Faction The Meeting Of Two Kings

[Marcus Aumont]

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

 

[Harrul Ulfbitenn]

Steps driven by determination carried the King through the grand halls of Ali. His pale skin and black eyes contrasting the crimson houppelande, decorated with designs of Eirish fashion made by gold thread, which he wore. His hands gloved by leather, one of which rested upon the pummel of the silvered longsword stored in an elegant scabbard, by his waist. The King of Eirelunn walked into the throne room, carrying with him the cold wind of the North; herald of a tempest craving to devour everything and everyone inbetween the two monarchs.

It had been almost a year since he found himself in Sparnia. Back then, the happenings were what ignited a schism between the Night King and the Isles Cabal. Now, once again in Sparnia, Harrul was hellbent to see the Cabal's face restored. The denouncement of Sylvia's mastery over the Night Court's legions, the black words between the Kings, and the league with Darkholme now paved the stage on which Harrul and Marcus would act most foul a play, for no eyes to witness.

"The Isles invited you, a guest, and yet were faced with summons of questionable intent." Harrul announced. His paces trailing a path across the chamber, yet never truly reaching the platform of the throne. An intentional choreography, like a predator's reckonaissance, when met with a rival apex. "Summons are for servants, oathbound. Kings do not answer a servant's call. But there have been too many servants speaking words of Kings, of late. I am no servant, Marcus. And I have taken no oaths to bind my hand to your will, but vouches of trust. Vouches, that seem immaterial now, don't they?"

The King had no intention of hiding behind elaborate words. Not now. Not after what had transpired. There had been enough games between courts, the Kings themselves had little to masquarade, when face to face. Without audience, Harrul made sure to show the Night King his actions were deliberate, a truth already known, perhaps too well, by now.

The world of Night was a veil of shadows and copwebs the likes of which could drive any a mortal insane. Harrul had experienced only a glimpse of what Marcus had been ruling over for centuries. To claim any equality was delusional. Harrul knew that well.

He knew too, a battle of wits had begun, through which only one could prevail.

And he was not planning to play the Fool, in the tarot of fate.

Harrul held his cards close to his chest. Waiting, for the first act of the King.

 

[Marcus Aumont]

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 floor. The Eirish garb. The poised hand upon the silvered sword. The calculated circling.

Marcus offered no greeting. No gesture. No nod.

Just silence.

Predatory, deliberate silence.

As if the jungle king had caught sight of another beast treading in his domain—another creature crowned in tooth and claw. And he waited, not with fear, but with cold patience, watching to see if this one would flinch… or lunge.

And then, without warning, Marcus moved.

He rose from the throne like a shadow breaking from the stone, his long coat of midnight silk trailing behind him like a second skin. His first steps were slow, elegant. Then came the sway. A turn. A pirouette of sovereign grace. He danced across the marble in deliberate mimicry of Harrul’s earlier movements—only his were more fluid, more theatrical, more daring. Each footfall struck like the ticking of a clock—measured, inevitable.

“You speak of invitations,” Marcus began, voice like wine poured over a dagger. “And yet what was offered… felt less like a gesture of grace, and more like a summons. A call to heel, as though I were some wandering hound in need of guidance.”

He spun slightly, stopping mid-chamber with his back turned to Harrul. “I answer no call that bears the stench of uncertain intent. Especially not when it reeks of Darkholme’s perfume. That kingdom of masks and smoke has never offered anything freely, not even its daughters.”

He turned, slowly. “You did not summon me, Harrul. No king does. And no cabal—regardless of ancient names or storm-forged isles—commands the Night.”

Marcus stepped closer now, casually, as if his words themselves weighed more than his footsteps.

“Yet you are no servant. Not in title. Not in bearing.” A pause. “But hear me plainly, Harrul. While you are freeblood—unbound by oaths, unshackled by crown—your actions, your allegiances, your alliances… they cast shadows far beyond your domain. When you move, so too does the perception of the Night itself shift. And the Night, my Night, does not suffer compromise.”

His gaze sharpened, his playful cadence hardening just a shade.

“The vouches you speak of… trust, respect—these are not ornamental trinkets passed between kings at courtly dances. They are earned. And what was broken was not by my hand, nor my kin’s. It was your progeny, your court. You who turned a wary eye toward the demon fires while our blood still dried on Sparnian soil.”

He began circling now, casually, like a serpent contemplating its own coils. “I do not hold grudges, Harrul,” he lied with honey. “But I do remember everything. Every betrayal, every silence, every hand extended too late.”

Then Marcus smiled—cold, unreadable.

“But let us not pretend we are beasts incapable of reason. You have come. That is… something. And now we speak.”

He came to a halt, back toward the throne, then slowly turned his head.

“The question is, King of Eirelunn… have you come to mend the veil? Or to tear it entirely?”

The Night held its breath.

Tag: @Harrul Ulfbitenn