CHAPTER 634: 634

With their treasures secured, Zarvok spread his hands. "You have what you need, and what you desire. When will you be leaving?"

"Now," Ikenga replied without pause. "We have nothing left to do here."

Keles’s fingers slipped into his, grounding him. "What about Vaeghur?" she asked softly.

Ikenga’s eyes turned toward Zarvok. The demon lord let out a low laugh, then snapped his hand.

From the space between shadows, Vaeghur appeared disoriented, glancing around until his eyes found Ikenga and Keles. Relief softened his features as he hurried toward them, pausing only to bow his head toward Keles’s belly, a silent gesture of acknowledgment to the life within her.

"Consider him and this my gift," Zarvok said. With a flick of his wrist, a small box adorned with intricate abyssal patterns flew toward Ikenga, who caught it without breaking his gaze from the demon lord.

Ikenga studied him for a long, silent moment before closing his eyes. Keles mirrored him, and together they summoned the image of their home, their world shimmering before their inner sight. Then, with unspoken unity, they called for Nana sending out the thought, the prayer, the command that they were ready to return.

At first, nothing stirred. Then came the warmth, the overwhelming embrace, maternal, eternal. The abyss trembled as a presence vast and nurturing descended, enveloping them.

Zarvok watched as Ikenga and Keles stilled, their eyes closed as the presence wrapped around them. For a heartbeat, the demon lord caught sight of her Nana, the Mother of their world. She gazed at him as he gazed back, an exchange silent yet heavy with meaning.

And then, in a blink, they were gone. Ikenga, Keles, their mount, and the child within her are drawn out of his layer, leaving only the echo of her presence in Zarvok’s mind.

Zarvok sat in silence upon the obsidian throne of his palace, the great hall around him dark and still. The shadows seemed to breathe with him, patient and waiting. At last, with the faintest flex of his will, space folded, and a figure dropped heavily before him.

Rattan.

The man hit the polished floor with a grunt, instinctively recoiling from the sudden shift in his surroundings. His head snapped around, eyes darting across the vast and terrible chamber. The suffocating weight of the palace pressed down on him a space so alien, so utterly unlike the cold stone dungeon where he had spent his last months.

But something was wrong. For a moment, he couldn’t even register Zarvok’s presence. His senses slid over the demon lord as though the abyss itself refused to let his mortal mind acknowledge what sat before him. And then like a curtain torn away he saw Zarvok.

The sight rooted him in place. The sheer pressure of that gaze nearly crushed the breath from his lungs.

Rattan froze, body trembling, as memories from his imprisonment rushed through him. The endless silence. The crushing solitude. The gnawing weight of guilt that had eaten at him night after night.

He had hated his guardian once. Resented the man who had guided him. Resented the one who had pushed him down a path that demanded effort, demanded responsibility, demanded growth. But in that dungeon, when there was nothing but his own thoughts, he had been forced to face the truth.

His guardian had owed him nothing. Yet he had still done everything for him, given him tools, given him direction, given him the chance to stand taller than he ever could have alone. And what had Rattan done? Thrown it away. Turned on him. Spat on the hand that had lifted him.

He remembered laughing once, bragging to the chief of how fortune had smiled on him, how he had been given everything while others were left behind. The thought made his stomach twist now. How shallow he had been. How naïve.

His hands curled into fists. He had paid for his arrogance, yes, but perhaps not enough.

This was his first time standing before Zarvok, his new master, his supposed lord. And in the demon lord’s presence, Rattan felt the weight of every mistake, every regret, every weakness laid bare.

He bowed his head. He did not dare speak first.

The silence stretched. The air itself seemed to press down on Rattan’s back, urging him lower, until his knees hit the cold black stone of the palace floor. He could not raise his head.

Zarvok’s voice finally broke the stillness.

"You’ve changed."

The words rolled across the chamber, deep and measured, as though spoken by the abyss itself. Rattan flinched. He dared not answer too quickly, not knowing whether silence or speech would condemn him.

Zarvok’s eyes gleamed faintly red, fixed on the kneeling ratman. "The arrogance that once clung to you like rot is gone. What remains..." he leaned forward, resting his chin upon his clawed hand, "...is regret. Perhaps even humility."

Rattan’s throat was dry. He swallowed hard, his voice rasping as he forced the words out "I... was a fool."

The admission echoed weakly, as if the palace itself weighed its truth. Zarvok gave no sign of satisfaction, only watching with that still, predatory patience.

"I thought everything was mine for nothing," Rattan continued, the words pouring out now, raw and uneven. "I thought strength was owed to me. That others would lift me, carry me, and I could take pride in it. But... in that darkness... I saw it. My guardian gave me more than I deserved. And I betrayed it."

Zarvok raised a hand, halting him.

"Enough."

The single word cut through like a blade.

"You regret. That is good. But regret alone is useless." The demon lord rose from his throne, each step sending faint tremors through the ground. His presence swelled until Rattan could barely breathe. "The abyss does not need those who cling to what was lost. It requires those who will tear forward, regardless of chains of the past."

Zarvok stood before him now, towering, his shadow drowning the man. Rattan remained on his knees, trembling, but managed to lift his head enough to meet Zarvok’s gaze.

The demon lord studied him for a long moment, the silence heavier than any dungeon cell. Finally, Zarvok spoke.

"Good. Regret has carved you hollow. That means I may now shape you."

Rattan frowned, unsure of what the words meant, but dared not interrupt.

"You are not to be remade as demon, Rattan," Zarvok continued, his tone sharp and deliberate. "Your soul has value, yes, but not in consumption. Your worth lies in who you are to them, your people."

He swept a hand outward, and a vast illusion shimmered into view beside them: the goblin world, its cities rising once more under the abyss’s shadow, its people rebuilding in fear and in hope. Tiny figures knelt before a great palace, their eyes turned upward, waiting.

"You are their emperor," Zarvok said. "Their loyalty flows through you. If I crush you, I must break them one by one. But if I raise you, polish you, hold you high like a banner... they will bow as one. Through you, they obey me."

Rattan’s lips parted, but no words came. He felt the weight of it, the truth, and the trap.

Zarvok leaned close, his eyes burning like coals. "You will sit upon the throne I give you. You will speak the words I place in your mouth. And when your people kneel, their submission is mine. That is your purpose. That is why I kept you alive."

The images of his people flickered in the air, countless faces looking to him, waiting for his command. Rattan’s chest tightened. For the first time, he saw his crown not as power, but as a shackle.

Zarvok’s clawed hand rested briefly on his shoulder, a gesture at once terrifying and final.

"Rise, puppet king. Your new stage awaits."

Rattan rose to his feet, not from pride but because Zarvok’s hand on his shoulder made refusal impossible. His knees trembled, but he forced himself upright, staring at the illusion of his people displayed before him.

My people...

For a moment, a wild thought rose in him, defiance. To spit in this demon’s face, to deny the role of puppet. He imagined declaring, I am no one’s pawn. I am emperor by my own right.

But the moment the thought formed, it collapsed under its own weight. He had nothing. No strength. No army. Not even the cube, his last safeguard, his artifact, his proof of authority. Gone. Taken.

His fists clenched. Without it, what am I? Just a man stripped of everything.

His jaw tightened as Zarvok’s words echoed: Rise, puppet king.

A bitter taste filled his mouth. He hated it. Hated the chains he could not see but felt tightening around his soul. But the more he searched himself for rebellion, the more he found emptiness. His body wouldn’t move against Zarvok’s will. Even his own anger betrayed him—hollow, without fuel.

If I defy him, I lose even the scraps I have left. If I obey, I lose myself.

The image of his people lingered in the air, countless faces, waiting. Rattan’s heart twisted. He had bragged once, long ago, to the chief about being "lucky," about destiny favoring him. Now luck had abandoned him, and destiny mocked him with a crown he could not refuse.