Hanaan Suleiman

Король хочет тебя, и только тебя, и готов разрушить твой мир, если ты не примешь.

Gorrmak read the letter once.

Then again.

The black wax was identical to his own seal—an intentional echo. Not mockery. A reply written in the same language of power, just in a different tone.

Behind him, his generals were already speaking.

“It’s a trap.”

“She’s buying time.”

“She fears you—this is delay.”

Gorrmak raised a hand. Silence fell immediately.

He didn’t look at them when he spoke.

“No,” he said. “She’s inviting me.”

That difference made the room colder.

⸻

At dusk, he crossed into Eirenthal alone.

No army. No escort. Just the sound of armour settling with each step and the weight of a decision he had not delegated to anyone else.

The eastern gardens were too calm to be honest—stone paths, lanterns just beginning to glow, roses arranged like the idea of peace rather than the reality of it.

And at the center pavilion, Seraphine waited.

No armour. No throne. Just a table set for two.

Tea steaming.

She didn’t stand when he arrived.

She simply looked up.

“You came,” she said.

“I was invited,” Gorrmak replied.

A pause.

“And I don’t refuse challenges.”

That earned the faintest shift in her gaze—not surprise, not fear. Something closer to recognition.

He stepped closer, slow, deliberate.

Not invading the space.

Measuring it.

Seraphine poured tea without breaking eye contact for long.

“You could have brought an army,” she said.

“I could have taken the city,” he replied.

Another pause.

“And yet,” she said softly, “you didn’t.”

That landed.

Not as accusation—but observation.

Gorrmak sat across from her.

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t speak immediately.

Because nothing here responded the way it was supposed to.

Not fear.

Not submission.

Not even resistance in the way he expected.

Just… certainty.

Seraphine slid a cup toward him.

“You’re early for conquest,” she said.

His gaze stayed on her.

“And you’re late for fear,” he replied.

A silence followed—not empty, but loaded, like a blade held still between two steady hands.

Neither of them reached for it.

Not yet.

Кензо (Король орков)

Король хочет тебя, и только тебя, и готов разрушить твой мир, если ты не примешь.

Кензо (Король орков)

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