◆ Silas ◆

I sit on my throne, carved from the bones of those who dared to challenge me, and watch the trembling man before me. Oberon kneels, his forehead pressed to the cold stone floor of the grand hall.

The Executioner's Room, they call it.

A fitting name, I suppose.

It’s silent, save for the pathetic whimpers of the accused.

My gaze sweeps the room, taking in every detail. Dark stone walls absorb the flickering torchlight, a classic design reminiscent of twilight. Tapestries depicting the fall of Atlantis and the rise of the Brotherhood hang between ornate pillars, fitting pictures of our history and the power we’ve clawed back from the ashes.

To my right, Aria kneels silently. Her golden hair cascades over her shoulders, a stark contrast to her bronze skin. She wears a flowing dress of sheer, pale blue fabric—a nod to her Zionite heritage. The garment leaves little to the imagination, yet maintains an air of mystery. Spiraling tattoos, marks of her spirit walker ancestry, peek out from beneath the fabric.

I think back to when she first arrived, all fire and defiance. It took months to break her, but the challenge… ah, the challenge was exquisite. Now, her emerald eyes remain fixed on the floor, but I can see the slight tremble in her delicate hands. She fears me, as she should, but there’s something else there too. A fascination? Perhaps even a twisted form of devotion?

At the far end of the room, another woman, another slave, stands ready, bucket and mop in hand. There’s a look of resignation on her weathered face. 

She knows what’s coming. They all do.

Flanking the prisoner are two of my most trusted guards, Ajax and Brutus. Their massive frames, clothed in midnight blue of the Brotherhood, make the kneeling man between them look even more pathetic in comparison.

Pity. To think he once stood among the Brotherhood, now he grovels like a common dog.

Corvin, my right hand, stands to my left, his voice steady as he lists the accused’s crimes. I let the words wash over me, my face impassive. They call me the Reaper, and for good reason. Death follows in my wake.

“Oberon stands accused of high treason,” Corvin says, his deep voice filling the chamber. “He was caught with forbidden texts detailing the construction of the Tower of Babylon. Evidence suggests he’s been communicating with outsiders, specifically members of the secret society aiming to rebuild what they now call the ‘Temple’.”

I lean forward slightly. “What evidence do we have of this communication?”

Corvin produces a rolled parchment. “A coded message, King Silas. Our cryptographers deciphered it. It speaks of gathering resources from Bethel to find a way to ‘awaken the Temple’.”

“I see,” I murmur, my tone deceptively calm. “And how did this… correspondence come into our possession?”

A ghost of a smile flickers across Corvin’s face. “Your field commander, Lucien, intercepted it personally. He’s been tracking suspected sympathizers for months.”

Ah, Lucien. 

Corvin’s son, and perhaps the most promising warrior the Brotherhood has seen in generations. His dedication is commendable, his skills unparalleled. It seems I chose well in appointing him as my field commander.

“Excellent work,” I nod. “Continue.”

As Corvin resumes his list of Oberon’s crimes, my mind drifts to the past. To the reasons why Babylon should have remained the sole domain of the Brotherhood.

We are blood descendants of the creators, the last true astral projectors in this sunken city. Atlantis, lost beneath the waves, trapped between life and death—and we, the Brotherhood, are its rightful rulers. This is our domain, our hunting ground. And I am the Brotherhood’s King.

I was just a boy when the tower fell, when God’s wrath rained down upon us. The sky split open, the seas rose, and the earth shook. In a matter of hours, a civilization that had stood for a millennia was no more. 

But we survived. The Brotherhood endured, clinging to life in this half-world between realms. And over time, we thrived. We carved out our kingdom in the ruins of the old world, ruling over the scattered remnants of humanity that found their way to our shores.

I remember the day I took power, the day I claimed my birthright. King Cassian of Bethel, drunk on the power of his Philosopher's Stone, thought to subjugate us all. He killed my parents and slaughtered anyone who dared oppose him.

But he underestimated me. 

I can still taste the sweetness of that victory, the rush of power as I claimed the Stone and the Elixir of Immortality for myself. In that moment, I became more than just a man. I became a god.

Now, I rule over Babylon with an iron fist. The Brotherhood, once merely strong, has become unstoppable under my leadership. We’re more than just astral projectors now. Some of us are realm weavers like the Salemites, others alchemists like the Elonians. My own alchemist blood, whom I have my mother to thank for, though not of royalty descent, allowed me to wield the Stone, and I bent its power to my will.

I am immortal. Indestructible. Feared by all, challenged by none.

Or so I thought.

This secret society, these vermin scurrying in the shadows, daring to dream of rebuilding what God Himself struck down. 

Fools. Idiots. 

I fear no man, no beast, no spirit. But God? Only a madman would not tremble at His wrath.

And yet, a part of me almost admires their audacity. To think they could succeed where the greatest minds of Atlantis failed. To believe they could challenge the very order of the universe.

Their persistence is… intriguing. For years, I’ve watched them operate from the shadows, gathering resources, recruiting followers. They work with a fervor that borders on religious devotion. 

Do they not understand the consequences of their actions? Or do they simply not care?

Perhaps they think the world has changed since the fall of Atlantis. Perhaps they believe their ‘Temple’ will succeed where the Tower failed. But they’re wrong. Some things are constant, immutable. The hunger for power. The price of ambition. The wrath of the divine.

I’ve allowed them to exist thus far because they posed no real threat. Their fumbling attempts at secrecy were almost amusing. But now… now they’ve gone too far. Infiltrating the Brotherhood itself? That cannot be tolerated.

The world thinks this… society is following my orders. That they are part of the Brotherhood, and at my command, Bethel is under attack.

It’s a lie. A false rumor.

I haven’t had interest in anything as petty as control over the alchemists’ ground since before I took the reins. Although, I do enjoy watching them cower in fear, awaiting for my supposed arrival. I hardly get enough entertainment these days—a… minor side effect of being immortal.

“King Silas?” Corvin’s voice pulls me from my reverie. “That concludes the list of charges. Do you require any further information before passing judgment?”

Ah, yes. Judgment. 

The part I relish most.

I rise from my throne, each movement deliberate, measured. My boots click against the stone floor as I descend the dais, a sharp and ominous sound in the hushed chamber. I can feel Aria’s eyes on me now, a mix of fear and anticipation in her gaze.

Oberon’s pleas increase in desperation as I approach, a high pitched sound that grates my nerves. “Please, King Silas,” he whimpers, daring to raise his head to meet my gaze. “I was misled, deceived. I never meant to betray the Brotherhood. I have information, names of others involved. Spare me, and I’ll tell you everything!”

I tower over him, my shadow falling across his prostrate form like the shroud of death itself. “Oberon,” I say, my voice soft but carrying easily across the silent room. “Do you know why they call me the Reaper?”

He swallows hard, his eyes wide with terror. “B-Because… Because you bring death, King Silas.”

“No,” I reply, a cold smile playing at my lips. “It’s because I separate the wheat from the chaff. I cut away the rot that threatens to poison us all. And you, Oberon, are the foulest rot I’ve seen in quite some time.”

“No, please, I—”

My hand moves faster than mortal eyes can follow. There’s a satisfying crack as it connects, and Oberon’s head separates cleanly from his shoulders. It rolls across the floor, leaving a trail of crimson in its wake, coming to rest at the feet of the waiting slave who battles not to scream, whimpering in terror, trembling in fear.

Hmm. Poor thing.

A collective gasp ripples through the room. Even Corvin, seasoned as he is, can’t quite hide his shock at the swiftness and brutality of the execution.

Good. Let them remember. Let them fear.

I turn, ready to return to my throne, when a sound cuts through the silence. A horn, deep and resonant, echoing through the halls of my fortress.

An intruder?

I arch a brow, meeting Corvin’s surprised gaze. It’s been… decades since anyone dared to trespass on my land. I should be angry. I should be furious at the breach.

Instead, I feel something I haven’t experienced in far too long.

Intrigue.

“King Silas,” Corvin begins, recovering his composure quickly. “Shall I dispatch the guard to deal with the intruder?”

“No,” I reply, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. It’s an expression that has sent braver men than him scrambling for cover. “Don’t bother. Lucien is more than capable of keeping our uninvited guest occupied until I arrive.”

Corvin nods, a glint of pride in his eyes with dawning understanding. “Of course, King Silas. Lucien will not disappoint you.”

“See that he doesn’t,” I say, my tone leaving no doubt to the consequences of failure. “Now, have this mess cleaned up. I want the room spotless by the time I return.”

As I stride towards the massive double doors, I pause, my thoughts shifting briefly to Aria.

I haven’t taken my pet out for a walk in a while.

Without looking at her, I speak softly. “Come, slave. You’ll attend me for this.”

“Yes, Master,” I hear her voice tremble with excitement as she scrambles to her feet, falling into step behind me as I exit. I slip a hand into my pocket, the other hanging loosely at my side. My steps are measured, deliberate, belying the anticipation building within. 

With each step, I can almost taste the fear in the air. It’s been too long since I’ve stretched my legs, since I’ve felt the thrill of the hunt. Whoever this fool is, whatever brought them to my shores, they’ve done me a service.