The Inner Realm
By raob9 - silver member
Submitted on May 26, 2025
Prologue
Zrathor turned away from the window, curling his lip in distaste. The ruined stone walls of his last castle echoed in the distance, memories of his latest and most gruesome defeat still fresh. It was taking longer than he would have liked to find the traitor.
No – the traitors. Kort’s hunters had reported a young child running into the forest in the midst of battle. And even more unsettling – a man had been helping her – As though things could get any worse, they had been a Shadow. Children were easily enough stifled. But men – and more so, Shadows – were an entirely different matter. They had to be killed, silently, and buried without a trace, the world none the wiser. Yet Shadows were nearly impossible to catch, and even harder to kill.
They had been in the forest that entered Elouera, which made everything much more difficult – he had sent in a troop of Nyrath, naturally, but it was obvious they hadn’t gone near the fief.
Baron Ernold’s reputation stretched deep into his ranks of Nyrath, and they feared him with all their hearts, giving him even more reasons to hate the man. Fear disrupted his mind control on the Nyrath, in turn disrupting his plans.
The first traitor that had escaped – years ago – had gone directly to the Baron, destroying Zrathor’s master battle plan in a moment.
His hate only seemed to grow with every passing moment, etching deeper than reality itself.
First protecting the traitor, preventing Zrathor from giving him the justice he deserved. Then sending knights at the crucial moment of what should have been a silent takeover, losing him countless troops, not to mention forcing him to start again, rebuilding his dark castle stone by stone. Slave by slave.
Regaining his power, bit by bit.
A knock at the door, and he looked up angrily, upsetting the glass of wine perched on the windowsill, the last sip falling to the ground in slow motion, splashing on his boots. He cursed loudly, then turned his anger on the man who undoubtedly stood awaiting his command.
“Leave me alone.”
There was a hesitant pause as the servant on the other side of the door weighed his choices, then the timid voice pulled itself through the heavy wooden door.
“Sir, the first group of hunters have arrived. The keeper insists that this is urgent news.”
He kicked at the shards of glass angrily, muttering a last curse under his breath before walking toward the large armchair in the center, kicking it aside. He hated waiting. And after all those years biding his time, when he had finally struck… it had all been ruined by a runaway.
He had resolved to leave none left to tell the tale. And the news that somebody had escaped was infuriating – had he not secured the boundary with Nyrath? Had he not taken every care in the world to ensure it was a silent takeover – that nobody would know about it until it was too late?
How had they escaped? And – most importantly of all – where were they? He clenched his fists, aware that the servant was patiently awaiting his response. He delayed a minute more, then finally spat the words through his teeth, each syllable a threat, as though he would rather be anywhere else but there.
“Come in.”
His voice was metallic, and harsh, the long years of bitter hate and revenge all too clear, as though he was speaking a different language. As the door slowly creaked open, two men hurried in, their faces scarred, covered in grime. The servant bowed quickly, and made to close the door quickly before Zrathor could take his rage out on him, though not quick enough.
In a fluid motion, Zrathor unsheathed his sword, cutting a deep wound into the man’s arm. The servant cried out, and sank to his knees, clutching his arm, staring at his lord’s pitiless face.
“Flog him.”
He said, the corners of his mouth tilting up devilishly.
Two of his guards appeared on either side of the unfortunate servant, who cried out in protest.
“Wait.”
The two guards paused but did not turn, aware that a single word from the lord, and they could be tortured, or worse.
“On second thought… Cage him tonight.”
The soldiers spun, saluted, then, in one fluid motion, threw the man across the hallway. He landed painfully, then scrambled to his feet, disappearing into the many halls of the castle, losing himself in the throngs of servants hurrying back and forth, busy at their tasks. Though he wouldn’t remain lost for long, Zrathor thought bitterly.
Zrathor turned to face his guests, a mixture of disgust and impatience washing over his face, anger turning to an intense glare as he met his faithful Keeper’s eyes. This had better be good. His feelings were reflected almost perfectly on the other’s face, confirming that it was important.
“Kort.” he said icily, his voice a threat of its own. “What a pleasant surprise. I don’t suppose you thought to wash the mud off your face before appearing before me?”
“My lord.”
Kort kneeled, his hand over his heart, the man beside him doing the same. For a moment Zrathor thought he could detect an urge to prove himself in his keeper’s eyes, but then it was gone.
“And you.”
Zrathor wheeled on the other man angrily, and he spat out his next words. Lately, every time he saw a new man, they brought bad news. He was young, no more than twenty, and incredibly nervous. No doubt he was one of Kort’s newest recruits, which meant they must hold great promise. They were the near equivalent of his enemy’s Shadows. However, despite their name, they didn’t hunt beasts. Far from it. They hunted men, dark assassins seeking to cleanly detect and destroy those he found unfavorable.
Their strength came in packs, like jackals seeking to overcome a lion.
But the Shadows had improved, and changed their strategies, and his hunters had not, and many of his plans had fallen because of it.
He felt the first drops of the spilled wine begin to seep into his feet, dropping from inside the leather boots, adding to his many displeasures.
“And what could a young hunter such as yourself be doing here?”
“My lord, I–”
The man paused, but continued breathlessly.
“I was the one who saw the traitor flee.”
Zrathor felt a wave of unfathomable anger at the man rise up, and he freed a small portion, mingling it with distaste, resentment, frustration, allowing his voice to become unnaturally quiet, chilling the kneeling man into a darkness he had never known.
“And you didn’t think to capture them?”
His words were like poison – hissed, and as dangerous as the venom of a snake. The man opened his mouth to speak, but Kort answered quickly, before the man could let the snake strike.
“My lord, forgive us. We were on the other side of the battlefield when the traitor began to slip away.”
“Describe them.” He whispered, licking his lips.
Kort opened his mouth to speak, but Zrathor held up his hand. “No– let the hunter tell me.”
The man glanced at Kort nervously, but the keeper’s face remained expressionless, impassive. He paused for a moment, just long enough for Zrathor to tilt his chin up with the blade of the sword.
“Well?”
The man swallowed nervously, and Zrathor drew a thin line of blood on his neck. “Last chance.”
“My lord, a young girl, the one you described, with a knight.”
He turned away, sheathing his sword in a fluid motion.
“Describe her.”
“She was mostly hidden by the knight, my lord, but…”
“Then how do you know it was her?”
“Her hair, my lord. Darker than night itself. And her eyes–”
He had no time to finish before Zrathor spun. This news was more than important for his plans. But a single leak… If this was true it could destroy every one of his plans in an instant. If it truly was the traitor…
Zrathor clenched his fists, and pointed at the door, his voice calm again. Neutral in sound, yet dangerous in being.
“This man with you. Does he have anything else to say?”
Kort shook his head quickly. The man showed promise, and the last thing he wanted was for Zrathor to spoil the man, who could prove an excellent hunter.
“No, my lord. I have been informed of everything he heard and saw. I merely thought you would like to hear it from–”
Zrathor waved a hand, halting the man’s speech. “Then take him away. I believe we have other… matters to discuss.” He paused, then held up his hand, speaking offhandedly to the servant, though the hunter was within easy earshot. “Oh – and let him know that if I were him, I wouldn’t breathe a word of this to anyone…”
A servant ushered the hunterother man out the door, and a grateful sigh came from the man before the door closed. Zrathor ground his teeth, looking away, and spitting at the ground in disgust. The words were in the air before he drew breath to speak.
“What news?”
“As the man said, my lord. Spotted, a young girl, just barely across the border, in the company of a knight. And… there’s something else, my lord.”
Zrathor looked up momentarily, and his eyes narrowed as he met the eyes of his keeper. Kort had battled alongside him, and saved his life many times. He had no reason to unleash his anger at him. He returned to his pacing.
“My lord, I believe… forgive me for saying this, my lord, but I thought I saw a Rang–”
“Do not speak that word in front of me!”
Kort paused, and bit his lip. If Zrathor thought the news was bad, he would like this even less. His fists clenched at the thought of how the newest recruit to his team had hindered his operation.
“My apologies, my lord. A Shadow, then, I believe. When I blinked he was gone. But… one of my newest recruits – Clid Marrow, sir. I believe he is yet another traitor to you. He attempted to gain the knight’s attention. We stifled him in time, but I believe he has been aiding the traitor’s escape.”
Zrathor jolted, and spun around, the glass cracking underfoot. A Shadow was already terrible news, but this…. He slammed his fist on the table, and shouted out before he could control himself.
“What?”
Kort clenched his teeth and stood up. All traces of fatigue were gone from his face, replaced with anger, and the want – the need for revenge on the recruit.
“He is currently held in the palace dungeons, my lord.”
All traces of Zrathor’s anger seemed to disappear in a flash, and the scars seemed to fade from his face. He seethed inside though his face was a mask, betraying nothing. The candle beside him flickered once, then went out.
“We’ll see about this….”
His face cast in shadow, his eyes deadly, he whispered, the corners of his lips tilting upward terrifyingly as he uttered a low, dangerous laugh.
“We’ll see….”
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Yes please continue the story!
Comment by Alex McStevens on May 26, 2025Liked by 0
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