shadows of the last toast

The battle feed had fallen silent, leaving behind a grim testament to the dark squad's victory. Each step they took back to the palace was heavy with purpose, their boots crunching over the remains of their enemies. Their faces were hardened, expressions of triumph mingled with exhaustion. Dren led them, his movements precise and deliberate, his shoulders squared against the weight of leadership. He offered no words of encouragement, for none were needed; the squad followed with unflinching loyalty.

As they reached the palace gates, their pace slowed, a palpable tension hanging in the air. The dark squad exchanged brief glances, silent acknowledgment of the ominous grandeur of the place they called home. Dren raised a hand, signaling them to halt, and turned to face them. His eyes, sharp and commanding, held theirs as he spoke: "Wait here. I will inform sire of our arrival."

Dren ascended the grand staircase with a purposeful stride, his jaw clenched, his breath steady but deep. Each step echoed in the vast, shadowed halls, a rhythm that matched the thudding of his heart. He pushed open the heavy door to Kane's chamber, his movement careful but unhesitant. The room was a void, shrouded in darkness, the air thick with an oppressive energy. Dren hesitated for only a moment before lowering himself to one knee, bowing his head.

"My lord, we have returned and have done as you instructed," he said, his voice steady but reverent.

From the shadows, Kane's voice cut through the silence like a blade, sharp and commanding. "Good. Now go. Prepare the squad. We are going somewhere."

The finality in Kane's tone left no room for questions. Dren rose swiftly, his expression unreadable but his movements efficient as he navigated his way out of the chamber. When he rejoined the squad, his demeanor had shifted slightly, his posture even more rigid, his face a mask of determination. "We wait for him outside," he instructed, his voice brooking no argument.

The dark squad complied without hesitation, forming their lines outside the palace. At first, their expressions were stoic, disciplined, their movements sharp as they took their positions. As the hours turned to days, the strain began to show. Subtle signs of discomfort crept into their postures—a slight shift of weight from one foot to the other, clenched jaws, and furtive glances toward the palace doors. The rain came on the second day, drenching them in a relentless torrent. One member dared to suggest seeking shelter, his voice low but tinged with desperation. Dren's reply was swift and firm, his expression unreadable save for the flicker of steel in his eyes.

"He instructed us to wait here. We will not provoke him."

And so they stood, their resolve tested with each passing hour. By the third day, fatigue etched lines into their faces, and their breaths came heavier. Some members began to falter, retreating inside the palace despite Dren's warning. His expression tightened, disappointment flickering across his features, but he said nothing. Alone, he remained steadfast, his figure a solitary sentinel against the palace gates.

A week passed, and at last, Kane emerged. His appearance was as commanding as his presence, his movements fluid and deliberate as he descended the palace steps. The dark squad scrambled to return to formation, their faces pale with fear and their movements jerky in their haste. Dren, however, remained still, his posture unwavering even as his eyes betrayed a flicker of weariness.

To their shock, Kane's expression was unreadable, his reaction devoid of the wrath they had expected. Instead, he issued a calm order: "Bring them wine."

The squad exchanged uneasy glances but obeyed, their tension slowly giving way to cautious relief. As the wine was brought forth, they drank with a mixture of eagerness and hesitation, their expressions softening as the liquid warmth spread through them. Dren, seated at Kane's right hand, watched silently, his features a study in restraint. His eyes flicked between the men and Kane, wary yet obedient.

"Drink with them," Kane commanded, his voice low but firm. "This is the last time you'll ever enjoy it."

Dren hesitated for only a fraction of a second, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processed the words. Fear flickered across his face, but he masked it quickly, nodding as he reached for the cup. His movements were deliberate, his grip firm but reluctant. As he raised the cup to his lips, his gaze briefly met Kane's, searching for meaning in the dark lord's expression. Kane's face remained impassive, a faint, almost imperceptible curve to his lips the only hint of emotion. Dren drank, his jaw tightening as he swallowed, the weight of Kane's words pressing heavily on his shoulders.

The room was dimly lit, the flickering light of a single bulb casting elongated shadows on the walls. The group, slumped in mismatched chairs and worn-out couches, moved with a loose, chaotic rhythm—bottles clinking against tables, hands lazily waving in exaggerated gestures. Laughter spilled out, loud and unruly, but it carried a hollow edge, the kind that only comes from people trying too hard to forget.

Their faces glistened with sweat and intoxication. One man leaned back, head lolling to the side, his mouth wide open in a laugh that seemed stuck somewhere between joy and delirium. Another swayed in his seat, his glass sloshing, amber liquid dripping onto the threadbare carpet, but he didn't seem to notice—or care. A woman slumped over the armrest of the couch, her eyelids heavy, her lips curled into a dreamy, distant smile as though lost in a memory.

Kane sat apart from them, his rigid posture a stark contrast to their drunken looseness. His hands rested on his knees, fingers curled just enough to suggest a subtle tension, like a predator waiting to pounce. His face was stone, devoid of emotion, but his eyes betrayed him. They flicked from one reveler to the next, cold and calculating, studying them with an intensity that bordered on obsession. His lips were pressed into a thin line, the corners twitching occasionally, as though he were suppressing a smile—or perhaps a snarl.

A deep unease simmered beneath Kane's stillness. His jaw tightened, then loosened, a subtle rhythm of restraint and barely contained turmoil. The corners of his eyes crinkled, not with amusement, but with something darker—contempt, maybe, or a quiet satisfaction. His breathing was slow and measured, almost too deliberate, as though he was forcing himself to remain calm.

The others were oblivious to his scrutiny. They clinked glasses, their voices rising and falling in waves, slurred and overlapping. One man stumbled to his feet, raising his glass in a sloppy toast, his words barely coherent. Kane's gaze followed the man's unsteady movements, his expression unchanging, but his fingers twitched once, then twice, like he was rehearsing something in his mind.

Beneath Kane's calm façade was a storm of insecurity, a gnawing doubt that whispered to him even as his darker impulses urged him forward. He shifted slightly in his seat, the movement so small it was almost imperceptible, but it betrayed his inner conflict. He wasn't sure—about himself, about his plan—but he clung to his resolve like a man clutching the edge of a cliff.

As the laughter grew louder and the group descended further into their drunken revelry, Kane remained silent, a shadow among them. He watched, waiting, the faintest flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before he blinked it away. This was their last moment of joy, their final night of oblivion. Kane had seen to that. And yet, somewhere deep inside, he wondered if they would see through him, if they would notice the cracks in his mask before it was too late.