Recent content by Marcus Aumont

Proclamation from the Throne of Night — The Emperor’s Decree The ink had barely dried. In the great hall of Ali, beneath the ever-burning braziers and ancient banners of conquest, Marcus Aumont—first of his name, pure-blooded sovereign of the night—stood before the assembled scribes and lords...

The high towers of Ali cast their long shadows over the sea cliffs as night bled its colors across the sky—deep violet and bruised crimson. Within the throne hall, behind obsidian walls etched with the history of empires past, Marcus stood alone at the great window of his sanctum, gaze fixed on...

The silence in the hall was not empty—it was full. Full of the weight of what had been spoken, what had been claimed, and what had now been bound by word and will. Marcus stood firm, his gaze locked with hers as she rose. When her hand found his, he returned the clasp—not with dominance, but...

For a time, Marcus said nothing. The throne hall of Ali was accustomed to silence—reverent, watchful, oppressive—but now it was something else. Alive. Listening. The Night Court itself seemed to lean in, drawn by the weight of what had just been laid before its king. He looked down at...

The throne hall of Ali stirred not with menace, but with measured silence, as the sound of Nepheli’s approach echoed through the obsidian chamber. There were no fanfares, no declarations—only the solemn weight of duty between sovereigns. Upon the high seat of night sat Marcus Aumont, cloaked in...

Approved! :love:

Weeks Later - The Palace Steps of Ali The sky was bleeding. A blood-red moon hung above Ali like an open wound, its light staining the black banners of the Night Court as they billowed in the midnight winds. The streets, once solemn and ancient, now thronged with the living dead, vampires...

Marcus listened in silence, the torchlight of the war room flickering against his statuesque form. Harrul’s words, heavy with resolve and calculated fury, filled the air like a binding oath. The Red Angel had spread his wings at last—and the world would soon feel the chill of their shadow...

Marcus did not speak at once. He stood there, unmoving as a statue carved from the deepest obsidian, his own hand extending slowly to clasp Harrul’s. The moment their palms met—two war-forged titans binding purpose—a silent pulse of power surged between them. Not magic. Not sorcery. Something...

Marcus Aumont, the Night King, the Black Flame of Tiarnadorch, let Harrul’s final word hang in the air, like a blade suspended above a neck. A servant. He let the silence settle, wrapping around them like a velvet noose. And then—he laughed. Not a cruel laugh. Not mocking. A slow, amused...

Marcus did not speak. Not at first. He merely watched. Marcus regarded Harrul without emotion. No flicker of approval, nor threat. No anger. No grace. Only stillness. A jungle King waiting in the tall grass, golden eyes like blades of fire narrowed in calculated silence, testing his prey...

The doors had long since groaned shut behind the King of Eirelunn. Yet Marcus did not speak. Still as a monument carved from obsidian, he watched. Unmoving. Unblinking. From the height of his blackened throne, Marcus observed Harrul’s every step—each measured prowl across the blood-polished...

Approved.

Approved. I hate that I love this, can’t wait to set it on fire.

The Throne of Ali Marcus sat upon the throne of Ali, fingers draped lazily over the armrests, the rich silks and opulent gold of the chamber stark against the cold, unyielding presence he exuded. The city, once a defiant bastion of human will, had long since bent its knee, its streets soaked in...