The shadows in the throne room seemed to breathe.
Mathew stood frozen, sword gleaming in the torchlight, his chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. He wasn't afraid—not truly—but his heart thudded with something unfamiliar. Not fear. Something deeper. Something primal.
From the darkness near the obsidian pillars, a soft laughter rolled across the stone floor. Low. Feminine. Seductive.
Then she appeared.
A figure stepped into view, radiant and terrible all at once. Her dress shimmered like starlight soaked in blood—clinging to her curves with unnatural elegance. Her hair, dark as night itself, floated around her shoulders, moving slightly, as though responding to unseen currents. She looked both young and ancient, her beauty transcending mortal bounds. Her eyes—pools of endless depth—glinted with a fire no man could tame.
"Mathew Silver Hand," she said, the sound of his name curling through the air like smoke. "I thought you'd be taller."
Mathew didn't lower his sword, but the sharpness in his gaze softened. "You have a name, or should I just call you 'the next corpse on the floor'?"
She smirked. "How charming. And here I was, told you had no sense of humor."
"I don't," he said, circling her. "Not when strangers appear in my throne room without an invitation."
"I go where I'm needed," she said, voice silken. "I am Aura, Goddess of Chaos. And I bring you a warning."
Mathew stopped, raising an eyebrow. "A goddess? Chaos? You're either mad or an excellent illusionist."
"I'm exactly what I claim to be," she said, her smile never fading. "And you, King of Aeloria, are walking into a storm you cannot control."
"I am the storm," he growled.
Aura tilted her head, examining him like a specimen. "Are you? Or are you just a man playing at godhood?"
"Speak carefully," Mathew warned. "I may not believe in gods, but I do believe in burying liars."
She stepped closer, her presence overwhelming. Her bare feet made no sound on the stone, and yet the room seemed to tremble with every step. "I don't care if you believe. Reality doesn't change to suit your faith, little king."
Mathew flinched at that. Not the insult—he'd been called worse—but the way she said it. As if she saw him. Every scar. Every ambition. Every secret.
His grip on the sword loosened slightly.
"I suppose you've come to beg me to stop my campaign?" he asked mockingly. "Tell me there's still good in me? That I've strayed from some divine path?"
Aura laughed. A full, rich, cruel laugh that echoed off the walls like a song of madness.
"No, no. I didn't come to stop you. I came to watch."
"Watch what?"
"Your failure," she said simply. "This chase for Selena and Luther—it will crumble. The forest will reject you. Your prey will slip through your fingers like sand. And when it does—when your pride costs you everything—you will call for me."
"I won't," Mathew said, stepping forward, the sword now lowered but his posture proud. "I don't beg. Not to men, not to kings, not to gods."
Aura leaned in, her lips almost brushing his ear. "You will. They always do."
Mathew turned toward her, staring into her eyes. "If you wanted to bewitch me, you should've worn less," he said with a smirk.
Her laughter returned, warmer this time—but still laced with danger. "Be careful, Mathew. Not even your blade will save you when the chaos comes."
She turned, her form fading into a swirl of violet mist and golden sparks.
Mathew stood alone once more, sword lowered, chest still heaving.
He looked toward the doors of the throne room.
"Guards," he called out—but none came.
The brazier crackled beside him. The air felt heavy. Something had shifted. It was as if her presence still lingered… as if her gaze still followed him.
He whispered to himself, voice low, uncertain.
"Chaos isn't real…"
But the memory of her laughter—cold and sweet—disagreed.