Darkness withdrew its suffocating embrace as Ruvan opened his eyes. The world before him was no longer the narrow prison cell drenched in rot and dried blood. Instead, he saw a vast expanse of shadows stretching into eternity, woven with countless crimson threads pulsing like veins of a living god.
He stood upon the black marble floor of his mind, feeling the throne's presence tower silently behind him. Crimson threads coiled around his fingers, spiralling upwards to vanish into the void above. Each thread thrummed with a faint rhythm, echoing the hearts of those it bound.
He closed his eyes and focused. The threads revealed visions. A knight stood outside his cell, armored chest rising with calm, oblivious breaths. Servants scurried through palace corridors, carrying bloodstained linens they would burn before dawn. Far beyond them, the Emperor reclined upon his obsidian throne, his presence as vast and suffocating as the darkness Ruvan now commanded.
Among the countless threads, one flickered with dying light. He followed it until he saw her. The maid's body lay cold upon a slab of polished stone, lifeless eyes reflecting silent candles. Her lips remained parted in a final, unfinished prayer.
Ruvan felt a pain so deep it hollowed his chest. The darkness curled around his heart, urging him to sever her thread, to erase her memory from this web of sins. But he refused. Her death would not become another forgotten cruelty in a palace built upon corpses. She would be the first stone upon which he rebuilt his dominion.
The throne's voice murmured within his veins, softer than silk against raw flesh. It told him power did not dwell in swords or crowns. Power lived within sin itself, in the hidden guilt that poisoned hearts, in the secret desires no priest dared name. Through sin, he would reign.
He raised his right hand. Shadows gathered around his wrist, weaving themselves into markings that burned cold against his skin. He could feel the knight beyond his door, connected by a single crimson thread vibrating with silent fear. Within that thread, memories unfolded like wilted petals. A starving child stealing bread from the temple altar. A young squire pushing his rival from horseback to cripple him before a tournament. Each hidden sin tightened the thread that bound them to him.
Ruvan exhaled slowly. The air tasted of rust and sorrow. He placed his palm upon the iron door, feeling its chill seep into his bones.
In his mind, he whispered to the knight. The knight's pulse stuttered with sudden terror. Thoughts flickered through the thread. He felt the man's confusion as his legs moved against his will, felt the shiver of armored plates clashing as trembling fingers reached for the key at his belt.
A click echoed within the silent cell. The iron door creaked open. Pale moonlight spilled across the stone floor, illuminating Ruvan's frail silhouette standing amidst the swirling shadows.
The knight stared at him with wide, bloodshot eyes. Fear and guilt mixed within his trembling chest. Ruvan stepped forward, bare feet silent upon the cold marble. Shadows pooled around him, curling up his torn robes like black ivy.
He studied the knight's face, memorising every trembling line of horror etched across it. This man had once laughed as nobles ordered servants whipped for spilled wine. He had watched Ruvan being dragged across the throne room floor, his gaze empty of sympathy.
The crimson thread pulsed with his sin.
Ruvan reached out, letting his fingertips graze the knight's armored chest. The man collapsed in silent agony as shadows coiled around his throat. His eyes rolled back, mouth opening in a soundless scream before his body slumped against the wall.
Ruvan did not flinch. His gaze remained calm, hollow, and silent as the grave.
Stepping past the corpse, he entered the torchlit corridor. Shadows slithered at his heels, whispering promises of power and blood. Crimson threads spread before him like veins upon black marble, leading towards the throne room where his brother sat, oblivious to the approaching reckoning.
Ruvan inhaled deeply. The air burned with the scent of oil lamps and damp stone, but beneath it lingered another smell. The faint perfume of lilies crushed beneath iron boots. The memory of her hair as she bowed beside him, whispering prayers the gods never answered.
He clenched his fist, feeling the threads tighten around his fingers. Each pulse echoed with a single truth.
Mercy is for those strong enough to bestow it.
He was no longer the weeping lamb kneeling before wolves.
He was the weaver of sins. The sovereign of shadows. The hand that would drag even gods from their thrones and grind their crowns to dust.
As he walked through the silent halls, crimson threads flickering in his wake, he felt no pity, no grief, only a quiet certainty blooming within his chest like a black rose opening beneath moonlight.
Tonight, the empire would learn who truly reigned within darkness.