The room was suffused with a heavy, oppressive silence, broken only by the soft crackle of torches lining the damp stone walls. The air reeked of mildew and blood, a stench that clung to the throat like mold. Across the cold floor stretched a large, intricately painted star, its points marked by flickering candles whose flames twitched in the drafts. At each point knelt a figure, hands bound tightly behind their backs. Muffled sobs leaked from beneath the rough, stained sacks over their heads, their despair thickening the air like smoke.

  Behind each captive stood a robed figure, their faces hidden beneath heavy hoods. The torchlight cast warped shadows along the walls, stretching and curling with every flicker, as if the darkness itself had come alive to bear witness.

  Then came the screech of iron—sharp, sudden, jarring.

  A gate slammed shut behind three figures that emerged from the shadows. Two wore black robes identical to the others, but they flanked a man whose presence was impossible to miss.

  He wore no robe—just a simple tunic and trousers—but it was his eyes that marked him. They glowed a deep, unnatural red, like embers buried in ash. His hair was as dark as the shadows clinging to the stone. A sly smirk played at his lips, radiating a confidence so calm it bled into arrogance. He walked with his hands tucked lazily into his pockets, the predator at ease among prey.

  “What’s all this?” he drawled, voice smooth as silk and twice as sharp. “Sacrifices? For me?”

  He began circling the star, his gaze sweeping across the hooded figures and their trembling captives. A low chuckle followed, dry and rasping, echoing off the stone. “You shouldn’t have.”

  He stopped at the topmost point of the star. Slowly—almost absentmindedly—he reached down and yanked the sack off one captive’s head.

  The man beneath was pale and drenched in sweat, his breath shallow, his eyes locked on the floor as if looking up might kill him.

  Malekith’s smirk widened. A quiet, cruel laugh spilled from his throat.

  “What’s the matter?” he murmured, leaning in slightly. “Too scared to move?”

  The laugh grew louder, richer, until it filled the chamber like a storm about to break—then stopped abruptly.

  A robed figure stepped forward, hesitation stiff in his limbs. “M-Malekith,” he said, bowing deeply. “The king is dead.”

  Malekith’s expression froze, the smirk folding away as his red eyes pinned the speaker.

  “Which one?” he asked, voice soft and flat.

  “Baron? Or Leon?”

  The robed man swallowed. “King Baron.”

  A slow grin returned to Malekith’s lips—smoother now, hungrier.

  “Ah,” he said. “Good.”

  He resumed his slow, deliberate pace, circling the star once more. “So,” he said lightly, as if making idle conversation, “I see what you’re doing. Preparing to open the gate, are we?”

  He stopped abruptly, turning on the robed man who had spoken. The smirk faded, replaced by a sudden, icy fury.

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  “Without my permission?”

  The man flinched, stumbling back a step. “I—I didn’t mean—”

  Malekith was in front of him in an instant, his breath brushing the man’s ear.

  “Shhh,” he whispered, a razor-thin smile curling on his lips. “You’re just excited. Eager for the new world, hmm?”

  The man stood frozen, eyes locked with Malekith’s burning gaze. “Sire, I—I only—”

  Malekith raised a finger to silence him, placing it gently against the trembling lips. “No structure. No discipline. I wonder...” His tone darkened, contemplative and cold. “How do you expect to wage war on humanity if you can’t even follow orders?”

  “Sire, please, I—”

  The apology never finished.

  A fine red line appeared across his throat. The man’s eyes widened as blood sprayed in a delicate arc, splashing across the painted star. His head tilted, then dropped, followed by the collapse of his body into a limp heap.

  Malekith stepped back, exhaling through his nose, as if the entire affair had been a disappointing inconvenience. “Pity,” he muttered. “I had higher hopes for that one.”

  His crimson gaze scanned the room until it found another figure. “Mormon,” he said.

  “Yes, sire,” the man stepped forward quickly..

  Malekith gestured lazily at the corpse. “Get rid of this pathetic worm.”

  Mormon hesitated only briefly. “Of course. Shall we proceed with the ritual?”

  Malekith’s smirk returned, slower this time. “Naturally,” he said, voice dipped in mockery. “But not tonight.”

  He turned away, hands still in his pockets, already half-lost to the flickering torchlight.

  “These prisoners will be spared—for now. We act when I say. Not before.”

  Mormon bowed again and moved to drag the body toward the shadows. Around him, the other hooded men fidgeted—silent, uneasy, waiting for the next outburst.

  Malekith’s eyes returned to the star, settling on the captives. He smiled—not kindly, but with a slow, creeping malice.

  “Soon,” he murmured, just loud enough for the candlelight to seem to flicker in answer.

  Then came his laughter—low, unhurried, and dark as the pit beneath the world. It filled the chamber, crawling along the stone like smoke, and every flame seemed to dim beneath its weight.

  “Now, clean this mess up,” Malekith ordered, his voice like stone—cold, final. He turned without looking back, hands buried in his pockets, the picture of effortless authority.

  The robed men scattered into motion. Some dragged the lifeless body toward the shadows; others began untying the trembling captives and guiding them from the chamber. The noise of hurried footsteps and muffled sobs filled the air, but Malekith didn’t slow. He moved as if untouched by the chaos behind him.

  Mormon hesitated, then hurried to catch up, his voice tentative. “Sire?”

  Malekith didn’t glance his way. “What is it now, foolish puppet?” The words were clipped, already weary.

  “I-it’s just…” Mormon swallowed hard. “With King Baron out of the way, now might be the perfect time to open the gate.”

  Malekith stopped.

  The air seemed to still with him. Slowly, he turned. His glowing red eyes fixed on Mormon, and though he said nothing, the weight of that gaze pinned the man in place.

  “Excuse me?” Malekith’s voice was low—too low. The kind of calm that precedes catastrophe. “Are you questioning my decisions?”

  Mormon froze. He couldn’t move. Malekith hadn’t touched him, yet it felt as though the air had thickened into stone, locking his limbs in place. His breath came in shallow gasps.

  Malekith stepped forward. Though smaller in stature, his presence eclipsed Mormon entirely. A smile curved his lips, slow and cutting.

  “There are still tasks unfinished,” Malekith said, each word slow and deliberate. He lifted a finger. “One: the king. Done.” Another finger. “Two: the halo.” His gaze swept the dark corners of the chamber. “Which, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, we still lack.”

  The crushing weight vanished. Mormon staggered back, gasping like a drowning man who'd finally surfaced.

  “Wh-where is it?” he stammered. “Sire?”

  “I don’t know,” Malekith replied coolly, already turning away. “That is why this ritual will wait. I will not open the gate until the halo is in my possession.”

  “But—”

  Malekith paused. Tilted his head slightly. “Do you believe I’d risk failure?” he asked softly, deadly. “That I’d jeopardize everything I’ve built… because of your impatience?”

  Mormon said nothing.

  Malekith resumed walking, his voice turning almost playful. “Once I have the halo—and only then—I will drown this world in chaos. But not a moment sooner.”

  The sound of his boots echoed down the corridor, fading into the dark.

  Malekith's footsteps faded, swallowed by the stone. The shadows closed behind him like a wound. Mormon stood alone in the dim, flickering light—silent, still, and drowning beneath the weight of obedience.