The white throne

Orion sat in quiet contemplation, his gaze fixed on the modest meal before him. The scent of freshly baked bread and warm broth filled the air, yet his mind was occupied with the waitress's account. He let her words settle in his thoughts, dissecting their implications with practiced calm.

"They either don't know about the undead or are deliberately hiding their existence from the public," he murmured to himself. His fingers absentmindedly traced the rim of his cup. "Perhaps that's why they've framed me as the main conspirator. What better way to conceal the truth than by branding the only witness as the criminal behind it?"

His jaw tightened, but the movement was subtle, almost imperceptible. The gears of his mind turned, analyzing each thread of the intricate trap he had been caught in. If this was indeed a calculated deception, the mastermind behind it was no ordinary foe.

He thought back to the two masked men he had encountered in the depths of the ruined estate. The way they moved, the power they exuded—it was clear they were far beyond common enforcers. A small, wry smile flickered across his lips. "I have a feeling our paths will cross again soon."

With that, he shifted his attention to his breakfast, outwardly indifferent to the reality that every mage in the empire was now actively hunting him. He had learned long ago that survival depended not on panic but on precision. And so, he ate, savoring each bite as if he had all the time in the world.

---

Meanwhile, in a dimly lit chamber nestled deep within the imperial stronghold, a tense silence loomed over four figures seated around a polished obsidian table. The only source of illumination came from a dark blue cube positioned at the center, its surface embossed with the sigils of their order. It pulsed faintly, serving as a conduit for their clandestine communication.

An angry voice erupted from the device, filled with uncontained fury. "It must be them. They dare to trespass into the Empire... I say we act now. This is an act of war!"

"Control your impulses, Jin," came a measured response, the speaker's tone carrying an undercurrent of authority. "Let's not speak unnecessarily. We will not act until Azrail instructs us to do so."

Leon Adair leaned back in his chair, watching as the exchange played out. His presence was calm but commanding. "Darrel is correct," he affirmed smoothly. "We must handle this matter discreetly."

A short silence followed before Darrel Danver, his voice as steady as ever, added with a hint of challenge, "Or do you plan to defy Azrail?"

At the mention of that name, Jin Carran's fiery temperament visibly cooled. He hesitated before speaking again, his voice subdued. "Then… what did Azrail say?"

The dark blue cube continued to hum with restrained energy as Darrel exhaled slowly. "Others have already been dispatched to the eastern borders," he said. "They're containing the disturbances at the shores of the Black Sea. Azrail has assigned the four of us to investigate and eliminate the undead presence within the Empire."

His words weighed heavy in the air, each syllable a reminder of the severity of their mission.

"His orders are absolute," Darrel continued, his expression unreadable. "The existence of the undead has been a myth in the annals of history. It must remain that way."

A bitter chuckle escaped Jin's lips. "A poetic way to say eradication."

"Call it what you will," Darrel replied evenly. "The directive is clear: not even a trace of these creatures can remain."

Leon nodded, his expression grim. "We will proceed with utmost discretion."

A brief pause filled the room before Darrel spoke again, his next words laced with subtle intrigue. "As for the individual responsible for the wyvern's death—Azrail has instructed us to let him be. For now."

A loud thud shattered the tense quiet. All eyes turned to Teress Silver, her face taut with anger. "This is unacceptable!" she snapped, her fury barely restrained. "Have you all forgotten the devastation caused by the last incursion? It was a single moon-blessed! Can you imagine the chaos they're planning now?"

Her voice carried a raw intensity, sharpened by personal conviction. She took a breath, her eyes flashing dangerously. "He is too dangerous to be left unchecked."

Darrel narrowed his gaze. "Watch your wor—"

His reprimand was abruptly silenced by a chilling interruption. The device pulsed violently before a slow, deliberate voice resonated through the chamber.

"I sense some… disagreement."

The words, though spoken with quiet intensity, carried an unmistakable weight. The atmosphere in the room changed instantly. It was as if the very air had been drained of warmth, leaving behind only an oppressive, suffocating pressure.

Azrail Malevolent had joined the meeting.

His presence was palpable, even through the communication device. His voice alone commanded reverence and dread in equal measure.

Leon, ever composed, was the first to speak. "Azrail," he said smoothly, his tone respectful. "We were discussing the directives concerning the undead and the individual behind the wyvern's demise."

"Indeed," Azrail replied. His voice was like a cold wind sweeping through the room. A silence followed before he continued, his words even colder. "What were you saying again?"

No one dared to speak. The pressure in the room thickened, suffocating. Even Teress, defiant as she was, found herself clenching her teeth against the weight of his presence.

Finally, she forced herself to respond. "I disagree on the matter of the wyvren killer," she admitted, her voice slow and carefully measured. There was no room for defiance here—only the reluctant bowing of the head before absolute power.

Azrail let the words hang before replying, "I see."

Silence.

Then, his voice, now glacial, cut through the stillness. "Teress, I am aware of your past. Your… thirst for revenge."

She stiffened, but she did not interrupt.

"So, as a privilege of your position among the Thrones, I will grant you permission to pursue this matter." A flicker of triumph passed through Teress's eyes, but Azrail's next words smothered it like a candle in a storm.

"But make no mistake," he continued, his tone laced with an almost cruel amusement, "this is the last privilege you will receive from me. So Ensure that you capture him alive."

With that, the connection was severed. Yet his absence did nothing to lighten the oppressive atmosphere in the room. His words still lingered, a chilling whisper in their ears.

For half a minute, no one spoke.

Finally, Darrel cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "He has left. We must decide the rest on our own."

Outside the chamber, the Empire continued its daily rhythms, blissfully unaware of the dark forces converging within its borders. The strings of fate were tightening, weaving a web of chaos that threatened to unravel everything. In the end, who would emerge victorious, and who would be swallowed by the current?

Only time would tell.

***Author's note***

Ah, the legendary Power Stones! Imagine the bliss if i had few—deadlines would dissolve, characters would spring to life, and plots would weave themselves effortlessly. I'd lounge back, coffee in hand, as stories crafted their own brilliance. So, if anyone finds this wondrous gem, do send it my way—I assure you, the tales will practically write themselves!