章 10: kane's fury

Kane moved into his chambers with deliberate slowness, Though no words were exchanged, his fury loomed over the room like a storm cloud, tangible and oppressive. The Dark Squad—trained warriors, infamous and unshakable—were already on their feet, their backs stiff as iron and eyes lowered instinctively. Not one dared meet Kane's gaze.

The maid entered moments later, her presence a stark contrast to the imposing soldiers. Her steps were timid, barely audible. She kept her face down, her trembling hands clinging to her apron as though it could shield her. She exuded helplessness, her figure small and fragile in the vast chamber. Every instinct told her to flee, but her legs refused to carry her.

Kane's face was a mask of ice, his jaw set hard, eyes narrowed into slits that smoldered with quiet rage. He moved with an eerie calmness, crossing the room and settling onto his dark, obsidian throne. The carved edges of the chair caught the faint light, casting sharp shadows across his face. The silence stretched, cold and suffocating.

A slight, almost imperceptible flick of his wrist summoned the soldier forward. The man obeyed instantly, though every muscle in his body screamed to remain frozen. His steps were measured but stiff, his jaw clenched, and his eyes locked ahead—any hesitation could set Kane off. He came to a halt a few feet before his ruler and stood at attention, trying to steady his shallow breaths.

What happened next shattered the room's air of rigid composure. Kane's gaze sharpened as he pressed a fingertip against the tattoo emblazoned on his chest. His movement was deliberate, purposeful. The soldiers flinched involuntarily as the ink on his skin seemed to shimmer, rippling like liquid metal. Then, impossibly, Kane drew forth a dagger—a blade as dark as midnight, gleaming with a sharpness that promised death. The sound it made, a faint hiss of steel, seemed to echo off the walls.

Gasps threatened to escape, but none dared break the silence. The soldier's eyes widened briefly before he caught himself, snapping his expression back into neutrality. Kane extended the weapon toward him, his voice sharp and low, like the growl of a predator.

"Kill her."

The maid shivered, a quiet whimper escaping her lips as her knees buckled. Her wide, tear-filled eyes darted toward the soldier, silently begging for mercy. She looked so small, so human, as she trembled there under the weight of Kane's order. The soldier hesitated, his gaze flickering with something—a fleeting glimpse of horror, pity, or regret—but it was gone in an instant. Fear swallowed all else. Kane's presence was unbearable, an invisible hand coiling around his throat.

His grip tightened on the dagger as he turned toward the maid. The blade quivered just slightly before he steadied himself, expression now empty, hollow. A quiet prayer escaped her lips—a whisper swallowed by the cavernous room—before the dagger fell.

The chamber plunged into a silence more profound than before. Blood pooled, bright and stark against the cold, unforgiving floor. Kane's eyes betrayed no emotion, not even satisfaction. His soldiers, on the other hand, stood frozen—heads bowed, fists clenched at their sides. None dared look at the lifeless form or the now pale, trembling soldier who had done the deed.

"I will have no weakness," Kane said softly, the venom in his tone making it more menacing than any shout could.

He rose slowly, the movement fluid, and his presence filled the room anew. The soldiers, in unison, bowed their heads lower as though trying to shrink into their armor. "Leave me," he ordered, his voice a quiet thunder.

Boots scraped the stone as they obeyed, each movement stiff and mechanical, as if their bodies acted on reflex alone. Their faces were unreadable, but behind their composed facades, chaos brewed. Confusion gnawed at them: What is he? How did he summon that dagger? And darker thoughts: Are we next? Will we ever leave this place alive?

Dren, the squad leader, remained behind. He stood tall, his imposing frame casting a shadow across the floor, but his shoulders were rigid, betraying his unease. His stoic mask did not falter, though his eyes lingered on the crimson stain spreading across the stone.

Outside the palace chambers, the soldiers gathered in silence. Their faces—though obscured by helmets and stoic expressions—showed glimpses of doubt. One soldier clenched his fist so hard it trembled; another inhaled sharply, as though steadying himself. No one spoke. They shared glances, each searching for answers they would not voice aloud.

They had served Kane for years, endured his fury, but this? This was something darker, something unnatural. The question rang in their minds like a haunting drumbeat: Is Kane even human?

Inside the chambers, the air was thick with Kane's fury, palpable and stifling, like a storm barely contained. He stood tall, his form a commanding silhouette against the dim light filtering in through narrow windows. His piercing gaze bore into Dren, a gaze so sharp it could strip a man's soul bare. Kane's jaw was rigid, his lips pulled into a near snarl, the veins on his neck taut with restrained anger. His voice, low and gravelly, reverberated through the stone walls as he spoke.

"You are my soldier. My soldiers. My warriors," Kane said, his words slow and deliberate, like hammer strikes on an anvil. His tone dripped with venom, and every syllable felt like a blow.

Dren stood a few feet before him, his shoulders squared, his spine straight, yet his breathing betrayed him—measured but tense, like a man who knew any sudden movement could snap the thread of Kane's temper. Sweat beaded faintly on his brow, though his face was as stoic as stone. His eyes were downcast, locked on the cold, bloodstained floor as though looking directly at Kane would be a challenge to his authority.

"As my soldiers, you will feel no emotion," Kane continued, his voice rising in intensity. His hand sliced through the air with sharp precision as he emphasized his words, the motion quick and violent. "I chose you. I made you." His tone swelled with something darker—pride, possession, dominance. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white with pressure, as though he was holding the very room in his grasp.

Dren swallowed hard, a subtle bob of his throat, as Kane advanced a step closer. The mere act sent a chill crawling up his spine. Though Dren was a leader among men—seasoned, hardened—Kane's presence made him feel impossibly small, like a shadow before the sun. Kane's anger was suffocating, spreading through the chamber, settling into the cracks in the stone, and clinging to the air like a thick smoke.

"Emotions are shackles," Kane spat, his lips curling into something between disgust and disdain. "They hold you back. I will not tolerate weakness in my warriors." His chest rose and fell with controlled breaths, though his eyes burned with a fury that threatened to consume everything in its path.

Dren dared not look up, though the pressure of Kane's presence felt like an unbearable weight on his shoulders. He stood there, unblinking, his jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides, his heart hammering in his chest. Kane's final words hit with the force of a blade—sharp, decisive, inescapable.

"I will take care of it."

A silence followed, as heavy as the moments before a downpour. Kane's gaze lingered on Dren, daring him to falter, daring him to challenge what had been said. Dren held his ground—barely.

"Now get out," Kane barked, the growl in his voice enough to make the walls seem to shudder.

Dren's body tensed at the command, and he moved without hesitation. He turned sharply, his steps quick but controlled, as though fighting the instinct to flee outright. His boots echoed against the stone floor, each step pulling him further from the suffocating storm that was Kane's fury.

His face remained a mask—expressionless, hardened—but as he neared the chamber doors, the muscles in his shoulders gave the smallest quiver, betraying the tension roiling beneath the surface. The doors groaned open, and Dren stepped into the corridor beyond, the cool air outside a sharp contrast to the blistering heat of Kane's presence.

The moment the doors shut behind him, Dren exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His fingers curled and uncurled by his sides, a subtle attempt to shake off the lingering tremor in his hands. His face, still carved into its usual stoic mask, held the faintest flicker of something—uncertainty? Frustration? Fear? It was gone as quickly as it came.

As Dren walked away, his movements were stiff, mechanical, as though he carried Kane's command on his back. He had served Kane for years, but this moment—the heat of that room, the ice in Kane's words—settled deep into his bones. He dared not show it, dared not voice it, but the question gnawed at him like an unrelenting whisper: What has Kane become?