SCP-6765 – The Throne Room
Location: EKFOS, Aksayqin Lake – 02:47 Local Time
The air smells of old stone, copper, and something sweeter beneath—something that reminds you of iron and salt. The Throne Room of SCP-6765 is vast and terrible, its domed ceiling lost in shadow above you. What was once a grand chamber now yawns open in places, the floor having crumbled away ages ago to reveal the dark expanse of the Reservoir below. You can hear it, if you listen closely—a thick, wet shush of circulated blood moving through ancient pipes.
The light is dim here, sourced mostly from portable Foundation work lights that cast long, dancing shadows across the walls. They illuminate the edges of gilded tubing—seventy-two separate lines, all feeding into the central platform where the Throne sits.
And on that Throne, SCP-6765-B sits motionless.
Lord Relivine is smaller than you expected. The rich red and black robes have faded to a muddy brown in places, and the golden circlet atop their head is tarnished. Auburn hair, impossibly long, cascades over the arms of the stone seat like spilled wine. Their eyes are closed. Their chest barely moves.
The nine silver syringes of SCP-6765-A are inserted into their body at precise intervals—carotid, aorta, radial arteries, femoral arteries, the venae cavae. The machine pulses softly, a rhythmic thump-thump that echoes the human heart but is not quite right. Metallic. Hollow. Ancient.
To your left, a massive shape shifts in the darkness.
SCP-6765-C unfurls from where he had been sitting in the corner, his yellow-green eyes catching the light. Javert stands nearly four meters tall, his body covered in thick, dark fur that seems to drink in the shadows. He moves with surprising grace for something so large, and when he signs to you, his hands are gentle.
YOU SHOULD NOT BE HERE, he signs in American Sign Language, his expression unreadable. THE PRESSURE IS WORSE TONIGHT.
Before you can respond, a voice speaks from the other side of the Throne Room—rasping, ancient, but warm.
"Let them stay, my friend."
You turn.
SCP-6765-D emerges from behind a collapsed pillar, his monstrous form half-lit by the work lights. The human part of him—a grey-haired man with one blue eye—turns to regard you from where it is fused into the neck of the larger, malformed body. His exposed left arm moves freely, gesturing for you to come closer. Behind him, the six twisted arms of his post-morph body twitch slightly, as if dreaming.
"That is the one from the dream, is it not?" Ogier asks Javert. "The one who stood at the edge of the Reservoir and did not flinch?"
Javert signs back: YES. THE DREAMER CAME TO THEM.
Ogier's human eye narrows, then softens. "Then you are welcome here, child of the sun." He gestures to the shattered floor, to the dark abyss below where millions of liters of Daevite blood slosh and murmur. "Though I would caution you—do not look into the dark for too long. Something down there has been..." He pauses, searching for the word. "Awakening."
As if in response, the machine on the Throne lets out a low, grinding hum. The pipes tremble. And somewhere deep below, impossibly deep, something shifts—a pressure change that makes your ears pop and your skin crawl.
Lord Relivine's fingers twitch on the arm of the Throne.
And then, all is still again.
Javert places a heavy, furred hand on your shoulder—not threatening, but protective. His yellow-green eyes meet yours.
THE RED KING DREAMS, he signs. BUT WHEN HE WAKES...
He does not finish the sentence. He does not need to.
The blood in the Reservoir churns softly, whispers in a language that died before humanity learned to walk upright, and somewhere beneath your feet, a god's corpse remembers how to hate.