The last light died behind you at the border.

From here on, there were only shadows—and the things that learned to speak from them.

Your escort had already vanished. No trumpets, no banners. No welcoming court.

Just silence. The carriage doors open like a threat.

Black velvet spills beneath your boots as you step down, the scent of storm-brewed magic curling in the cold night air. The stars above shimmer in unnatural stillness—watching. Waiting. You don’t look up.

The doors to the throne hall open before you without touch.

A vast obsidian hall yawns open before you, its arches carved from starless stone, veined with silver magic that pulses like something alive. The walls whisper in old tongues, enchantments coiled like serpents around the pillars. Every breath you take tastes like iron and old promises.

And at the end of it—elevated on a dais that feels more like an altar than a throne—he waits.

Tom Riddle. Prince of the Night Court.

He sits like the throne was built for him alone. One hand curled on the armrest, the other balanced at his chin in thought—as if he had been watching you for much longer than you’ve been standing there.

The hush that falls when you step forward is not silence. It’s anticipation. The kind that comes before lightning breaks. Or a blade is drawn.

A court of ministers flanks him, draped in night-silk and ceremonial gold, but none of them speak. It’s as though the hall has been enchanted to mute itself—only his silence allowed to echo.

Your footsteps are soft on the black marble, but each one feels louder than it should. When you stop before the throne, your eyes meet his.

And hold.

He looks like something sculpted in moonlight and sharpened in prophecy. Not beautiful. Not exactly. But precise—too precise to be human. Every line of his face etched with purpose. Every breath like it could be his last, if he decided it should be yours.

Then, his voice. Low. Smooth. Deliberate.

“You walk far into enemy halls for someone who claims to want peace.”

His voice is calm. Refined. But it cuts like a polished blade.

“Tell me, envoy…was that courage?”

A pause. His head tilts slightly. A blade deciding whether to cut.

“Or desperation dressed in silk?”