Dark Monarch &The Unbound.

In the main castle, a massive celebration roars to life in honor of Owen. The grand halls are alive with music, the rhythmic beat of drums echoing off the towering stone walls as nobles, warriors, and common folk alike revel in the night's festivities. Golden chandeliers cast shimmering light over long tables piled high with lavish feasts—succulent meats, fresh fruits, and goblets brimming with the finest wine. Dancers twirl in vibrant silks, and bards sing songs of Owen's rise, their melodies weaving tales of strength and destiny.

At the heart of it all, Owen sits upon an elaborately carved throne, a symbol of newfound power and responsibility. As tradition demands, he partakes in the ceremonial toast, lifting a jeweled chalice high as the crowd erupts into cheers. But the night is not just about celebration—it is a test. Every new leader must prove their worth before they are fully accepted. Some rulers before him have faced trials of combat, riddles of wisdom, or feats of endurance, all to demonstrate their strength before the people. Tonight, all eyes are on Owen as his challenge is revealed.

One by one, the kingdom's most powerful figures step forward, presenting their gifts—rare artifacts, enchanted weapons, and relics of past rulers—tokens of both loyalty and expectation. The court watches closely, whispering of what Owen's reign will bring. The air is thick with excitement and anticipation, for this night marks not just a party, but the dawn of a new rule.

The man moved with precise agility, his footsteps silent against the marble floors as he weaved through the shadows. Every movement was calculated—each shift of his body timed perfectly to avoid the sweeping gaze of the guards. He pressed himself against the towering bookshelves, slipping between them with the grace of a phantom. When a guard turned, he ducked just in time, his breath steady, his presence nearly undetectable. With each passing second, he melted deeper into the darkness, a ghost in the castle halls.

Meanwhile, laughter rang through the grand library, the warm glow of candlelight flickering against the polished wooden shelves. Owen's wife, Seraphina, sat among a group of noblewomen, their voices dancing over one another in cheerful conversation. One of the ladies, fanning herself lazily, turned to Seraphina with a curious smile.

"Speaking of which, how's Allen?" she asked. "I swear, it's been what—nine years? The last time I saw him feels like a lifetime ago."

The man moved like a shadow, unseen and undetected. With a subtle motion, he activated the artifact hidden beneath his cloak, sealing his presence completely. No breath, no sound—just silence. His steps were smooth, calculated, as he glided past the noblewomen, his focus locked on Seraphina.

Above his palm, a green liquid swirled, shifting like a restless current. It twisted and coiled in slow, mesmerizing patterns, reflecting the dim candlelight in ghostly hues.

Just as he neared Seraphina, the heavy doors swung open with a low creak. The women turned as Allen stepped inside, his brows rising in surprise. He hesitated before bowing slightly.

"My apologies for interrupting," he said. "I didn't realize there was a gathering."

He turned to leave, but Seraphina's voice stopped him.

"Allen, wait."

He turned back as his mother, poised and graceful, gestured toward the guests.

"Come greet our visitors," she said.

With a nod, Allen stepped forward, still unaware of the unseen figure lurking just beyond the candlelight.

The man's eyes flickered with irritation. What is that fool doing here of all places? This was an unwelcome complication.

Seraphina stepped aside with effortless grace, her sharp eyes watching Allen closely. Though poised, there was a subtle weight in her expression, something unreadable beneath her composed demeanor.

Before Allen could speak, one of the guests smiled and leaned forward. "Well, well, if it isn't Allen. It's been far too long."

Another guest chuckled, raising a glass. "Nine years, wasn't it? We were starting to think you'd vanished from the face of the world."

Allen offered a small, polite nod. "Time moves quickly," he said. "I hope you've all been well."

What a pathetic gathering, the man thought as he focused on his task.

The swirling green liquid in his hand condensed into a dense, pulsating orb. Without hesitation, he pressed it against Seraphina's head.

She barely had time to react before an agonizing pain tore through her body. A sharp gasp escaped her lips before she spun around, her voice rising in alarm. "An intruder!"

Then, as if her body had betrayed her, blood burst from her eyes, nose, ears, and mouth. A crimson flood spilled from her skin as she collapsed onto the floor, her limbs trembling before falling still.

"Get the guards!" Allen commanded, dropping to her side, his hands hovering over her in horror. His breath was ragged, his eyes wide with disbelief.

From the shadows, the man exhaled, watching the scene unfold. It's finished.

He turned to leave, but before he could take a step—

"Stop!"

Allen's voice cut through the air like a blade, and in an instant, the man's body froze. His limbs locked in place, his breath hitched, and then—a sickening crack. The artifact shattered, its power useless against whatever force held him still.

The ladies shrieked and bolted from the room, their panicked footsteps echoing through the hall.

As Allen extended his arm, the man's body locked in place, his breath faltering. Impossible... how can you—

Before the man could finish the thought, Allen's hand shot out, gripping his throat with terrifying strength. The man's heart raced as the invisible pressure constricted, but it was too late to react. Within seconds, his airways collapsed entirely.

There was a brief, suffocating moment where the man's eyes widened, desperate for breath. Then, with a final, sickening snap, his neck broke. His body went limp, crumpling to the ground in an instant, blood pooling from his mouth.

Allen stood over him, his expression cold and unmoving. The silence in the room felt endless, broken only by the distant sounds of the women's retreating footsteps. The man was gone—quickly, cleanly, without a chance to fight back.