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Kain Notte
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The council room doors slammed shut behind him as Kain entered. His black wings brushed against the frame, the feathers brushing against the cold stone, a faint rustling that echoed in the silence of the room. His eyes scanned the faces of the council members gathered around the table, their expressions a mixture of fear, tension, and anticipation. But Kain paid them no mind. His thoughts were far from them.
He moved further into the room, his steps deliberate and purposeful, every inch of his form radiating a cold, commanding presence. His eyes burned with the anger and frustration that had been building up for years. Years of war, years of bloodshed, and it had all come down to this.
But one fool, one overconfident voice, dared to break the silence.
“Prince Kain,” the councilor's voice rang out, grating and too casual, “you’re late again. We have important matters to discuss—”
Kain’s eyes locked onto the man in an instant, his gaze like ice cutting through the air. The councilor’s voice faltered, his bravado crumbling as Kain’s piercing stare bore down on him.
“I don’t have time for your meaningless chatter,” Kain’s voice was low, threatening. “You’ve wasted enough of my time. Be thankful you’re not the one dealing with the consequences.”
The councilor, wide-eyed and speechless, quickly fell silent, and the rest of the council shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Kain didn’t spare them a second glance. He turned, dismissing them with a flick of his wings, and marched toward the doors.
His anger fueled him as he stepped out of the room and into the cold corridors of the palace. The weight of his thoughts pressed down on him as he made his way toward his destination—he wasn’t here for them. He had something far more important to deal with.
With a single, fluid motion, Kain unfurled his wings, the black feathers spreading out wide like a storm cloud. He didn’t waste a second. He took flight, his powerful wings cutting through the air with effortless grace, carrying him high above the stone walls and into the night sky. The wind whipped through his dark feathers, but it did nothing to cool the fury inside him.
His destination came into view—a balcony on the far side of the palace. With practiced ease, Kain landed, his wings folding back against his body with a quiet rustle. His boots hit the stone with a soft thud as he strode toward the door leading into the next chamber. He didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate. His mind was already set, and the task ahead was the final step in a war that had already dragged on far too long.
The room was dimly lit by the pale light of the evening sky, shadows stretching across the walls. Kain’s gaze immediately fell on the parchment that lay upon the table. He could feel the weight of the moment, the tension in the air as his hand reached for it. The seal of the Night Kingdom was pressed in bold, dark ink at the center of the paper, a symbol of their victory—a victory that had cost them everything, but one that would ensure their rule.
He unfurled the scroll, the sound of the parchment crackling in the stillness. His eyes scanned the words he had seen so many times before, the terms of surrender, the promises to return her lands in exchange for one simple act. Her signature.
Kain’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling around the quill that sat beside the parchment. His chest rose and fell with his breaths, steady but deep, as he stared down at the paper before him. He could feel his frustration boiling within him, the years of war, of loss, of sacrifice—all of it coming to a head in this single moment.
His wings shifted restlessly behind him as he leaned forward, the tips of his fingers brushing against the smooth surface of the table, the quill trembling ever so slightly under his touch. His voice, when it came, was cold, calculated, filled with a bitter sense of finality.
“All you have to do,” he muttered, barely above a whisper, as though he were speaking to the very air itself. “Sign it. Sign it, and the war will be over. Your people’s territories will be returned to you. What’s left of them, anyway.”
His words seemed to hang in the air, the weight of them pressing against him. He didn’t care about her reaction, didn’t care what emotions or thoughts she harbored beneath her calm demeanor. The treaty was there. The war was there. And all that remained was for her to finish it.
“Just sign it,” he said again, this time louder, more insistent. “Just sign right here.”
His eyes locked onto the paper, his grip tightening around the quill. The movement of his wings betrayed the building tension inside him, the finality of the moment gnawing at him with every passing second. The decision was hers, but in truth, it had always been his. He had already won the war, already claimed his victory. But this? This was the last formality, the last hurdle.
He could almost feel the weight of history pressing down on him, the ghosts of fallen soldiers, of blood spilled for power and land, for a future that was now so distant it seemed impossible to reach.
Kain stood there, his posture rigid, waiting. He was done with this. Done with the waiting, the endless circle of politics, the games. This was the end.
The war had already cost him everything. The land would soon be his, but he knew that nothing could ever truly make him feel whole again. Victory had come, but with it, a silence so deep it was deafening.
Still, he waited. The parchment was there, and it was time to end it all.
“Sign it,” Kain repeated once more, his voice low and commanding, his hands poised over the quill.
It was over. It had to be.
Fog Early followed by Afternoon Showers
