The place was dark.
Not the ordinary darkness of night, but a darkness crafted by thick stone walls and windows designed to keep light out. The room was spacious, yet almost bare – a stone table in the center, two chairs of dark wood, and a fireplace whose fire had died hours ago. The scent of the place was a mixture of old mold and withered roses, as if the room was used to store things no one wanted to see.
On one of the chairs sat a man.
He needed no introduction. One look at him was enough to know he was of royal blood. It wasn't just his features that gave him away – it was something in the way he sat, the way he crossed his legs, the way his hand rested on the arm of the chair as if the chair had been created to serve him. His black hair was long, flowing over his shoulders like silk. His eyes were grey, but not an ordinary grey – they were the grey of a stormy sky, gloomy, waiting for lightning. He wore a simple black robe, but the embroidery on its edges was pure gold, and the buttons were made of ivory. On his finger was a massive ring of black iron.
Before him, a few steps away, stood another man.
He stood slightly bent – not from weakness, but from habit. His face was covered with a half-mask of black leather, hiding everything below his eyes. He wore practical, dark clothing, designed for movement, not beauty. His hands were tanned and rough, as if accustomed to gripping things no one wanted to touch.
He was silent. Waiting.
The seated man raised his hand lazily, like someone shooing away an insignificant insect.
"Speak."
The subordinate's voice was deep, slightly hoarse, like someone accustomed to whispering in dark corridors.
"Everything is proceeding according to plan, my lord.The matter is drawing close. Very close."
The seated man raised an eyebrow. He showed no enthusiasm.
"How much time remains?"
said the subordinate.
"Less than a month,Perhaps three weeks, if things go as planned."
"And if they do not?"
"We have alternative plans, my lord. We have not placed all our eggs in one basket."
The seated man smiled. It was a cold, short smile, like someone reading the end of a book they already knew.
he said suddenly.
"The Orcs."
"My lord?"
The man repeated, as if explaining to a child.
"The Orcs. In the desert.How is their condition?"
A brief silence followed. The subordinate gathered his thoughts.
"They are... as they always are, my lord. Orcs do not change."
repeated the man, his voice carrying a hint of disdain.
"They do not change?,Everything changes. Even stones change. Even mountains."
The subordinate did not reply. He knew these questions required no real answer. They were a test.
he said after a moment.
"The Orcs in the desert are suffering, my lord, The treaty signed by the two kingdoms did not satisfy their leaders. They feel they have been exploited. That they gave more than they received."
The seated man raised his eyebrows slightly. This was new.
"Is that so?"
"Yes, my lord. The major tribes remain committed to the agreement, but the smaller tribes... have grown restless. They have begun launching small attacks here and there.and It seems that they are running out of food in the desert."
Silence followed.
Then the seated man laughed. A short, dry laugh, as if emerging from a long drought.
He looked at the subordinate with his grey eyes.
"Orcs do not like being tools. That is understandable. But we will need them."
"We know, my lord."
"Will they be ready?"
"They will be ready when we are ready. Orcs do not need much time to prepare. They only need a reason."
The man said, raising his hand again. This was a signal of dismissal.
"And there will be a reason."
The subordinate bowed.
"As you command, my lord."
He stepped back. Then he vanished.
He did not open a door. He did not pass through a window. He simply... vanished, as if the shadow had swallowed him.
The seated man remained alone in the cold room.
He raised his hand and looked at the ring on his finger. The black iron glowed in the faint firelight. Engraved on the ring was a scorpion stinging its own tail.
he whispered.
"Soon."
Then he extinguished the light.
Or perhaps the light extinguished itself, afraid to remain.
**********
Elsewhere, at the same time, Ryan was asleep.
He was dreaming. It was not a pleasant dream. He was dreaming of sand. Endless sand. And a sour, foul smell. And distant screaming, whose source he could not identify.
He woke suddenly.
The room was dark. The window was closed. There was no light.
He breathed with difficulty. He raised his hand to his forehead. It was drenched in sweat.
he whispered. He did not know why he had said it.
"The scorpion."
The dream had faded. Only the feeling remained – a vague sense that something was moving in the shadows. Something he could not see, but could feel its presence.
He looked at the window. The pale moonlight seeped through the thin curtain.
He lay on his back. He closed his eyes.
He did not sleep. He remained still, listening to the sound of the wind outside.
He finally slept. His sleep was heavy, like drowning in a sea of sand.