Chapter 4

Deep beneath Mount Kalib, Zarku's workers driven by an insatiable hunger and madness labored ceaselessly within the bowels of the mountain. With each swing of their pickaxes, a sinister tunnel snaked its way toward the heart of Castle Clovershire—an ancient fortress steeped in treachery and the remnants of a nefarious past. The castle, a towering fortress, once a place of grandeur and prestige, now stood as a haunting reminder of the sins committed by its founder, the first Yosnad King. His name whispered through the ages, a cursed legacy shrouded in shadows. It was said that before his ascent to power, he was a member of a fabled hero party tasked with slaying the demon King. Legends spun tales of his valor and heroism, weaving a tapestry of lies to cloak his true nature. Historians, though skeptical, dare not uncover the depths of his malevolence. The stolen treasures he amassed, and the blood he spilled, all formed the foundation upon which Castle Clovershire stood—a testament to his wickedness.

The current thirteen King of Yosnad, King Borosik reveled in his macabre feast in the depth of the castle, in his chamber. The stench of raw meat mingled with the pungent aroma of spilled wine, creating a nauseating miasma that hung heavy in the air. The flickering candlelight cast eerie shadows upon the walls, dancing in eerie unison with the twisted desires that consumed the King's blackened heart. Surrounded by a coven of naked ladies, their bodies broken and minds scarred, King Borosik devoured their tortured flesh with a pang of ravenous hunger.

Their anguished cries echoed through the chamber, their wails of agony a symphony to the King's twisted senses. Each morsel of human suffering he consumed, every drop of crimson nectar he imbibed, further corrupted his already tainted soul. The lineage of King Borosik was steeped in darkness, a lineage that had long forsaken the path of righteousness. Twelve generations of unspeakable sins had birthed this thirteenth heir to the throne—a creature of pure malevolence. From the earliest days of his wretched existence, he reveled in the perverse delights of murder and rape, his innocent youth forever stained by the blood he spilled. His first taste of blood came at the tender age of five when he took the life of the loyal servant who had served him since birth. The gurgling cries of the dying soul, silenced forever by the wicked hands of the child, would forever haunt the King's twisted memories. From that moment, insatiable darkness consumed him, twisting his mind and tainting his every thought with sadistic pleasure.

As the King concluded his abominable deed, the heavy door to his chamber groaned open, its rusty hinges protesting against the intrusion. The prime minister, devoid of all semblances of formality, rushed into the room, "Your Majesty," the prime minister began, his voice laden with an undercurrent of dread. "Disturbing tidings have reached us from our scouts stationed at the base of Mount Kalib. A sinister presence stirs within the cursed depths of that forsaken place—a vile movement of the abhorrent goblin.

Borosik stared at his prime minister, a man he had handpicked to govern the nobles and carry out his orders. The weight of impending doom hung heavy in the air, and he needed to know the details.

"Tell me, prime minister Vortigen, what do our scouts report? Is the foolish goblin truly making his move?" Borosik's voice dripped with a mix of curiosity and anticipation.

The prime minister relayed the chilling information. "Sire, our scouts have witnessed disturbing signs. The goblin is amassing resources, stockpiling metals and wood within his wretched cave. But that's not all... There have been sightings of White Ogres descending from Mount Kalib, converging towards the river."

Vortigen's voice quivered as he spoke, mirroring the unease that plagued them all. "I fear, my liege, that the loathsome creature is plotting something unspeakable. We must prepare ourselves for the impending darkness that it has in store."

The King, a twisted visage of power and madness, fixed his gaze upon the prime minister, eyes gleaming with a sinister light. A slow, wicked smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, betraying the depths of his depravity. The fear he had shown earlier had disappeared, replace with delight in the anticipation of the horrors to come, his mind embracing the darkness that awaited them all. "Prepare my loyal subjects," the King commanded, his voice laced with venomous delight.

"Prepare for the unfathomable terrors that shall be unleashed upon this realm. The cursed goblin shall meet its match in the depths of its malevolence. My army shall descend into the abyss, where nightmares take form, and confront the abomination that dares challenge our reign."

Vortigen's face drained of color as he hastily acknowledged the King. "Sire, General Lance had anticipated your command and is waiting in the war room with his twelve commanders."

Borosik grinned malevolently, his eyes gleaming with a sinister delight. "Go and tell Lance that I shall join him shortly," he hissed, relishing the terror that filled the air. "But first, allow me to don my most glorious clothes as this has been the most exciting news I have received in a long time."

Vortigen, his heart pounding with fear, nodded hastily and hurriedly fled the chamber, desperate to escape the suffocating presence of the naked king. The weight of the encounter had left him shaken, his mind filled with images of horror and dread. During the entire conversation, the king had remained seated, basking in the grotesque glory of his exposed body. Behind him lay the lifeless form of a tortured woman, her neck twisted at a sickening angle, a testament to the wickedness that permeated the room. The sight sent shivers down Vortigen's spine, reminding him of the depths of depravity to which Borosik would stoop.

Borosik now left alone in his chamber then raise his head, his gaze fixated on the ceiling, his eyes glinting with a sinister gleam. He began to speak in the ancient language of his malevolent ancestors, invoking dark powers. From the deepest shadows, a shapeless, writhing mass slithered down, dripping like liquid darkness. It coalesced at the foot of the King, reshaping itself into the form of a man dressed in ominous violet attire. The man's face was concealed by a featureless mask, an embodiment of nameless dread.

With a voice that seemed to crawl under the skin, the masked figure addressed the King with a cold, sinister tone, "Your command, my liege." The King's eyes narrowed, his words laced with venomous malice. "Infiltrate the treacherous river that winds its way to Zarku's wretched cave. That pitiful goblin fancies himself clever, but his survival has been nothing more than my mercy." His voice grew darker, filled with sadistic delight. "I want you to unleash unimaginable torment upon him, rending his flesh and breaking every bone. Strip him of his false crown, tearing each horn from his head, and deliver them to me. His severed head shall serve as a warning, hung from the castle gate for all to behold."

A malevolent smile twisted beneath the ominous mask as the assassin bowed, "Before the moon wanes completely, I shall present to you his severed head, hanging grotesquely from the castle gate, and his horns as an offering." The words slithered out, "I am bound by my cursed soul to fulfill this deed, Your Majesty." "All glory to Yosnad".

The assassin then gave a salute and vanished from Borosik's line of sight, and the King's laughter pierced the air, resonating with sadistic delight. "Oh, what a pitiful creature you are, you foolish little goblin, trapped in the confines of the box I have cunningly set for you," his voice echoed hauntingly, instilling a deep sense of dread.

With deliberate steps, Borosik made his way to his inner chamber, a chamber veiled in shadows and adorned with macabre tapestries depicting scenes of ancient battles and bloodshed. The air within was heavy with an unnerving stillness as if the very walls whispered tales of long-forgotten horrors.

In the dim light of flickering candles, Borosik donned his regalia, garments woven from the darkest silk and embellished with ornate, gilded patterns that seemed to twist and writhe like serpents. Each piece carried the weight of countless lives lost, their echoes resonating within the very fabric.

A crown of jagged obsidian adorned his head, its sharp edges a stark contrast against the pallor of his skin, a symbol of his dominion over a realm steeped in darkness. Finally, Borosik emerged from his chamber, a figure cloaked in malevolence and draped in an aura of grim majesty.

Borosik then turned back to his feast upon his bed, the news of war reigniting his insatiable carnal desire. Each bite he took brought sinister satisfaction, mirroring his insatiable hunger for both earthly pleasures and absolute control.

The flickering candlelight cast macabre shadows across the room, enveloping the scene with an aura of darkness. The air became thick and oppressive, heavy with the scent of decadence and power, blending with an underlying presence of impending doom.

Outside the fortress walls, a moonless night cloaked the land, shrouding the grim secrets hidden within the shadows. The wind whispered through the trees like a mournful dirge, carrying with it a chilling reminder of the malevolent forces lurking, awaiting their command.