Prologue – Part V: The King's Table and the Angel of Darkness
The throne room of Daltharion, the gleaming capital of the Victorian Kingdom, was a place where the air seemed heavy with the burden of ancient promises and unfulfilled pacts.
The columns, carved with forgotten faces, whispered in the night.
And that day, under the dim light filtered through spiraling stained glass windows, entered a man who did not walk—he glided.
The hall fell silent.
Knights unconsciously touched the hilts of their swords. Arcanists closed their books. Even the guard dogs retreated into the shadows.
Huguel.
The Angel of Darkness.
He wore pure black. A tight-fitting shirt adorned only with a discreet symbol—a grinning silver skull—and a cloak of ancient fabric that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. The eyepatch over his left eye did not hide his true gaze: his right eye was deeper than the night and emptier than the space between worlds.
King Hjlpkik, old but still firm on his throne of obsidian and old gold, looked down from above and murmured:
"So it is you... Huguel. The Angel of Darkness that everyone whispers about in cold corridors."
Huguel stopped three steps before the steps of the throne. His voice came out like a freezing breath:
"I am. And I bring the truth as an offering, but I only give it to those who know how to carry it."
The hall remained silent.
"And do you think I am one of those?" the king asked, with a hint of provocation.
"The truth, my king, is that the world of Zerk is on the verge of collapse... not by swords or spells, but by alliances forged in darkness.
The king leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. A gesture. Servants closed the doors. Mages raised hearing protections.
The room was now a sealed confessional.
Huguel continued:
"In the north, the Red Xcimi have not only awakened, but are multiplying. They are uniting scattered clans. I have seen with my own eyes the marks of ancient pacts being broken. The bridge of Saint Gronjlik was only the beginning."
"Broken seals… are they real then?" the king whispered.
"More real than the smiles of Zombo's ambassadors."
Huguel then snapped his fingers.
Out of nowhere, a magical map appeared in the air—an enchanted illusion floating between thrones.
Each Kingdom flickered with faint light. But over the Zombian Kingdom, the glow was red… pulsing… menacing.
— Zombians are forging a secret alliance with the Xcimi. Trading prisoners for weapons. Blood energy for necromantic influence.
— They are preparing for a war unlike any other. Not against the North. Not against Zombo. But against the very balance of Zerk.
The king pressed his fingers against the arm of his throne.
— And Zombo's new advisor?
Huguel smiled, for the first time. It was a lifeless smile.
— He plays. Like I play. Like Houka plays.
— Do you know Houka?
— No one knows Houka. Not even him. But I can smell the chaos that lives in his heart. He wants something greater than power. He wants eternity.
Silence.
The king leaned back in his throne.
— What do you propose, Huguel?
— That I summon the Guardians. The true ones. The forgotten ones. Those who belong not to a kingdom, but to the very balance of Zerk. If we wait for the armies, we will be counting bones.
"And if the Guardians refuse?"
"They will not refuse. If the blood is pure… and the call is honest."
The king nodded slowly.
"You have my consent. Let the scales of Zerk be maintained. And if they fall… let us be ready to carry the ashes."
Huguel merely bowed his head.
And then he was gone.
He did not walk. He did not run. He did not fly.
He simply ceased to be.