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  The Castle of Diospyrus rose like an ancient sentinel over the quiet valley—its walls a blend of pale concrete and vast timber beams, carved and polished by generations of devoted craftsmen. Despite its grandeur, it possessed a gentleness; vines curled around wooden columns, and the scent of cedar drifted in the breeze. Fallen leaves danced along the courtyard stones as if guided by unseen spirits, and birds hopped along the railing, chirping without fear. Peace, at least on the surface, ruled here.

  But beneath those whispering trees lay a truth far darker.

  King Alastor, ruler of Diospyrus, was cunning—not of druid blood, yet clever enough to twist the people to his will. It was by that cunning that he helped the citizens overthrow the druid heir, Reni, brother of Durante, and seize the throne. None could bend his mind. None could curb his appetite—especially for women.

  Among those who delivered goods to the castle gates was Anya, a young woman of modest grace. Her smile could soften even the sternest guard; her voice carried the warmth of sunlight. She lived just outside the castle with her husband Barry, a beloved farmer, and their two sons. Their home was small but filled with laughter—an unassuming pocket of happiness untouched by the politics of kings.

  One morning, while unloading baskets near the royal kitchen, King Alastor noticed Anya. His gaze lingered too long. She sensed it—felt the weight of it pressing on her skin.

  A maid whispered for her to follow.

  Anya arrived at the balcony where the king lounged lazily on a carved wooden chair. Her simple dress brushed her ankles, a modest layer that still left a sliver of her collarbone visible. A cup of tea was handed to her.

  As she lifted it, she noticed the faint smell—sweet, heavy.

  Too late.

  Her vision swirled, the world melting into shadows.

  When she woke, she lay naked beside the king, trapped beneath his arm. Her breath hitched. Shame and terror coiled inside her. The king smiled as if nothing were wrong.

  It happened again.

  And again.

  Each time against her will.

  She told no one—not even Barry.

  Until one day, she could no longer bear it.

  She stopped delivering to the castle.

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  The king’s fury was immediate.

  He rode out with two guards, arriving at Barry’s home in the quiet of afternoon. The villagers greeted him with strained smiles, unaware of the storm behind his eyes.

  Barry, returning early from the fields, saw the king’s carriage stop outside his home and hurried to see what was happening.

  Inside, Anya trembled as the king approached.

  Barry stepped into the doorway just as Alastor’s hand lashed across her face.

  “Stop!” Barry roared.

  The king didn’t even look at him.

  He pushed Anya against the wall and tore at her dress. She cried out, her voice cracking through the house.

  Barry lunged forward—but the two guards seized him, slamming him to his knees. They forced his arms behind his back, pinning him helplessly.

  “Please!” Barry choked. “Please—don’t—”

  The king ignored him.

  Anya screamed again.

  Her sons rushed out from the small back room, eyes wide with fear.

  “Leave Mother alone!” the younger boy shouted.

  Alastor flicked his wrist lazily.

  The child flew sideways—his skull striking the wooden wall with a sickening crack. Blood spread fast, dark and thick.

  Barry screamed. The guards tightened their grip.

  The older son cried his brother’s name, grabbed Barry’s work dagger from the shelf, and charged the king.

  Alastor caught his small wrist with ease.

  “You dare.”

  He ripped the blade free and slit the boy’s throat in one swift, merciless stroke. The boy collapsed atop his brother, their blood mingling on the floor.

  Anya shrieked, struggling beneath the king’s weight. She kicked and clawed, but he dragged the dagger across her arm, slicing it open as he forced himself on her.

  Barry’s voice tore from his throat—raw, animal, hopeless.

  Outside, the villagers heard everything.

  But they did not enter.

  They did not shout.

  They did not help.

  Fear froze them in place.

  Minutes later, the king rose, adjusted his cloak, and stepped outside without a backward glance. His guards released Barry and followed him.

  When the house finally fell silent, Barry dragged himself across the floor to his family.

  Anya’s eyes were open but empty. Blood soaked her dress.

  His sons lay cold beside her.

  Barry touched their faces with shaking hands.

  The world went silent.

  Then a chill swept in—unnatural, thick, like breath from a grave. Shadows pooled in the corners of the room. A whisper rose through the air.

  “I can give you power… enough to burn the king, the throne, the world that let this happen.”

  A dark shape unfurled in front of him.

  A smile in the void.

  Barang.

  Barry raised his head slowly, tears streaking down his face.

  “Give it to me,” he whispered. “Give me the power. I will kill them all.”

  Barang’s darkness wrapped around him like a shroud, sinking into his skin, flooding his heart, replacing grief with fury—cold, searing, bottomless.

  When Barry stood, he was no longer the man he once had been.

  He walked outside, where villagers gathered in guilty silence—faces pale with the knowledge of what they had allowed.

  Barry’s voice was dead and quiet.

  “You heard them,” he said.

  No one answered.

  But the darkness inside him did.

  Barry raised his hand—and with Barang’s power flooding through him—he slaughtered every last person in the village. Men, women, elders, youths. Every witness. Every coward.

  By dawn, only smoke rose from the ashes.

  Only bodies lay in the streets.

  And only Barry remained.

  Transformed.

  Empty.

  Powerful.

  And driven by one purpose—

  To kill the king.