"DARK SQUAD"

The air in Kane's grand hall reeked of incense, wine, and decay—a heavy cocktail of indulgence and corruption. Kane lounged on the golden throne as though it were nothing more than an old chair, his posture loose yet coiled, like a predator waiting to strike. His legs stretched carelessly over the side, boots scuffing the once-immaculate carvings of his ancestors. The throne itself, a symbol of justice and unity, had grown tarnished, its intricate patterns smeared with wine stains and scratches from the king's own reckless whims.

Kane's fingers drummed lightly on the armrest, their rhythm sharp and erratic. His hand bore the faint smudges of blood, hastily wiped away but not forgotten, as if the evidence of his misdeeds lingered in defiance of his arrogance. His jaw tightened slightly as he took another deep swig of wine, the ruby-red liquid staining his lips like a mocking echo of the sins he had committed. The corners of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, more like the shadow of a smirk, tinged with bitterness.

His dark eyes, once sharp and calculating, now seemed glazed with the fog of self-indulgence. But deep within their murky depths, there flickered a trace of something raw and unspoken—a fear he refused to name, let alone confront. His body language betrayed none of this vulnerability. His shoulders were broad and squared, his back straight as though he could carry the weight of his kingdom's ruin without a second thought. Yet every so often, his gaze darted toward the heavy doors of the chamber, just for a heartbeat, as if expecting a phantom to appear and drag him into the abyss.

The servants in the room moved like shadows, their steps light and deliberate, each one careful to stay out of Kane's line of sight. They kept their heads low, their hands trembling slightly as they poured wine or adjusted the room's decor to his liking. None dared to speak unless spoken to. Even then, their words came out in hushed, stammering tones, their voices like mice scurrying under the claws of a cat.

One young servant girl caught Kane's eye as she fumbled with a goblet. His gaze pinned her in place, cold and unrelenting, like a dagger to her throat. Her breathing quickened, and her lips parted in silent terror, but Kane merely laughed—a low, guttural sound that sent shivers rippling through the room. His laughter was sharp and joyless, more of a weapon than a true expression of mirth. It filled the space, thick and suffocating, until the girl quickly bowed and shuffled out of sight.

The court whispered of his cruelty behind closed doors, yet in his presence, their faces wore fixed masks of deference. Even the bravest among them dared not meet his gaze for too long. Their eyes darted nervously, their hands clenching beneath robes or behind backs as though squeezing the last vestiges of their courage.

Despite their fear, some held a quiet hope buried deep within their hearts. As Kane relished his false invincibility, he failed to notice the subtle shifts in their demeanor—the way a servant's eyes would harden for a fraction of a second when his back was turned or the brief moments when murmured prayers to forgotten gods fell from trembling lips. Fear was a double-edged sword,

Kane reveled in the sweet taste of victory, but deep down, he knew it was fleeting. The crown atop his head felt heavy, not with the burden of leadership, but with the weight of paranoia. He understood all too well that power could slip through his fingers if he did not act decisively. Kane, already consumed by darkness, resolved to ensure his dominion remained unchallenged.

Under the veil of night, he gathered fifty men—loyal soldiers and common folk who would never be missed—and led them to a secluded chamber hidden deep within his kingdom. This place was forgotten by all but Kane himself, a secret sanctuary where even the faintest whispers dared not linger. There, beneath the flickering light of crimson torches, Kane began a forbidden ritual, one whispered of only in the most ancient and cursed tomes.

He called forth an abyssal power and poured its essence into the men, twisting and corrupting them. Their screams echoed in the chamber as Kane tore their hearts from their bodies, replacing their humanity with something far darker. When the ritual was complete, they were no longer men—they were shadows of their former selves, puppets of malice bound to Kane's will.

They moved in perfect, eerie unison, their steps silent yet calculated, as though they glided rather than walked. Their limbs were unnaturally stiff yet precise, each movement imbued with purpose, as if controlled by an unseen puppeteer. Their expressions were blank masks of nothingness; their eyes, voids of black, showed no emotion, no spark of life. Yet within those depths, there lingered a quiet menace, a chilling aura that made the air heavy wherever they stood.

When Kane spoke, they listened with unnerving intensity. They neither nodded nor flinched; their stillness was absolute. But in the subtle tilt of their heads and the slight tightening of their hollow gazes, there was a wordless promise: they would obey without question, without hesitation, and without mercy. To them, Kane was not a king, but a god. His voice was their only command; his will, their only purpose.

Despite their lifelessness, there was a quiet, oppressive presence to each of them. They did not fidget, nor did they breathe with the rhythm of the living. Yet, in their silence, they exuded a cold, mechanical menace, as if they were constantly calculating the most efficient path to destruction. Their movements, while deliberate, bore a dreadful fluidity, as if they could strike with unrelenting speed and precision at any moment.

Kane looked upon his creation and felt a swell of pride. They were his ultimate weapon, his machines of annihilation. These creatures, stripped of all humanity, were utterly loyal to him and him alone. There was no room for rebellion, no capacity for betrayal. They were bound to him by the darkest of magics, their very existence dependent on his will.

He named them the "Dark Squad." They were his wrath given form, his guardians of power, and his instruments of terror. They would ensure his reign endured, no matter the cost. And as Kane stood among them, a cruel smile stretched across his face. The throne was his, and with the Dark Squad at his side, it would remain so forever, so he thinks.