Lord Verkhane

The castle was silent. Not the peaceful silence of a quiet home. Not the comforting silence that followed laughter. This was the silence of a tomb. The kind that settled into stone and refused to leave. Nikolai Thorne Verkhane stood alone on the western terrace overlooking the sea. The Aegean stretched endlessly before him, its waters reflecting the pale light of dawn. Seven hundred and twelve years. He had survived seven hundred and twelve years. Kingdoms had died. Languages had vanished. Entire bloodlines had disappeared from history. Yet he remained. Unchanged. Seventeen years old. Forever. The sea wind tugged at his dark hair. He did not move. He rarely moved unless there was a reason. Emotion no longer provided one. A porcelain cup sat on the small table beside him. Cold coffee. Three weeks old. The servants would have thrown it away. If he had servants. If he allowed people into the castle. If he cared. He didn't. The coffee remained where it was. Exactly where Elara had left it. The thought registered. Nothing followed. No pain. No sadness. No longing. Those things had died months ago. Along with her. Nikolai's gray eyes drifted toward the empty chair across from him. The chair was untouched. No dust covered it. No bird droppings stained it. No leaves gathered beneath it. Every morning he cleaned it. Every evening he cleaned it again. Not because he missed her. He no longer possessed the ability to miss anyone. It was simply routine. A habit formed over centuries. Nothing more. At least that was what he told himself. The terrace remembered differently. The terrace remembered laughter. It remembered tea shared beneath summer sunsets. It remembered debates that stretched long into the night. It remembered Elara Beaumont. The only person in centuries who had treated Nikolai like a man instead of a myth. The only person who had never asked how old he was. Or why he never aged. Or why his eyes sometimes looked older than civilization itself. She had simply sat beside him. Day after day. Year after year. As though immortality were the least interesting thing about him. The memory surfaced. Uninvited. "You know what your problem is?" she had asked once. Nikolai had looked up from his book. "I have several." "You think you're tragic." He had stared at her. "I watched my kingdom burn." "You see?" She pointed triumphantly. "Exactly." "I fail to understand your argument." "Most people would have said thank you." Nikolai had spent nearly three minutes trying to determine if she was serious. She laughed before he could. The sound echoed in his memory. Then vanished. Just like everything else. Nikolai blinked. The memory disappeared. The terrace became empty once more. The chair remained vacant. And Elara Beaumont remained dead. Dead. The word meant little to him. Death had followed him his entire existence. His mother. His father. His brother. Friends. Soldiers. Lovers. Enemies. He had buried so many people that individual graves blurred together. Death was inevitable. Predictable. Ordinary. So why had Elara been different? The question lingered. Unanswered. Unwanted. He turned away from the sea. The castle's halls stretched endlessly behind him. Ancient portraits lined the walls. House Verkhane. A dynasty erased from history. Kings. Queens. Warriors. All dead. Their painted eyes followed him as he walked. The Last Verkhane. The final mistake history had failed to correct. His footsteps echoed through corridors large enough for hundreds. Only one person lived there now. One immortal. One ghost. At the end of the hallway stood a wooden door. Unlike everything else in the castle, it remained locked. Not because anyone might enter. No one ever came. It remained locked because Nikolai had never opened it again. He stared at it for several seconds. Then reached for the handle. The door creaked open. Dust floated through sunlight. The room remained exactly as it had been. Books stacked on tables. A half-finished crossword puzzle. A jacket hanging from a chair. Photographs scattered across a desk. Elara's room. Months later and nothing had changed. The world had continued moving. Governments had risen and fallen. Wars had begun. Children had been born. People had fallen in love. People had died. But this room remained frozen. A monument to a woman who no longer existed. Nikolai stepped inside. His eyes settled on a photograph. Elara stood beneath an olive tree. Smiling. Alive. For a moment the image triggered something. A faint sensation. Like a heartbeat heard from miles away. Then it vanished. Leaving only emptiness. He set the photograph down. Carefully. Methodically. As though handling evidence. Because that was all it was now. Evidence. Proof that Elara Beaumont had once existed. Proof that she had once mattered. Proof that someone had once looked at him and seen more than an immortal relic. The silence shattered. A screen mounted on the wall flickered to life. News broadcasts filled the room. A familiar symbol appeared. A golden crest. A cape. A smiling face. The world's greatest hero. Apex. The anchor spoke excitedly. "...another record-breaking approval rating for Apex following last year's rescue operation..." Nikolai stared. Expressionless. "...experts continue to cite Flight 728 as one of the greatest heroic achievements in modern history..." The room seemed colder. "...the lives of three hundred and forty-seven passengers were saved that day..." Three hundred and forty-seven. The number appeared on screen. People applauding. People celebrating. People smiling. A miracle. A triumph. A hero. Nikolai watched every second. Then his gaze shifted toward the photograph on the desk. Toward Elara's smile. Toward the woman those celebrations never mentioned. Three hundred and forty-seven lives. For one. The world called that victory. Nikolai called it a lie. The television continued praising Apex. He switched it off. Darkness returned. For several moments he stood motionless. Then he spoke. The first words he had spoken all day. His voice was calm. Cold. Utterly devoid of emotion. "Hope." The word sounded almost foreign. Like a language he no longer remembered. His eyes drifted toward the sea beyond the window. Toward a world that worshipped heroes. Toward a civilization built upon symbols. Toward the people who cheered impossible choices because they were fortunate enough not to be the sacrifice. For centuries Nikolai had remained hidden. Ignoring humanity. Ignoring its heroes. Ignoring its wars. That time was over. Not because he hated them. Hatred required feeling. Not because he wanted revenge. Revenge required passion. No. This was simpler. More logical. The world believed in a lie. And lies deserved to be corrected. Far beneath the castle, deep within the mountain, ancient runes ignited. A sword forged from the bones of a dead god awakened. For the first time in centuries, shadow-flame stirred. And in the darkness below, two pairs of glowing eyes opened. One silver. One black. Lunara. Noctis. The wolves had sensed it. Their master was moving again. And somewhere far away, the heroes of Earth continued smiling for cameras. Unaware that an immortal king had finally decided to step back into history. And this time, he intended to tear hope out by its roots.