the earlier disdain now tinged with a genuine, if unsettling, curiosity about the villagers' motivations, a puzzle in the grand tapestry of his dominion.
Then, slowly, deliberately, a cold, inhuman smile bloomed on his face, a chilling contrast to the earlier expressions, a hint of something darker stirring within him.