The holding cell in the palace's eastern tower was never designed to hold royalty. The small room with its cold stone walls was usually used to house servants caught stealing or merchants who had delinquently paid their taxes. Now, it was Askaroth's final resting place before his execution, scheduled for tomorrow.
The golden manacles still encircled his wrists, but they felt like hellish shackles. Every movement caused the metal to scrape against his already chafed skin, leaving bloodstains on the once-glowing gold. The painful irony—even in prison, they still retained the appearance of nobility.
Askaroth sat on a hard straw mattress, his back pressed against the cold wall. The branding scar on his shoulder continued to throb with an increasingly strange rhythm. Ever since the trial had ended with a verdict of death, the warmth flowing from the wound had grown more intense. It was as if something in his blood was preparing for something great.
Crown of Shadows, the words of the Last Oracle still echoed in his head. Bloodline of the Exiled Kings. How could it be? In his twenty-eight years of life, there had been no hint that his blood carried such an ancient and powerful heritage.
But the more he thought about it, the more things began to make sense. Her ability to read people with such precision. Her almost supernatural political intuition. The way she could sense lies like a pungent odor. And now, the ability to see the threads of fate that connected individuals.
It wasn't just natural talent. It was the manifestation of something much deeper.
The sound of soft footsteps echoed through the corridor. Askaroth lifted his head, hoping it was Seraphina coming to explain his betrayal, or perhaps provide the closure he needed before dying. But the footsteps were too light for a woman, and too deliberate for a guard.
The key creaked in the lock, and the cell door swung open slowly. It wasn't who he expected to see.
An old man with a hunched body and a wrinkled face stepped into the cell. He was dressed in simple butler's robes, but there was something about the way he moved that was unusual. His steps were too silent, his eyes too alert for a mere servant.
"Young master," the old man bowed, his voice hoarse like burning paper. "I have been asked to bring you the last meal."
Askaroth stared at the simple tray the man carried. A plate of black bread, a bowl of thin soup, and a glass of water. Food for a regular prisoner, not a former Royal Advisor about to be executed. Another small humiliation in a never-ending series of insults.
"Who sent you?" Askaroth asked, though he already expected the answer.
"Duke Aldric," the old man replied, setting the tray on the floor. "He said... he said that traitors do not deserve good food."
Askaroth laughed bitterly. "Of course he said so."
But as the old man was about to leave, he stopped in front of the door. Without turning around, he whispered in a barely audible voice.
"There is something you need to know, sir."
Something in his tone made Askaroth wary. This was no ordinary servant. "Tell me."
"Tomorrow's execution... that is not the end of their plans." The old man finally turned, and Askaroth was surprised to see eyes far sharper and more intelligent than a servant should have. "That is only the beginning."
"What do you mean?"
The old man glanced down the corridor, making sure no one was listening. "House Valdris... the lord's family... they won't be left alive long after the execution. Duke Aldric has already prepared new charges. Conspiracy, harboring a traitor, crimes against the crown."
Askaroth's blood ran cold. "No. They know nothing of—"
"The truth is not important," the old man interrupted. "What is important is that with the death of the entire House Valdris, all assets and territories will fall to Duke Aldric. Without a legitimate heir, the kingdom will claim all property as crown property, and then 'give' it to the Duke as a reward for his loyalty."
Askaroth felt a deep rage course through his veins. This was not just about him. This was about the systematic destruction of his entire family. His sixteen-year-old sister. His frail, old mother. His aunt and uncle who had never been involved in court politics.
They would all die because of one man's ambition.
"Why are you telling me this?" Askaroth asked, though he already suspected the answer.
The old man smiled—a smile that did not fit the humble servant's face. "Because I know who you really are. And because the Last Oracle is not the only one who knows about your bloodline."
Askaroth stood abruptly, his golden cuffs rattling. "You—"
"My name is Mordecai," the old man interrupted. "I am the last Shadow Keeper of the Old Order. And I have waited decades for the true Shadowlord to rise."
Shadow Keepers. Askaroth had read about them in forbidden ancient texts. They were guardians and advisors to the Exiled Kings, masters of information and manipulation who worked from the shadows.
"But you… you are merely a servant—"
"I have been disguised as a servant in this palace for twenty years," Mordecai smiled with a predatory expression. "Waiting, gathering information, preparing for the day when the true bloodline will claim its rightful place."
Askaroth felt his head spin. "Twenty years? But why now? Why not—"
"Because your power has not yet fully awakened. The Crown of Shadows they branded upon your shoulder is the catalyst needed." Mordecai stepped closer, his eyes gleaming with something almost fanatical. "With every passing minute, that ancient power flows deeper into your blood. Tomorrow, when they try to execute you, they will discover that the Shadowlord cannot be killed by ordinary means."
Askaroth stared at the scar on his shoulder. The warmth he felt was indeed getting more intense. And there was something else—a growing awareness, as if he could feel the presence of every living being in a wider radius.
"What should I do?" he asked.
"For now, nothing." Mordecai stepped back toward the door. "Let them believe they have won. Let them think that tomorrow's execution will end it all. But when the right moment comes..."
The old man took something out of his robe—a small crescent moon-shaped pendant made of black metal. "Hold this when you feel your power reaching its peak. It will help you channel the awakening properly."
Askaroth took the pendant, and when the cold metal touched his skin, he felt an immediate resonance. As if the object recognized him, acknowledged him as its rightful owner.
"Remember," Mordecai said as he opened the cell door, "tomorrow is not the end. It's the beginning of reclamation. The beginning of revenge."
"Wait," Askaroth called. "My family—"
"It's taken care of," Mordecai smiled mysteriously. "Shadow Keepers never work alone. We have a network they can't even imagine. House Valdris will be safe, but they must believe that your master is dead. At least for now."
With that, the old man disappeared into the darkness of the corridor, leaving Askaroth alone with his mind-shattering revelations.
Askaroth sat back on his straw mattress, the pendant still clutched tightly in his hand. Everything began to change. His identity, his destiny, even the nature of his existence. He was no longer the Askaroth who had fallen from grace. He was something much more ancient and dangerous.
But what shocked him most was the realization that he was not alone. There were forces at work behind the scenes, people who had been preparing for this moment for decades.
Tomorrow, they would try to execute him in front of the entire palace. They'll think they're ending the story of a traitor.
Instead, they'll be witnessing the birth of something that will change the balance of power forever.
Askaroth felt the Crown of Shadows on his shoulder pulse with ever more powerful energy. And for the first time since his capture, he smiled—a smile that was cold, predatory, and absolutely terrifying.
Let them think they've won.
Tomorrow, they'll learn the difference between a fallen nobleman and an awakening Shadowlord.
But what he didn't realize was that beyond the cell walls, someone was listening. Someone who had overheard his entire conversation with Mordecai. Someone who was now rushing through the corridors toward Duke Aldric with information that would dramatically change the execution plans.
The game was about to become infinitely more dangerous.
And everyone, including Askaroth, was about to discover that they were all just pieces on a chessboard much bigger than they thought.