As the golden glow settled into the corners of the room, the door creaked open, ushering in a procession of servants. They flowed past him, their presence as ephemeral as the morning mist. With practiced silence, they set about their tasks; fluffing pillows back to perfection, stripping away the remnants of nocturnal feasting, their movements orchestrated chaos. The table, once cluttered with the detritus of indulgence, was wiped clean and reborn as a tableau of morning sustenance. Fresh fruits glistened like jewels amidst the humble earthiness of bread. Honey, golden and viscous, awaited the touch of a knife, while milk, pure and white, stood in stark contrast to the dark wood of the table. Not a word was spoken, as if the very air within the chamber was too thick with Anwir's authority to dare carry the weight of speech. Yet beneath this veneer of servitude and splendor, a different hunger gnawed at him, a reminder of the scars etched deep into his soul, hidden beneath the surface of his olive skin.
Anwir's gaze swept over the quiet efficiency of his servants, green eyes sharp and calculating. Each movement, each breath they took, was an echo of the world's relentless grind—the ceaseless push and pull between those who command and those who obey. It was a rhythm he knew all too well, a dance macabre choreographed by the gem of Ānuk, its corrupting influence a melody that played ceaselessly at the back of his mind. They did not know—could not know—the memories that gnawed at his insides like ravenous beasts. For every sweet morsel that touched his lips, there was the taste of ash and blood, the flavor of a past that clung to him more tightly than the shadows. He turned away from the window, his silhouette a dark smudge against the burgeoning light, a specter of power and pain reigning over a kingdom built on shadows and suffering.
The room brimmed with a deceptive tranquility. Anwir's servants, mere shadows within his opulent chamber, fluttered about in practiced silence. Yet beneath this veneer of order lay the undeniable tension that gripped their spines like ice. The newest amongst them, a slip of a girl with hair like spun gold, moved with hesitant grace, her violet eyes wide with the terror of making an error under his heavy gaze. Her fingers trembled as they brushed against the porcelain of his plate, and in one heart-stopping moment, it slipped from her grasp, shattering against the stone floor, its contents splattered like a grotesque painting. The clatter of crockery that shattering against the stone floor jolted the silent ritual of morning service. Anwir's eyes, sharp as hawk's talons, snapped to the source—the young servant girl, her hands trembling like autumn leaves in a tempest, fragments of his breakfast scattered at her feet.
"Come here," Anwir's voice sliced through the silence, a dagger veiled in velvet. The command was an echo of darker times, resonating with a cruelty born from the depths of his own past sufferings. The girl, Elowen, approached with the trepidation of a lamb to slaughter. Tear-filled eyes lifted to meet his, but there was no mercy to be found in those green orbs.
"Clumsy wretch!" he spat as she reached him. His hand lashed out, striking her with such force that she crumpled to the ground, a broken doll at the feet of a tyrant.
"Clean it up," he spat with scorn, grabbing her arm with the strength of iron shackles and dragging her back to the scene of her mistake.
Elowen's knees hit the floor hard, the pain a sharp contrast to the softness of his silk sheets she had so carefully smoothed moments before. She scrubbed at the stain, her golden locks cascading over her face like a veil of sorrow. Each sob that escaped her was muffled by the fabric of her sleeve, her spirit folding beneath the weight of humiliation. Memories of her father, a man of kindness and wisdom, danced cruelly at the edges of her consciousness. How she yearned for the protective embrace of his arms, the gentle guidance of his words. And Galaeth—her sister of soul if not of blood—with her auburn hair and eyes that shifted with emotion, who could turn knowledge into tangible strength. Elowen longed for that strength now, aching for the comfort only Galaeth's presence could bring. But there was no solace to be found on this cold, unforgiving floor. There was only Anwir, standing above her, a king in his court of shadows and fear. He watched her with a detached amusement that belied the tumultuous history concealed behind his façade of power.
"Remember your place," he muttered, a whisper meant only for the walls and the quiet dread they contained.
Elowen's hands worked faster, desperate to erase the evidence of her misstep, her very existence reduced to the task of cleaning away the remnants of his feast. Little did Anwir know, the girl at his feet harbored a connection to a world beyond his reach—a world where scales shimmered in the light and knowledge wielded like a weapon.
Yet for now, she remained just another ghost in Anwir's gilded prison, her fate bound to the whims of a man whose heart had long since turned to stone.
Anwir's shadow loomed over Elowen's trembling form, his silhouette sharp against the stone walls that echoed with her stifled sobs. He cocked his head to the side, a predator amused by the fear quivering in his prey.
"Once upon a time," he began, his voice smooth as the silk sheets he'd left behind, "I too was frightened."
Her whimpering grew fainter, yet each breath she drew seemed to fuel his dark satisfaction.
"Prey to the whims of twisted men," Anwir continued, leaning closer, his breath a whisper of malice against her ear. "Life is not fair," he drawled, the words dripping with venomous mockery. Elowen's hands scrubbed at the floor, her tears mingling with the spilt wine and crumbs.
"But there is a single grace..." His pause was heavy, laden with unspoken dread. "...it eventually ends."
The room held its breath, and for a moment, the only sound was the crackle of the waning fire—a mocking applause to his statement.
A shiver coursed through Anwir's spine, a ghost from a life long buried under layers of cruelty and ambition. His green eyes clouded, the embers of memory igniting behind them. The fields...his home...the acrid smell of smoke and the iron scent of blood that had greeted him when he returned from work. The soldiers, like carrion crows, had descended upon his village, their armor glinting with the callousness of their deeds. His father's face swam into focus, proud even in defeat, his body broken but spirit untamed. They had murdered them all, his mother, his siblings, silent witnesses to the retribution of defiance. And then, with a merciless finality, they had tied a boulder to his father's legs and cast him into the deep well—the very source of life for their village now a tomb.
Anwir stood motionless, the past clawing at his present. He could still hear the echo of that dreadful splash, an eternal reminder of the depths to which fate could drag a man.
"Remember this pain," his father's last words whispered through time, a plea or perhaps a curse.
And Anwir did remember. Every waking moment was etched with the scars of that day, carving him into the figure he had become. A king among thieves, a lord of darkness—where once he was powerless, now he wielded power with an iron grip.
Anwir's fingers curled into fists, the memory a vice around his heart. Bent over in the alleyway, he had begged for coin or crust, his voice hoarse from thirst and pride swallowed whole. The city swelled above him, indifferent—marble and gold glinting in the sun, laughter echoing from open windows, while shadows clung to his tattered form below. The hunger was a living thing then, gnawing at his insides, a constant companion to the chill that seeped into his bones. It whispered of darker paths, of deeds that could fill an empty stomach, silence the ache of loss. A cornered animal, indeed, driven by desperation, claws bared against a world that had forsaken him. His mind wandered, unbidden, to that pivotal moment—the turn of the key in the lock of his fate. His stomach had screamed its betrayal, eyes fixated on the warm, yeasty promise behind the glass pane of the bakery. A loaf of bread, golden and crisp, it was survival, it was life. He transgressed with trembling hands, the bread stolen beneath the folds of his rags. But fate, with its cruel humor, decreed it not be so simple. The shopkeeper, a portly man with a walrus mustache and a crimson face, caught sight of the disappearing morsel. "Thief!" he boomed, the word a death knell.
Panic took hold, a frenzied dance of fear and instinct. Anwir lunged, propelled by the sheer force of necessity. They fell, a tangle of limbs and desperate gasps, crashing against the hard cobblestones. The shopkeeper's shouts were stifled as Anwir's hardened fingers found his throat, squeezing the life out of the man. The struggle was fierce but brief; the pampered merchant's body grew slack, his resistance fading to feeble twitches before stillness claimed him. Breathless, Anwir stood alone, save for the corpse at his feet. In the dim reflection of a rain-puddled mirror, he saw himself—not the boy who played among the wheat fields, but the creature he had become. Eyes hollow with the knowledge that the world was a scale, balanced between those who command and those who cower.
"Below or above," he muttered, the truth ringing clear even as his voice cracked with the weight of it.
The air was thick with the copper scent of spilled blood and the quiet that follows calamity. He fled, leaving behind the body of a man who had never known want, never understood the ferocity of a soul cornered, fighting for scraps of existence.
Now, standing over Elowen, her sobs a faint echo of his own long-silenced cries, he knew the path he had chosen. Pain, like a thread through time, wove their stories together—a tapestry frayed and stained, but undeniably his to claim.
Anwir's shadow stretched across the opulent chamber, a dark stain on the golden tapestry of his success. Each act of violence, each sin woven into the fabric of his criminal empire, was a testament to his ascent. He had clawed his way from the dirt, leaving behind a trail of atrocities no one dared speak of—each one buried in silence and fear. His cold green eyes surveyed the trembling girl before him with a detachment that belied his inner triumph.
"Once, I was nothing," he murmured to himself, voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying the weight of his grim journey. "Now, they cower."
The girl—Elowen, a mere servant in his grand scheme—clutched a rag stained with the remnants of spilled breakfast as her sobs echoed off the high walls. Her pain was a familiar tune to Anwir, a symphony he had conducted many times before. For a moment, his mind pirouetted back through the years, each step marked by the crunch of gravel underfoot as he begged in the very markets where she once played. He watched her, her form shaking with each suppressed cry, and a cruel smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Memory struck like a serpent's bite, venomous and sharp. A flicker of recognition sparked within the depths of his olive skin, a harsh light glinting off the surface of his past.
"I remember you," he said, tone laced with malice. The words slithered out, winding around the girl, an invisible noose drawing tighter. Elowen's eyes widened, a silent question trembling on her lips. She didn't understand—couldn't comprehend the twisted satisfaction that oozed from his every pore.
In the depths of his green eyes, a reflection of the gem of Ānuk flickered, its corrupting glow casting a pall over his visage. The energy waves pulsed silently, unseen currents that shaped the fate of all who lay within their reach.
With a laugh that cut through the heavy air, Anwir relished the reversal of their fates. The girl shrank back, her shriek piercing the morning calm—a stark contrast to the hush that enveloped his rise to power.
"Look how the tables have turned," he thought, his laughter a harbinger of the despair that had once been his constant companion. Now, he was the architect of misery, the harbinger of doom—a king among the fallen.
"Get up," he ordered, his voice back to the present, cold and detached.
Elowen rose, her limbs shaking, her eyes downcast. She dared not look upon the man who seemed to embody the very essence of her fears. Unbeknownst to her, she mirrored the countless faces that had haunted Anwir's ascent—a tapestry of the broken weaving through his soul. In the quiet of the morning, with sunlight spilling across the chamber and casting golden hues upon the horror within, Anwir watched Elowen disappear amongst the other servants, a specter of his own lost innocence drifting away with her.