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 the blood of its former rulers. Now, it was his—another jewel in the Night Court’s expanding dominion. The torches flickered low, casting elongated shadows across the chamber floor, the scent of incense doing little to mask the underlying tang of ancient blood that lingered in these halls.
A slow, deliberate breath escaped his lips, though he did not need it. The air carried whispers of something distant, something foreign. Harrul.
He had felt the pull of the other pureblood before the sentries even stirred. The weight of an old power pressed upon the citadel, though Marcus remained still, expression unreadable. Harrul had come.
King of Eirelunn. Lord of the Isles. A relic of the pureblood, much like himself. But unlike Marcus, whose rule stretched from the darkened heart of the continent to the broken backs of conquered nations, Harrul had entangled himself with the Demon Kingdom. And now, after carefully curated distance, he had sought Marcus out—not in war, but in conversation.
A marriage. A binding of blood.
Marcus had scoffed at the invitation to Eirelunn, unwilling to play guest in the halls of another king. If Harrul wished to bargain, he would do so here, in Ali, where the walls bore witness to Marcus’ supremacy. And so, the King of the Isles had come, crossing the seas and shadows to stand before the Vampire King of the Night Court.
The proposition itself was an insult veiled in ceremony. To bind himself to the Demon King’s daughter—an offering dressed as an honor, but one that reeked of chains. Marcus had warred with the Demon Kingdom for too long to entertain the notion of alliance. Their kind were treacherous, their pacts layered with deception. To wed into their lineage was not an invitation of unity, but a noose tightening beneath silk.
And yet…
Harrul was no fool. The King of the Isles played his own game, one that did not always align with the whims of his demonic patrons. That he had come to Ali at all suggested there was more to this than simple allegiance to the demons. He would not have left the sanctity of his isles lightly.
Marcus leaned forward slightly, crimson eyes gleaming as the heavy doors of the throne room began to creak open.
The game had begun.
Tag: @Harrul Ulfbitenn
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 the blood of its former rulers. Now, it was his—another jewel in the Night Court’s expanding dominion. The torches flickered low, casting elongated shadows across the chamber floor, the scent of incense doing little to mask the underlying tang of ancient blood that lingered in these halls.
A slow, deliberate breath escaped his lips, though he did not need it. The air carried whispers of something distant, something foreign. Harrul.
He had felt the pull of the other pureblood before the sentries even stirred. The weight of an old power pressed upon the citadel, though Marcus remained still, expression unreadable. Harrul had come.
King of Eirelunn. Lord of the Isles. A relic of the pureblood, much like himself. But unlike Marcus, whose rule stretched from the darkened heart of the continent to the broken backs of conquered nations, Harrul had entangled himself with the Demon Kingdom. And now, after carefully curated distance, he had sought Marcus out—not in war, but in conversation.
A marriage. A binding of blood.
Marcus had scoffed at the invitation to Eirelunn, unwilling to play guest in the halls of another king. If Harrul wished to bargain, he would do so here, in Ali, where the walls bore witness to Marcus’ supremacy. And so, the King of the Isles had come, crossing the seas and shadows to stand before the Vampire King of the Night Court.
The proposition itself was an insult veiled in ceremony. To bind himself to the Demon King’s daughter—an offering dressed as an honor, but one that reeked of chains. Marcus had warred with the Demon Kingdom for too long to entertain the notion of alliance. Their kind were treacherous, their pacts layered with deception. To wed into their lineage was not an invitation of unity, but a noose tightening beneath silk.
And yet…
Harrul was no fool. The King of the Isles played his own game, one that did not always align with the whims of his demonic patrons. That he had come to Ali at all suggested there was more to this than simple allegiance to the demons. He would not have left the sanctity of his isles lightly.
Marcus leaned forward slightly, crimson eyes gleaming as the heavy doors of the throne room began to creak open.
The game had begun.
Tag: @Harrul Ulfbitenn
