The Journey, Book 2; Chapter 27 - Previous Chapter
Chapter 28; Scared.
Sweat poured from Thomaz’s skin in icy streams.
Every breath came like he was choking on smoke.
The dark pressed in tight, thick as wet cloth over his face.
A flash—
Red arrow screaming through the trees—
Feathers hiss in the air.
It strikes deep into purple scales.
No—stone—
The dragon freezes mid-flight, wings snapping stiff.
Its eyes lock with his—accusing—before gravity takes it.
The ground roars as it hits, exploding into a crater of dust and shattered bone.
Pieces scatter like teeth across the forest floor.
The rider’s scream is longer.
Sharper.
It doesn’t stop when his body hits the ground—
It keeps going, echoing inside Thomaz’s skull.
White movement—massive—
A boar steps into the clearing, each hoof splitting the earth.
Its tusks drip with something dark.
It swallows the last shimmering scale with a wet gulp—
Then vanishes, as if the woods themselves swallowed it whole.
Another flash—
Blood pooling on marble.
His father’s eyes glassy, lips parted as if to speak—
Then the crown is in Thomaz’s hands.
And that grin—
That terrible grin—
He feels it stretching his face even now.
Darkness again.
But not empty.
Shapes move.
Whispers scrape like knives along stone.
Faces pale and rotted.
Some mouths hang open in silent screams, others spit curses in tongues he knows.
And then, one voice, cutting through the rest.
“Couldn’t pay the taxes, m’lord?”
A chuckle, wet and broken.
He sees Aaron now, skin gray, eyes like pits of ash.
His neck twisted at an impossible angle.
Clothes still stained with the mud from the day they dragged him away.
“I fed my children that week, Thomaz. Didn’t matter, did it?”
The other spirits circle tighter, whispering Aaron’s name, repeating it over and over until it drowns out the sound of his own breathing.
Aaron’s face flickers between life and death—
One moment alive, pleading—
The next, a gaping-mouthed corpse staring straight through him.
“You took my breath,” Aaron says, voice cracking into a scream.
“Now I’ll take yours.”
Hands, so many hands, ice-cold and slick with rot, close around Thomaz’s throat, chest, wrists.
They drag him down.
His knees hit unseen ground.
He curls in on himself, small as a child.
But Aaron is still there, leaning in, whispering in his ear—
“You can’t wake up from me.”
The darkness folds in.
The screaming never stops.
The street is slick with rain—
a flicker of torchlight.
A man stands, unmoving.
No words, just a cold, empty stare.
A shadow that won’t step aside.
Thomaz stumbles forward—
“Move, worm.”
But the man doesn’t flinch.
Steel sings—
clash after clash—
your fury crashing on silence.
No breath, no sound, only the bite of cold steel meeting steel.
You swing wide—miss—again—
Your drunken grin, twisted and broken.
He blocks, always blocks.
Mocking you without a word.
A kick—sharp pain blooms in your gut—
You shove him back—step by painful step—
Through a door—
Splintering wood screams as it breaks.
A woman’s scream echoes—
Your rage tears the house apart.
Clash!
A table shatters.
Pottery crashes like the hopes you’ve crushed.
You roar—
“You will not stand against me!”
He doesn’t answer.
Only the cold gleam of his blade.
Your jaw shatters—blood floods your mouth.
You stumble—rage burning hotter than pain.
The dance spins back to the street—
A punch—the world tilts—
You slash—he blocks.
Your blade nearly takes his arm—
Your breath ragged—your strength fading.
His eyes meet yours—empty, mocking—
No fear. No submission.
You snarl—
“You’ll die screaming, maggot.”
No reply but silence.
Your boot crashes into his knee—
A crack—sweet victory—
Then the hilt of your sword—
Your triumph—
His jaw crushed beneath your hate.
He falls, broken.
You stand above, choking on blood and anger.
“Kings don’t forgive worms,” you hiss, driving steel through flesh—
The wet sickening sound—
Blood sprays.
Silence—
But not peace.
His body falls.
Your heart pounds.
The crowd frozen in horror—
But the man’s lips twitch—
A ghostly grin you can still hear—
No words, only laughter—
Mocking, endless,
Echoing inside your skull.
The shadows lengthened, twisting and coiling like serpents hungry for blood. Thomaz lay trapped beneath their weight, breath shallow, heart hammering against his ribs like a desperate prisoner. The air thickened, growing colder—he could feel it creeping beneath his skin, into his bones.
From the darkness, Aaron’s scream tore through the silence, raw, ragged, a cry that clawed at Thomaz’s soul.
“Revenge!” the spirit hissed, voice cracked with centuries of torment.
“I fed my children on your cruelty! I will not be silent!”
And then… something new.
A sound, low and cruel, slithering through the still air like poison,
A laugh.
Not silent anymore.
The silent assassin’s mocking laugh, sharp, jagged, echoing with bitter amusement.
It curled around Thomaz’s mind, squeezing, tightening.
“Fool,” the assassin whispered, voice like broken glass.
“You cannot escape me.”
The two voices, Aaron’s rage and the assassin’s cruel mirth, wove together, a dark symphony rising in a dreadful crescendo.
From the shadows, more faces appeared, twisted, ruined, eyes burning with hatred.
The spirits of all Thomaz’s victims, those he killed or ordered killed, joined in.
Their screams rose, a banshee’s wail, bleeding into the assassin’s laughter…
Mocking, accusing, relentless.
“Revenge! Revenge! Revenge!”
Their voices swelled, filling the room with unbearable noise,
The air trembling with the weight of their fury.
They surged forward—ghostly hands reaching, grasping—
And then, impossibly, they plunged inside him—
A swarm of cold, clawing souls invading his flesh and bone.
Thomaz’s eyes snapped open—
A scream ripped from his throat—
Raw, terrified, broken.
His body jerked violently, drenched in cold sweat, the echoes of the spirits still ringing in his ears.
Thomaz’s scream lingered in the air, fading into ragged gasps as he bolted upright in his bed. His heart hammered violently against his ribs, each beat a thunderclap in the suffocating darkness of his chamber. Cold sweat slicked his skin, chilling him even through his robes.
His breath came in jagged bursts, throat raw and burning. His hands trembled uncontrollably, fingers curling into desperate fists as if grasping for something solid, anything. to anchor him back to reality.
The room was still, but the shadows seemed alive, flickering at the edges of his vision like restless phantoms. Every creak of the wooden beams, every whisper of the wind beyond the window, echoed like a ghost’s murmur.
Thomaz forced himself to lie back down, but his muscles refused to relax. His eyes darted wildly, searching the darkness for the specter's he knew haunted him still, Aaron’s accusing glare, the assassin’s cruel grin, the endless chorus of voices clawing at his sanity.
He swallowed hard, trying to steady his breath. It was just a dream. But the weight on his chest, the cold fingers digging into his mind, told another truth.
He pressed his hands against his temples, willing the memories to fade, the voices to silence. But the laughter echoed still, soft, mocking, never truly gone.
His mind spiralled, caught between guilt and fear, rage and despair. The faces of the dead burned behind his eyelids, their eyes accusing, their whispers relentless.
For a long moment, Thomaz lay there, trapped in a waking nightmare far worse than sleep. Then, with a ragged sigh, he forced himself to rise.
He could not run from them.
He would have to face the shadows that hunted him.
Thomaz’s hands trembled violently as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Each movement was slow, deliberate, as if the weight of the nightmare still clung to his bones. He reached out, eyes blurred and unsteady, grasping for the goblet on the nearby table. His fingers missed. The dark red wine spilled, staining the floor and soaking into the rich carpet.
A curse tore from his lips. He swallowed hard, heart racing, and managed to steady his grip. The liquid burned down his throat in bitter gulps, but the tremors refused to cease.
Cloaked in shadows, Thomaz moved through the palace halls like a ghost—each creak and groan of the ancient wood echoing like a warning. His breath hitched with every sudden sound, his body tensing as if expecting attack.
The grand tapestries fluttered faintly in an unseen draft. Cold air whispered through the stone corridors, brushing his skin with icy fingers. The deeper he ventured, the darker and colder it grew, until the grand halls gave way to twisting stairs that descended into the cavernous underbelly of the palace.
At the bottom, a low, flickering light burned near a gnarled wooden door. Thomaz’s breath hitched again. Behind that door lived Agatha Patricia, the hag, the witch, the last hope in a world ruled by ghosts.
He rapped sharply.
The door creaked open, revealing a hunched figure draped in tattered robes, eyes gleaming with unsettling knowing.
Without hesitation, Thomaz stepped inside, voice trembling but fierce.
“Tell me. Tell me of rituals.
Tell me how to stop the dreams.
The nightmares that bleed into waking, that claw at my soul.”
Agatha’s crooked smile spread slowly, darkness pooling in the depths of her gaze.
“Ah, King Thomaz,” she rasped, “the dead have come to dance with you.
And the price to silence them is never light.”
As Agatha Patricia opened her mouth to speak, the flickering candlelight guttered violently. The shadows thickened, curling around the room like living smoke. The air turned icy cold, each breath Thomaz drew feeling like shards of glass slicing through his lungs.
The room darkened until nothing but a choking blackness remained.
From that void, a figure emerged, long and sinewy, skeletal beneath tattered robes that seemed woven from shadow itself. Two glowing orbs of grey-green flickered where eyes should have been, burning with an unholy light.
A wretched, scraping voice slithered through the silence, curling around Thomaz’s mind like venom.
“My nightmares have got your attention, Thomaz.”
The words dripped with contempt and malice.
“Big bad King Thomaz... thinking you had the upper hand... when in fact, you played...”
The voice hissed venomously, stretching the last word like a final, deadly strike:
“...right into my hand.”
Thomaz’s legs betrayed him, frozen as if rooted to the floor by unseen chains. Agatha’s breath hitched, her eyes wide but helpless.
“Who… who are you?” Thomaz demanded, voice shaking but defiant.
The shadow leaned closer, whispering in his ear—a poison-laced breath crawling over his skin:
“I’m the nightmare of nightmares...
When the time is right...
You WILL do as I say.”
Then, as suddenly as it came, the darkness shattered. The cold retreated, the glowing eyes vanished, and the suffocating weight lifted.
The candle flames steadied, casting their weak light over the trembling king and the silent witch.
Thomaz sagged slowly into a nearby chair, the weight of the nightmare pressing down on him like a stone. His voice cut through the heavy silence, sharp and demanding.
“Get me some fucking wine.”
Agatha Patricia’s hands trembled violently as she reached for a large, battered jug resting on a nearby shelf. Her eyes flicked nervously toward Thomaz, who snatched the jug from her hands without a word and began drinking straight from its gaping mouth. The wine burned his throat, but the warmth was a small mercy.
Hours bled away in the dim light, Thomaz sitting rigid, trembling, the jug never leaving his lips. Silent except for the occasional rattled breath, the shadows lengthened around him like hungry beasts.
The door creaked softly, and Rubian stepped inside, a heavy burden slung over his shoulder, a tangled heap of dead rabbits and birds, their fur and feathers matted and stained. He paused, eyes narrowing at the sight of Thomaz seated silently, drinking deeply from the jug.
Thomaz had not noticed him.
Rubian exchanged a glance with Agatha, who raised a trembling finger to her lips in a silent plea for quiet.
Without a word, Rubian lowered himself into a shadowed corner of the cavern. The soft scrape of knife against fur began as he methodically skinned the rabbits and plucked the feathers from the birds. The sound echoed in the stillness, rhythmic, cold, unsettling.
Thomaz remained lost in his torment, the spirits still whispering just beyond the edges of his mind, the wine numbing but never enough.
Suddenly, Thomaz shot up from his chair, the empty jug slipping from his grasp and crashing to the stone floor. The sound shattered the heavy silence. His grey eyes darkened, cold, sharp, and burning with a malice that seemed to swallow the dim light around him.
He turned slowly, fixing Rubian with a gaze that made the man stiffen.
“What is the name of the village the dragon rider came from?” Thomaz asked, voice low but deadly.
Rubian rose quickly, meeting the king’s stare without hesitation.
“It was either Littleton or Paulton, my king,” he answered cautiously, eyes flickering with curiosity.
Thomaz repeated the names softly, venom dripping from each syllable.
“Littleton... or Paulton...”
Then, a terrifying smile spread across his face, wide, cruel, and dark as the void. His lips curled upward in a grin that promised ruin.
Without another word, Thomaz turned and strode toward the cavern’s exit.
“Get my army ready,” he commanded, voice cold steel.
Rubian’s eyes widened.
“Which regiment, my king?” he called after him.
Thomaz’s voice carried back from the shadows beyond the doorway, low and ominous.
“My whole entire army.”
The heavy door swung shut behind him, swallowed by silence.
Rubian glanced at Agatha, confusion etched deep into his face.
“What the fuck was that about?” he asked quietly.
The old hag waved a trembling hand, dismissing the question.
“Nightmares and shadows... no go.
Do as he says.”
Chapter 28; Scared.
Sweat poured from Thomaz’s skin in icy streams.
Every breath came like he was choking on smoke.
The dark pressed in tight, thick as wet cloth over his face.
A flash—
Red arrow screaming through the trees—
Feathers hiss in the air.
It strikes deep into purple scales.
No—stone—
The dragon freezes mid-flight, wings snapping stiff.
Its eyes lock with his—accusing—before gravity takes it.
The ground roars as it hits, exploding into a crater of dust and shattered bone.
Pieces scatter like teeth across the forest floor.
The rider’s scream is longer.
Sharper.
It doesn’t stop when his body hits the ground—
It keeps going, echoing inside Thomaz’s skull.
White movement—massive—
A boar steps into the clearing, each hoof splitting the earth.
Its tusks drip with something dark.
It swallows the last shimmering scale with a wet gulp—
Then vanishes, as if the woods themselves swallowed it whole.
Another flash—
Blood pooling on marble.
His father’s eyes glassy, lips parted as if to speak—
Then the crown is in Thomaz’s hands.
And that grin—
That terrible grin—
He feels it stretching his face even now.
Darkness again.
But not empty.
Shapes move.
Whispers scrape like knives along stone.
Faces pale and rotted.
Some mouths hang open in silent screams, others spit curses in tongues he knows.
And then, one voice, cutting through the rest.
“Couldn’t pay the taxes, m’lord?”
A chuckle, wet and broken.
He sees Aaron now, skin gray, eyes like pits of ash.
His neck twisted at an impossible angle.
Clothes still stained with the mud from the day they dragged him away.
“I fed my children that week, Thomaz. Didn’t matter, did it?”
The other spirits circle tighter, whispering Aaron’s name, repeating it over and over until it drowns out the sound of his own breathing.
Aaron’s face flickers between life and death—
One moment alive, pleading—
The next, a gaping-mouthed corpse staring straight through him.
“You took my breath,” Aaron says, voice cracking into a scream.
“Now I’ll take yours.”
Hands, so many hands, ice-cold and slick with rot, close around Thomaz’s throat, chest, wrists.
They drag him down.
His knees hit unseen ground.
He curls in on himself, small as a child.
But Aaron is still there, leaning in, whispering in his ear—
“You can’t wake up from me.”
The darkness folds in.
The screaming never stops.
The street is slick with rain—
a flicker of torchlight.
A man stands, unmoving.
No words, just a cold, empty stare.
A shadow that won’t step aside.
Thomaz stumbles forward—
“Move, worm.”
But the man doesn’t flinch.
Steel sings—
clash after clash—
your fury crashing on silence.
No breath, no sound, only the bite of cold steel meeting steel.
You swing wide—miss—again—
Your drunken grin, twisted and broken.
He blocks, always blocks.
Mocking you without a word.
A kick—sharp pain blooms in your gut—
You shove him back—step by painful step—
Through a door—
Splintering wood screams as it breaks.
A woman’s scream echoes—
Your rage tears the house apart.
Clash!
A table shatters.
Pottery crashes like the hopes you’ve crushed.
You roar—
“You will not stand against me!”
He doesn’t answer.
Only the cold gleam of his blade.
Your jaw shatters—blood floods your mouth.
You stumble—rage burning hotter than pain.
The dance spins back to the street—
A punch—the world tilts—
You slash—he blocks.
Your blade nearly takes his arm—
Your breath ragged—your strength fading.
His eyes meet yours—empty, mocking—
No fear. No submission.
You snarl—
“You’ll die screaming, maggot.”
No reply but silence.
Your boot crashes into his knee—
A crack—sweet victory—
Then the hilt of your sword—
Your triumph—
His jaw crushed beneath your hate.
He falls, broken.
You stand above, choking on blood and anger.
“Kings don’t forgive worms,” you hiss, driving steel through flesh—
The wet sickening sound—
Blood sprays.
Silence—
But not peace.
His body falls.
Your heart pounds.
The crowd frozen in horror—
But the man’s lips twitch—
A ghostly grin you can still hear—
No words, only laughter—
Mocking, endless,
Echoing inside your skull.
The shadows lengthened, twisting and coiling like serpents hungry for blood. Thomaz lay trapped beneath their weight, breath shallow, heart hammering against his ribs like a desperate prisoner. The air thickened, growing colder—he could feel it creeping beneath his skin, into his bones.
From the darkness, Aaron’s scream tore through the silence, raw, ragged, a cry that clawed at Thomaz’s soul.
“Revenge!” the spirit hissed, voice cracked with centuries of torment.
“I fed my children on your cruelty! I will not be silent!”
And then… something new.
A sound, low and cruel, slithering through the still air like poison,
A laugh.
Not silent anymore.
The silent assassin’s mocking laugh, sharp, jagged, echoing with bitter amusement.
It curled around Thomaz’s mind, squeezing, tightening.
“Fool,” the assassin whispered, voice like broken glass.
“You cannot escape me.”
The two voices, Aaron’s rage and the assassin’s cruel mirth, wove together, a dark symphony rising in a dreadful crescendo.
From the shadows, more faces appeared, twisted, ruined, eyes burning with hatred.
The spirits of all Thomaz’s victims, those he killed or ordered killed, joined in.
Their screams rose, a banshee’s wail, bleeding into the assassin’s laughter…
Mocking, accusing, relentless.
“Revenge! Revenge! Revenge!”
Their voices swelled, filling the room with unbearable noise,
The air trembling with the weight of their fury.
They surged forward—ghostly hands reaching, grasping—
And then, impossibly, they plunged inside him—
A swarm of cold, clawing souls invading his flesh and bone.
Thomaz’s eyes snapped open—
A scream ripped from his throat—
Raw, terrified, broken.
His body jerked violently, drenched in cold sweat, the echoes of the spirits still ringing in his ears.
Thomaz’s scream lingered in the air, fading into ragged gasps as he bolted upright in his bed. His heart hammered violently against his ribs, each beat a thunderclap in the suffocating darkness of his chamber. Cold sweat slicked his skin, chilling him even through his robes.
His breath came in jagged bursts, throat raw and burning. His hands trembled uncontrollably, fingers curling into desperate fists as if grasping for something solid, anything. to anchor him back to reality.
The room was still, but the shadows seemed alive, flickering at the edges of his vision like restless phantoms. Every creak of the wooden beams, every whisper of the wind beyond the window, echoed like a ghost’s murmur.
Thomaz forced himself to lie back down, but his muscles refused to relax. His eyes darted wildly, searching the darkness for the specter's he knew haunted him still, Aaron’s accusing glare, the assassin’s cruel grin, the endless chorus of voices clawing at his sanity.
He swallowed hard, trying to steady his breath. It was just a dream. But the weight on his chest, the cold fingers digging into his mind, told another truth.
He pressed his hands against his temples, willing the memories to fade, the voices to silence. But the laughter echoed still, soft, mocking, never truly gone.
His mind spiralled, caught between guilt and fear, rage and despair. The faces of the dead burned behind his eyelids, their eyes accusing, their whispers relentless.
For a long moment, Thomaz lay there, trapped in a waking nightmare far worse than sleep. Then, with a ragged sigh, he forced himself to rise.
He could not run from them.
He would have to face the shadows that hunted him.
Thomaz’s hands trembled violently as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Each movement was slow, deliberate, as if the weight of the nightmare still clung to his bones. He reached out, eyes blurred and unsteady, grasping for the goblet on the nearby table. His fingers missed. The dark red wine spilled, staining the floor and soaking into the rich carpet.
A curse tore from his lips. He swallowed hard, heart racing, and managed to steady his grip. The liquid burned down his throat in bitter gulps, but the tremors refused to cease.
Cloaked in shadows, Thomaz moved through the palace halls like a ghost—each creak and groan of the ancient wood echoing like a warning. His breath hitched with every sudden sound, his body tensing as if expecting attack.
The grand tapestries fluttered faintly in an unseen draft. Cold air whispered through the stone corridors, brushing his skin with icy fingers. The deeper he ventured, the darker and colder it grew, until the grand halls gave way to twisting stairs that descended into the cavernous underbelly of the palace.
At the bottom, a low, flickering light burned near a gnarled wooden door. Thomaz’s breath hitched again. Behind that door lived Agatha Patricia, the hag, the witch, the last hope in a world ruled by ghosts.
He rapped sharply.
The door creaked open, revealing a hunched figure draped in tattered robes, eyes gleaming with unsettling knowing.
Without hesitation, Thomaz stepped inside, voice trembling but fierce.
“Tell me. Tell me of rituals.
Tell me how to stop the dreams.
The nightmares that bleed into waking, that claw at my soul.”
Agatha’s crooked smile spread slowly, darkness pooling in the depths of her gaze.
“Ah, King Thomaz,” she rasped, “the dead have come to dance with you.
And the price to silence them is never light.”
As Agatha Patricia opened her mouth to speak, the flickering candlelight guttered violently. The shadows thickened, curling around the room like living smoke. The air turned icy cold, each breath Thomaz drew feeling like shards of glass slicing through his lungs.
The room darkened until nothing but a choking blackness remained.
From that void, a figure emerged, long and sinewy, skeletal beneath tattered robes that seemed woven from shadow itself. Two glowing orbs of grey-green flickered where eyes should have been, burning with an unholy light.
A wretched, scraping voice slithered through the silence, curling around Thomaz’s mind like venom.
“My nightmares have got your attention, Thomaz.”
The words dripped with contempt and malice.
“Big bad King Thomaz... thinking you had the upper hand... when in fact, you played...”
The voice hissed venomously, stretching the last word like a final, deadly strike:
“...right into my hand.”
Thomaz’s legs betrayed him, frozen as if rooted to the floor by unseen chains. Agatha’s breath hitched, her eyes wide but helpless.
“Who… who are you?” Thomaz demanded, voice shaking but defiant.
The shadow leaned closer, whispering in his ear—a poison-laced breath crawling over his skin:
“I’m the nightmare of nightmares...
When the time is right...
You WILL do as I say.”
Then, as suddenly as it came, the darkness shattered. The cold retreated, the glowing eyes vanished, and the suffocating weight lifted.
The candle flames steadied, casting their weak light over the trembling king and the silent witch.
Thomaz sagged slowly into a nearby chair, the weight of the nightmare pressing down on him like a stone. His voice cut through the heavy silence, sharp and demanding.
“Get me some fucking wine.”
Agatha Patricia’s hands trembled violently as she reached for a large, battered jug resting on a nearby shelf. Her eyes flicked nervously toward Thomaz, who snatched the jug from her hands without a word and began drinking straight from its gaping mouth. The wine burned his throat, but the warmth was a small mercy.
Hours bled away in the dim light, Thomaz sitting rigid, trembling, the jug never leaving his lips. Silent except for the occasional rattled breath, the shadows lengthened around him like hungry beasts.
The door creaked softly, and Rubian stepped inside, a heavy burden slung over his shoulder, a tangled heap of dead rabbits and birds, their fur and feathers matted and stained. He paused, eyes narrowing at the sight of Thomaz seated silently, drinking deeply from the jug.
Thomaz had not noticed him.
Rubian exchanged a glance with Agatha, who raised a trembling finger to her lips in a silent plea for quiet.
Without a word, Rubian lowered himself into a shadowed corner of the cavern. The soft scrape of knife against fur began as he methodically skinned the rabbits and plucked the feathers from the birds. The sound echoed in the stillness, rhythmic, cold, unsettling.
Thomaz remained lost in his torment, the spirits still whispering just beyond the edges of his mind, the wine numbing but never enough.
Suddenly, Thomaz shot up from his chair, the empty jug slipping from his grasp and crashing to the stone floor. The sound shattered the heavy silence. His grey eyes darkened, cold, sharp, and burning with a malice that seemed to swallow the dim light around him.
He turned slowly, fixing Rubian with a gaze that made the man stiffen.
“What is the name of the village the dragon rider came from?” Thomaz asked, voice low but deadly.
Rubian rose quickly, meeting the king’s stare without hesitation.
“It was either Littleton or Paulton, my king,” he answered cautiously, eyes flickering with curiosity.
Thomaz repeated the names softly, venom dripping from each syllable.
“Littleton... or Paulton...”
Then, a terrifying smile spread across his face, wide, cruel, and dark as the void. His lips curled upward in a grin that promised ruin.
Without another word, Thomaz turned and strode toward the cavern’s exit.
“Get my army ready,” he commanded, voice cold steel.
Rubian’s eyes widened.
“Which regiment, my king?” he called after him.
Thomaz’s voice carried back from the shadows beyond the doorway, low and ominous.
“My whole entire army.”
The heavy door swung shut behind him, swallowed by silence.
Rubian glanced at Agatha, confusion etched deep into his face.
“What the fuck was that about?” he asked quietly.
The old hag waved a trembling hand, dismissing the question.
“Nightmares and shadows... no go.
Do as he says.”