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

 

[Harrul Ulfbitenn]

Wolves do not consort with Sheep...

The blood dripped on the stone walls like tendrils of injustice, as the skies grew dark with malevolence. Rain of wrath descended over Dunwyn, as the Red Court was birthed in screams and iron judgement. A gesture made in hope, drown soon in black will and cries of helplessness. The young man fell on his knees, finally released from the tight grip of his Black Guard kin.

"You will watch this."​

Sichfrith had demanded of him. Sichfrith, the Duke; Sichfrith the Cruel; A most fitting a name for the vile creature born of Crocmac and Grimia; A mother that gave her own life to see her son born... And then...

Then, the Ulfbitenn were left with an Age of Darkness. An age of cruel reign, and a heir who could do little to stop the coming tempest...

Seagulls do not bargain with the fish...

"I sent you to Suthra to end this, Harrul. You have no gut to rule as an Ulfbitenn."​

The Duke barked. His hand still holding the bloodied dagger. His eyes twisted, sparking with flame. Harrul fell over the elder that lied before him. The stag sigil carved on his medalion stained with the blood that still leaked from the gaping wound across the throat.

"You are a monster, father... A MONSTER!" Harrul thrusted himself to Sichfrith. His hands were claws of feral rage, craving to carve him down. They would never reach him, though. The tall figure of his uncle, pale and dressed in black, was an obstacle immovable. His hands grasped the young man as Euric towered over Harrul, casting him down to the fallen nobles.

"HE WAS YOUR NIECE'S HUSBAND! HOW COULD YOU!?" Harrul cried.

"HE was a REBEL, you stupid BOY!"​

Sichfrith snapped. He knelt over Harrul, grasping his son's throat as he pointed the dagger at him.
"This is Eirelunn, son. THIS is the price to rule. Your weakness will cost you your life. And with that, the Ulfbitenn will bleed to the last. IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT!?"

"I gave them my word... I gave them safe-"

"YOU GAVE THEM YOUR WORD FOR SOMETHING THAT WASN'T YOURS TO PLEDGE!"
​

Kings do not deal with servants.​

The King's grip around the pommel tightened, causing the leather glove dressing the hand to produce a stretched noise, made louder by the storm of memories bombarding the King's mind. The Beast roared; Revelling to the horrors it had not the pleasure to witness through this vessel...

The Night King finally ascended. His will an iron tower against any mental fortress Harrul had erected, cast down by the judgement of a thousand years and the sight of a God of the Beyond, approaching towards the King in determination that had yet to be witnessed prior. Harrul felt small. Tinny, before the monster that was Marcus Aumont; the King of Vampires; The chosen of Tiarnadorch in an era before the End Times. Who was he to oppose such a will? Who was he, to stand against odds like this?
Harrul's eyes narrowed. His pale face dead of expression, as the Night King approached and cast his words like myriad bolts, each finding its mark with such precision, no soul could resist waivering...

Alas, Harrul was no mortal... He was an Ulfbitenn.


The King's steps calculated. A choreography practiced a thousand times over in his mind, while walking through the halls of Ali. He traced the Night King's footing, mirroring his orbit to his own, as the two moved like clashing suns locked eternally by the bonds of gravity forged in the abyss of the Beyond. Their dance a herald of the inevitable clash of flame in the Void, until only one remained; Two stars of black flame; Born of Fey blood and druidic witchcraft; Born of Beast; Born of Tiarnadorch; Agents of His will. Kings of Their bloodlines made in Blood and cosmic malice...

The Night King's words invisible chains of lightning that pulled the two ever-closer to the clash Harrul knew to come. His line tracing back to his birth under the moonlight and the cackling of the Queen of Crows, bestowing him the same blessing he had seen devouring Saoirce, begging him to end it under the stormy skies of Heithhenn.

He couldn't, once.

"You speak of courts." Harrul finally intoned. His voice a snarling wolf, summoned to bite with jaws of defiance. "And yet your spawns are brigands."
The King took a step closer to Marcus; His hand curling into a fist, brought against the chest.

"You speak of alliances..." Harrul growled. "And yet it is my court besieged by minions of your making..."
The King took another step closer to Marcus; His black eyes finally in synchrony with the Beast Within, roaring themselves in the moment's entropy.

"You speak of kin..." Harrul's voice darkened, corrupt into black flame cast to the Night King, fuelled by a will to kill so immense, his eyes bled tears of blood, as he restrained himself from acting on the foul whispers in his mind.

"And yet it is my kin that she bled into your minion......"


MY KIN! MY BLOOD!

Harrul's roaring caused the words to echo across the throne room, as if every shadow cried to the wrath within him.

"I feel every day of the YEARS your WHORE tormented my sister, each time I close my eyes. And when I open them, I see her under YOUR court!"

Harrul paused; The distance between the two reduced to only a breath.

"You dare speak to me about turning a wary eye? You? I would suggest looking at a mirror if I did not know they have backs of silver..."

Harrul's tone finally faded into almost a whisper. His wrath so rooted within him, crying out did little to sate the hatred that ran in his veins. His mind was finally settled...

"I did not choose this curse. I did not choose damnation. I embraced it for it is the only thing that can keep my kin safe. Safe from destruction. Safe from demonic taint... Safe from you."

Contempt drowned his words to sound.

"I did not reach out to Darkholm. He reached out to me. I wish to see his pit of blight torched as much as you. I wish to see Erova cleansed of his taint as much as you. But I wish to see Hildrabrenna moulded into silver statue more. Not for what she did. But for what you she will, if I allow her to live. Sparnia cannot understand the ways of Eirelunn... The South has seen the light. The North has been raised in Darkness. Darkness enough to spawn abominations like myself. I did not wish for Sylvia to do what she did. But I would lie if I said she over reacted.... She did barely enough."

 

[Marcus Aumont]

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.

Would he leap?

Would he kneel?

Or would he reveal?

And then, he moved.

Not like a man.

Marcus moved—slow, smooth, not in the fashion of warlords but of predators. His movement took on a rhythm, an elegant glide—his stride a waltz of control and purpose, circling Harrul like a great cat playing with the notion of blood, arms occasionally spreading as if to embrace the tension. There was cold beauty in the sway of his cloak, a theatrical elegance in the way he moved around Harrul—never fully facing him, only brushing close, then veering, a ghost weaving a net around a soul it may one day consume.

He smiled.

“I did not accept the summons,” Marcus murmured, voice smooth as velvet dragged across a coffin lid. “Because it felt like one. I am not a creature to be called, Harrul. Not by Cabals. Not by mortals. And certainly not when the scent of betrayal still lingers in the fabric of our accord.”

A pivot, step, turn.

“I do not fault the Isles for extending the hand of parley—but when that same hand shakes those of our enemies, when their fingers feed fire into our would-be slayers, it begins to feel less like diplomacy and more like bait.” His eyes flicked back to Harrul with pointed amusement. “And I am not so easily baited.”

The Night King paused, brushing close—dangerously close—as if about to whisper a death sentence, only to glide past again.

“You are right about one thing,” Marcus said suddenly, his voice turning colder. “You are no servant.”

His tone sharpened.

“But do not mistake that for independence.”

He turned, fully facing Harrul now.

“All of the Night serves under me. Even you. Especially you.”

Each word was measured, not cruel—but inarguable. A truth laid bare.

“You may not bow. You may not pledge. But the moment you drank of that blood, Harrul… the moment you became pure, your every step became a stroke on the tapestry of our legacy. A single move from you shifts the course of a generation. That is what it means to be like me. To be more than soldier, more than king—to be the bloodline itself.”

Marcus drew closer now, eyes narrowing with haunting stillness.

“And because of that… your failure to leash your progeny at the Concord was not simply unfortunate. It was damning.”

A brief silence.

“I did not act against Sylvia… because you stood beside her. And it was your burden to discipline her.”

He stepped away then, thoughtful, allowing his tone to ease again, though still sharpened at the edges like a smile made of bone.

“You speak of blood… and so you shall understand: Hildrabrenna is my progeny. My first daughter. She is—was—a symbol of my ancient trust.”

His jaw clenched, almost imperceptibly.

“And she has been punished for what she has done. Privately. Not to satisfy your vengeance, nor the bloodlust of a court… but to preserve the sanctity of what I built.”

Marcus circled back now, each step softer than before, as if walking over sacred ground. When he spoke again, it was quieter—honest, if such a thing could exist in him.

“I like your defiance.”

He stopped, this time just a breath from Harrul.

“It means you still possess something most vampires lose far too early—grit.”

He smiled—not mocking, not cruel. Knowing.

“You came when called, though you didn’t know the outcome. Alone. That is boldness, Harrul. Confidence. That is the very substance of kings.”

Marcus tilted his head, amusement curling across his lips like a shadow.

“You’re still a baby vampire, in the grand scheme.”

He lifted a hand almost teasingly.

“And sometimes, we must allow the young to learn things the hard way. I do not condemn missteps when the intention beneath them is pure. You do not stink of malice. You stink of pain. That… I understand.”

Silence fell for a moment as Marcus looked down, as if searching for something buried far beneath.

“I believe you,” he said simply, referring to Darkholme and the truth of Harrul’s words. “And I forgive you—for now. Because trust can still be built.”

A breath.

“Do you know why your place in the Night Court is special, Harrul?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“Because you are pure.”

Marcus’s tone softened into something rarer. Something genuine.

“I see a future where I rest—truly rest. For a hundred years. A thousand, perhaps. And when I do… someone must rule.”

He looked up at Harrul.

“It will not be Sylvia. Her heart burns too brightly with her own wars. It will not be Hildrabrenna. She is… fractured.”

Only now, Marcus’s voice lowered into something deep and chilling.

“And it must never be two Kings.”

His eyes bored into Harrul’s with full weight.

“That tore us apart once. Multiple purebloods. Multiple factions. One schism. It nearly broke the Night forever.”

He leaned in just enough for his breath to touch Harrul’s cheek, the air unnaturally cold.

“I eliminated the others so that the night could survive, Harrul. And because of that it means you would never have to fight me—only inherit me. But I will never hand this crown to one I cannot trust without question.”

And just like that, he turned, as if the conversation had simply shifted, like a storm changing wind.

“But you still stand here. And I’m glad for that.”

A long pause.

“I’d rather rule with you… than over your ashes.”


Tag: @Harrul Ulfbitenn

 

[Harrul Ulfbitenn]

The King's black eyes a storm yet to be unleashed. While the silent dance between the two Kings continued, the venomous words of Marcus spilled like poison; So carefully administered; So precisely dosed; Harrul wondered still, if the prospect of war between the two caused a perverted sense of pleasure to the King of Vampires to begin with.

Harrul's pacing halted. His grip around the pommel ever-stable. With slow, controlled breaths he taimed the Beast Within, as Marcus' very voice was a taunt to it, stirring its wrath towards him like a well-experienced chief would a soup within the cauldron.

The very mention of Harrul's ascension; Or rather, descend, according to him, further edged him closer to the breakpoint. With each sentance, Marcus somehow managed to twist from aggression to praize, and from vile threats to prophecies of grandeur.

This was what Harrul had brought himself into. This was the world he would have to live in; The ocean, red and rageful, which his will would have to navigate like a longship against the Kraken waves.

"You claim our role is not of Kings. Is not of Soldiers." Harrul intoned. His voice steadfast and loud, coloured by certainty. "Your claims of divinity reached Eirelunn last. Many spoke of heresy. The Iron Cult, I am sure, has already invested in plans, to remedy the loss of the Sparnish church... Thinking like a Soldier would be to make ready for war. That would open wounds that have yet to heal."

The King shook his head, lowering his gaze with which he traced the steps he took forward, bypassing Marcus as he followed a course around the room, towards the throne.

"Your Night Court is divided. I can still smell the Abhertach blood, on my way to this hall." he lifted his gaze to behold the throne infront of him, halting his pace. "And the Isles Cabal would be a thorn to any a host they do not command... Even if that was to work... I doubt Darkholme would bypass a chance to hit the Night's bulwark."
His eyes turned over his shoulder. A piercing glare fixating on Marcus, as the words coming out cracked in malice.
"The Isles."

The King turned after a breath's pause, his head tilting back as if banishing the grim thoughts that once weighted it.

"Thinking like a King, to pledge any an army under a foreign rule would be a sign of weakness. A vain attempt to pursue favour that none below sees meaning in. Besides. To commit in a continental war would be to campaign for years, with little gain, and much threat that can not always be countered. A demonic invasion in the Isles, while the armies of Eirelunn campaign in Erova would be a swift end to any a King..."

Harrul paced. Each step calculated. Each motion part of a choreography that led him around the chamber, in an orbit ending before Marcus.

"Of all you said, we agree on one thing: I do not think like a Soldier. And I shall not think like a King. I act, as the abomination that I have become, by the wicked sorcery that cursed me with what resides inside the mind of both me, and you, Marcus."

He tilted his head back, gesturing his gloved hand towards the Night King.

"Your concord showed me something important. Something that the rest of Erova knew, and the Eirish refuse to admit, though each of them, mortal or otherwise, know far too well. We are not the same. Your ways... the rich halls, the sophisticated music, the dogmatic way through which you make war... That is foreign to us. As alien as Sylvia was in that ball. We may never agree on whether your whore deserved what she got, or Sylvia over reacted, though there is one thing we know to be true."

Harrul brought his hand aloft, to the level of Marcus' chin, waiving it a fist between the narrow space that separated them.

"The Isles are an empire built on war. Unbound by needless etiquette, unfamiliar with all but our own codes of chivalry. Simple. Unbreakable. Just like our armies. -My- armies. To leage myself with Darkholme was to end a century-long rivalry over the Kraken Sea. What is left, though, after the two great hounds end their snarling?"

Harrul shook his head, lowering his hand as his tone emphasized the coming words.

"A common prey. You are right, Marcus. Trust must be built. The Night is your domain. Have I any reason to trust you, Marcus? Your minion, to command -my- banners? My blood, trusted in -your- hands? The hands who killed all others of our kind. What would I be, if I pledged to such?"

A deep breath taken, letting the word perhaps too hinted to be of any mystery to loom, before he spoke last.

"A Servant."

 

[Marcus Aumont]

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 rumble that echoed softly off the stone like thunder beneath the earth. It was the laugh of a being who had heard every insult, worn every crown, and spilled oceans of blood across ten lifetimes. He moved again, completing the arc of their dark waltz, his boots whispering against the obsidian floor. Every motion was purposeful. Calculated. A dancer who might strike mid-spin.

His voice followed next, velvet and iron.

“A servant, yes. But a servant with a crown… is still better than a dead one like the rest.”

He stopped—directly in front of Harrul. Close enough that the tension in the room could be sliced with Harrul’s own pommel. Black eyes bore into the Ulfbitenn King’s soul—not with rage, but with the cold scrutiny of something ancient… something divine.

“You misunderstand me, Harrul. I do not ask you to kneel. I ask you to rise.”

He circled again, slowly, voice lowering to something between a whisper and a confession.

“When a pureblood moves, the tides of an era shift. This is not vanity—it is reality. One born from millennia of our kind clawing each other to shreds over scraps of legacy. I did not spare Sylvia out of mercy. I spared her because you are not merely a war-chief or beast-king of the Isles. You are a pureblood. An heir to night. And it was your duty to tame her, not mine.”

He stopped again—now behind Harrul.

“You ask if you can trust me. I tell you this: I had a choice when my own progeny defied the court. Hildrabrenna. My first child. You’ve heard whispers of what she was.”

A pause. The weight of pain just barely touched his tone. “I broke her.”

A beat. “And then I mended her. Because that is our role—not to kill what defies us, but to shape it, discipline it, forge it into steel.”

He walked again, slowly coming around until he stood at Harrul’s right side.

“You speak of your armies. Of war and simplicity. I admire that.”

A ghost of a smirk, his fangs just barely glinting.

“But simplicity without structure is savagery. And that will not hold when the world burns again. You’re right—Darkholm is coming. The South squabbles like children. The Abhertach seethe. The demon king plays at godhood. And the vampires of the world?”

He tilted his head toward Harrul. “They need a war master.”

Marcus stepped forward again, now directly in front, the heat between them like that of two stars preparing to collide.

“I offer you that title, Harrul. War Master of the Night Court.”

Each word was deliberate.

“But not as a servant. As a ruler. An equal. If we agree to terms.”

He extended his hand—not like a politician—but like a monarch offering a sword.

“Let me train you in the ways of our blood. Not the dance of courts—but the powers, the instincts, the truth of what you are. In return, your isles will be more than allies. They will command legions. Be the iron in the Night Court’s spear. Together, we do not serve—we rule.”

He lowered his voice once more, and for the first time, it cracked with something raw. Something real.

“Do you know why your place is special, Harrul?”

He didn’t wait.

“Because you’re the only one I can see ruling in my stead. Not Sylvia. Not Hildrabrenna. When I sleep for a hundred years, as I must, it is not their names the night shall whisper—it is yours. But only if I can trust you. And only if you can trust yourself to rise above the beast inside.”

He stepped back once.

“But the worst thing we could ever become… is two kings. Two purebloods at war. That would split our kind. Rip the Court apart like the old days. That is what I avoided when I destroyed the others. That… is what we must avoid.”

Marcus gave him a final glance—a flicker of admiration dancing beneath the abyss in his eyes.

“So what say you, Harrul Ulfbitenn? Will you be remembered as a king who walked alone into the night… or as the one who led it?”


Tag: @Harrul Ulfbitenn

 

[Harrul Ulfbitenn]

Marcus had said the words trice already, and yet, Harrul refused to acknowledge the actual meaning behind them. What sort of trickstery was this? What sorcery was Marcus casting through his words, which Harrul was too blind to recognize?

The more the Night King spoke, the harder it was for Harrul to deny the true meaning behind his words. The Beast Within stirring, strangelly abiding by the Night King's promises. It wanted Harrul in this place, here and now, having this conversation as result of a manipulation by forces cosmic and abysmal enough that acted far beyond Harrul's own accord.

For a moment, he felt he had no say on the matter at hand. This had to be the plan all along... One Rules in Night. The other Slips through Time... Two Purebloods to lead the Night throughout the centuries to come. The very idea a masterpiece of manipulation and engineered ascension that Harrul knew the ability of its conception was what differentiated him from Marcus.

"That was you, from the beginning, was it? Sparnia... The Island-Lords... All of it." he shook his head. The realization evident in his voice, slipping out of his mouth almost unintentionally.

The title of the Warmaster was what sparked the schism between him and Marcus. To be offered it back, this time onto himself, demonstrated the trust Marcus had in him, to command the Night Court's armies. Something that Sylvia was incapable of doing. Unlike Harrul, Sylvia held onto her sentiment that often drove her to rush actions and ill-calculated responds to provocation. Harrul, though boiling within, had accepted his damnation as a sacrifice to his kin. And, as the Warmaster, any of his initial fears were vanished. Now, he would lead. He would decide. He would plan.

And answer, only, to Marcus himself...

"To accept that title is to mend what was broken in the concord." Harrul then intoned, tilting his head back, his eyes fixed on Marcus. "To offer it, is to trust your wars on my hands."

He paused, letting the aftereffect of his words hang for few breaths.

"I do not take your words lightly. I know we are separated by centuries. But I shall not let the youth of my curse blind me to the workings of the Night."

There was little meaning in denying what both knew. Harrul was a child. An infant, even, to the eyes of Marcus. And yet, the latter had accepted him, so easily twisting the events around him to lead him to where he stood now. Accepting the title was no mere gesture of truce, between the Isles and the Night King. It was far, far more than that. It was to accept his place, beneath Marcus' guise. To acknowledge the path laid for him by Marcus, as the Warmaster, and the harbringer of his will while he would be asleep. A trusted angel of Night.

The Red Angel.

The King nodded to Marcus, as his thoughts one after the other fell into place, paving the highway of the words spoken then, in the same certainty of the Abhertach, as that of the clandestine invitation, when that very meeting was joined.

"I accept the honour, Marcus Aumont, King of Night. I shall take it upon myself to lead your armies; Our armies, when and where the Night calls. And I vow, if this accord is honoured, to stand by your side, when you dive into the dark of the sarcophagus."

His hand finally letting go of the pommel. His glove pulled off, exposing the pale hand of the King.

He offered to Marcus. His palm steady, lifeless like marble.
His voice a loud call, worded by the Old Tongue, now long forgotten by Erova. His black eyes blazing in determination, for once in synchrony with the howling of the Beast Within, inexplicably attuned to the unfolding moments, pushing Harrul to speak the words that had not be spoken for centuries, as if he himself was there when they were first spoken.

Nox Aeterna.​

 

[Marcus Aumont]

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 older. Something that hummed through the veins of the Pureblooded. Nox Aeterna—the Eternal Night. Not a mere oath. A covenant written in blood and shadow.

A rare thing, stirred in Marcus’ features. Not triumph. Not manipulation. But satisfaction. The final piece placed on the board.

“So be it,” he intoned, his voice low, weighty with ancient power. “From this night forward, Harrul Ulfbitenn, you are the Warmaster of the Night Court. The blade that leads. The will that strikes. And when the stars dim and the sarcophagus closes—my chosen steward of war.”

He held the clasp a second longer, sealing the pact not with words, but with the silent fury of shared vision. Then, he released it, stepping back with the ease of a King no longer testing a rival—but greeting a partner.

“We begin at once.”

Marcus moved toward the great black map upon the wall—inked in ash, veined in silver, pulsing faintly with the blood of ancient cartographers. With a sweep of his hand, glowing crimson threads flared to life—paths of war, of influence, of conquest.

“First: the Iron Cult. Let them whisper of heresy. Let them sharpen their blades. We will not wait for them to strike. You and I will craft a plan of war—not raids, not subterfuge. A declaration. We will raze their temples and shatter their reliquaries. The gods they whisper to will bleed before our names.”

His finger traced the Sparnish coast, then the black heart of Eirelunn.

“We begin with their border chapters. We find their high priest. We cut off the head, and when their sheep panic, we burn the pasture.” A glance toward Harrul. “I’ll have our spies bring you their movements. You’ll choose the moment of reckoning.”

He turned next to the northern edges of the map, where minor supernatural nations flickered faintly, isolated but not forgotten.

“Second: expansion. Our influence must grow. There are still courts of power—fragmented, fearful, unaware of what’s rising. They cling to old bloodlines and ancient symbols, mistaking isolation for safety. We will change that. We will place our cabals among them. Not to rule with chains, but to bind with shadow. Each land, a tower. Each tower, a voice.”

He paused for a moment smiled and then continued.

“We will offer them a choice: sovereignty in the dark, or irrelevance beneath it. We build cabals there, loyalists trained in our ways. Each region shall host a black tower. Each tower will host a councilor loyal to us.”

Then his gaze dipped to the southern border—beyond Erova, into the red deserts and smoking canyons.

“The hobgoblins in the south remain fractured. Their chieftains feud, but their blood runs hot for conquest. We stoke that fire. You, Harrul, will visit them. Offer one of their warlords strength, titles, spoils. Raise him high—and then chain the rest to him. Let their fury sweep through the lower kingdoms. We follow in their wake, not as conquerors, but as gods.”

Marcus stepped back from the map now, turning once more to the newly sworn War Master.

“This is not simple conquest. It is the reshaping of the world in Night’s image. I remain here, in Ali, for now. I intend to see the voids of power filled. When our southern plans begin, Your place will have been carved by the Night itself.”

He paused now, the tone softening—just slightly.

“We will not be kings then. We will be something more.”

Marcus extended his arm—not to shake, but to welcome.

“You are the Red Angel. The harbinger of Night. And together, we will write the next verse in blood. Come, Harrul. The night awaits its War Master.”



Tag: @Harrul Ulfbitenn