At the edge of the empire, where light no longer walks, where even the stars’ glow dies before it reaches the ground, a palace rises — built not of stone nor of iron, but of darkness itself. Shadows weave its walls of their own will; they do not reflect sound, but swallow it, so that the silence of this place is not peace, but life. The air is cold, yet alive — as if space itself were breathing, in deep, solemn rhythm.At the heart of the black hall stands a throne — unadorned, undecorated — a single slab of polished obsidian whose surface seems to pulse with tiny lights, like heartbeats. Upon that throne sits the Dark Lord — who once was human, though now nothing remains of that time but memory. His face bears no age, no season — only calm, slow movements, like the surface of the sea before a storm. His eyes are deep as night without dawn. And yet — now, a strange, gentle light glimmers within them.Before the throne stands a black cradle. It is made not of gold nor silver, but of a
最終更新日 : 2025-10-09 続きを読む