Chapter two: Whispers Before the Storm
Issac jolted awake in a place swallowed by darkness—a cold, suffocating emptiness pressing against his chest. His breath caught as he turned his head. A cry twisted in his throat.
Bodies.
His loved ones—limp, lifeless, strewn across the floor like broken dolls, torn apart in ways too gruesome for a sane mind to process. The world spun. Issac dropped to his knees, nausea overtaking him. He vomited violently, hot tears streaming down his cheeks, mixing with the bloodied stone beneath him.
In the distance, a throne emerged, bathed in light too pure for such a nightmare. Ornate and ancient, it stood as if carved from the very bones of the gods. Atop it sat a figure—shrouded in flowing black robes, his hood casting his face in shadow. Gold-lined sashes coiled across his chest, catching the eerie glow like firelight. His hair was long, braided with beads of jet and obsidian. A beard curled beneath his chin. One hand rested lazily on the arm of the throne; the other propped up his head in almost bored amusement.
Issac, breathless and trembling, staggered forward. The figure didn't move, save for a slow, mocking grin crawling across his shadowed lips. They moved—his lips forming silent words—but no sound came. Only a heavy, golden light burst from his eyes, blinding and all-consuming.
Issac screamed.
And awoke.
He shot upright in the infirmary bed, drenched in sweat. Bandages clung to his chest, and the cold air of reality hit him like a wave.
"Young master!" the castle nurse rushed to his side, wide-eyed. "What's wrong?"
Panting, Issac wiped his forehead, the ghost of the dream clinging to him like smoke. He forced a weak smile. "Just… a dream."
A fragile silence followed, pierced only by his steadying breath. "I'm glad that's over," he murmured, sinking back onto the bed.
The room changed as a new presence entered—regal, commanding, yet warm. The Queen of Atlas. Her silken gown whispered with each step, and the nurses bowed without hesitation.
Issac groaned internally. This couldn't get any worse, he thought as her gaze locked onto his.
"How fares the heir to the throne?" she asked with a teasing glint in her eye.
"Mom…" he groaned, chuckling. "Seriously? The formalities?"
"You were about to turn your cousin into ashes—again. Maybe I should start calling you 'Your Majesty' already."
She took a seat at his bedside, folding her legs with grace. "It's your own fault you're in this condition."
"I wasn't going to hurt Idris," Issac muttered, rolling his eyes. "I just... lost control for a second. Grandfather slammed me, remember?"
"Rightly so," she laughed, tapping him lightly on the forehead. "He still cares about you."
Issac gave a quiet nod. He considered telling her about the dream—the man, the light, the dead—but stopped himself. No need to worry her over something that might mean nothing.
"I have court matters to attend to," she said, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "Rest. And behave."
Once she was gone, the nurses returned, fussing over his bandages as if nothing had happened.
In the hallway, the Queen met Azar leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, face heavy with concern.
"He's fine," she said gently. "You don't need to worry so much."
"That's not what concerns me," Azar murmured. His eyes remained shadowed. "Issac isn't like the others. His Zone Whirlpool is... colossal. I had to stop him. If I hadn't—Idris would be in a grave. And Issac's own body might've torn itself apart."
The Queen let out a quiet sigh. "He's just like his father, isn't he?"
Azar scoffed. "You mean the brute king you married? Absolutely."
They shared a quiet laugh, but neither of them noticed the shadow behind the pillar—watching.
The figure remained still as they disappeared around a corner. Slowly, he stepped forward into the moonlight filtering through the stained glass. A hooded veil covered his face, but his eyes—serpentine slits glowing with malice—betrayed his inhumanity. In his hand, he clutched a small orb etched with ancient runes, pulsing faintly.
"Tomorrow," he whispered. "We bring down this empire."
Then, he turned—and found someone standing before him.
"Ah, I don't believe we've met," Klaus said, wearing a half-lopsided smile that screamed idiot.
The intruder's hand moved behind his cloak, reaching for a dagger.
Klaus waved a dismissive hand. "No need to be shy. You must be one of the new servants, yeah? Bit late to be lurking though."
Before the man could strike, Klaus was already turning away, whistling a happy hymn down the corridor.
This one's a fool, the man thought.
But as Klaus vanished around the corner, his smile faded. His posture straightened. His eyes sharpened.
"That... was no ordinary slave."
A grin crept across his face—unhinged, ecstatic. "The castle's been compromised. Finally... something exciting."
He laughed—wild, echoing—his voice bouncing off the ancient walls. Adjusting his golden earrings and royal sash, he pulled his mask of idiocy back on just as Lena turned the corner.
"Lena!" he called. "Looking for me?"
She scowled. "Heard someone laughing like an idiot. Of course it was you."
"Come on, you know I'm a genius," he said, poking her shoulder.
"Sure," she muttered. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."
Together, they disappeared into the corridors, his fool's act firmly back in place.
In the throne room, the King of Atlas sat alone, eyes clouded with thought. His fingers drummed against the arm of his gilded seat. Muscled but not monstrous, his frame spoke of power honed, not inherited. His skin glowed like obsidian under firelight; his long hair fell like a curtain of shadow over his shoulders. A golden armband glinted—an emerald set at its center.
A soft voice teased from the doorway.
"What weighs so heavily on your mind, my king?"
The Queen, now dressed in flowing white and silver, entered like a vision. She slid gracefully onto his lap, her fingers brushing his cheek.
"The noble dogs of Arcacia," he said, sighing. "Still begging for alliances. Still clinging to hope we'll change our mind."
"Do you think war is coming?" she asked, eyes narrowing.
"We've turned them down for centuries. Sooner or later... they'll try to take what they want."
"But Atlas does not bend," she whispered proudly.
"No," the King said, "we don't."
She looked into his eyes. "And your son?"
The King chuckled. "A monster in the making. His zone pool rivals mine when I was his age."
The Queen stood, brushing imaginary dust from her gown. "We should prepare for the Cube Festival. The people need hope."
She walked toward the balcony, each step dripping with regal seduction. The King's gaze lingered with pride.
"I'll be waiting," she said with a wink, then vanished into the castle halls.
Silence fell.
Then the King's aura began to rise—winds circling the throne. His hair lifted, his eyes blazed with glowing white pupils. The air trembled as his power rippled through the castle.
Guards outside sensed it—activated their own zones in response.
Light burst from the throne room, cascading into the sky like white auroras. All of Atlas watched.
In the market, a child looked up, eyes wide. "Mama, what's that light?"
The mother smiled. "That, my love... that's the King."
Back in the throne room, the King's eyes dimmed. The pressure faded.
He spoke, voice soft as a whisper, yet heavy as prophecy:
"Tomorrow, we honor our forefathers... Tomorrow, the Cube awakens."
Three sharp thuds echoed as his guards beat their chests.
The storm was coming.