It was a frigid, windswept morning in January 1945 when the doorbell shattered my sleep. Too exhausted to rise, I heard the faint rustle of paper slipping beneath the door. Dragging myself from bed, I found an envelope unlike any I had ever seen—its surface encrusted with jewels that gleamed like forbidden stars. I, Taylor Shaw, a destitute detective eking out a living in a dilapidated tenement, stared in disbelief. Why would such opulence find its way to me? The truth, I would soon discover, was far more sinister than I could have imagined.
The letter within was written in ink as black as midnight, its words steeped in regal grandeur:
Dear Mr. Shaw,
By the supreme authority vested in me as Prime Minister of the Cabinet of the Sovereign Realm of Polyarvia, and in strict accordance with the express will of His Most Gracious Majesty, King Shizvar IV, I have the honor of addressing you, Mr. Taylor Shaw, with this formal missive.
It is my profound privilege to extend to you an invitation of the highest order to attend a grand banquet at the illustrious Kaitmaulers Grand Hotel in the Molori District. This occasion, ordained by His Majesty, is a celebration of unparalleled distinction, during which the King himself shall bestow upon you a treasure of inestimable worth—the most exalted and priceless gift known beneath the heavens. This act reflects His Majesty’s boundless esteem and royal favor toward you.
The banquet shall commence on the evening of the eighth day of May, at seven o’clock. Your presence would confer great honor upon the Crown and the Realm of Polyarvia. Please signify your acceptance by responding to my office at your earliest convenience.
Yours faithfully,
Loprivich
Prime Minister of the Cabinet of Polyarvia
The signature was a flourish of splendor, yet it sent a chill through me. I knew no kings, no heads of state. I was neither noble nor hero—merely a man who, as a boy, had been mocked for dreaming of kingdoms. “I’ll be a king!” I had proclaimed, only to be met with derision. Now, this letter rekindled that buried dream, but it also whispered of peril. Why me? I had to find out.
The months until May passed in a fog of unease. Snow fell like ashes on the city streets, and a chill deeper than winter gripped me. My journey to the Kaitmaulers Grand Hotel was bleak, my carriage driven by a mute servant from Southeast Asia, his tongue severed to make him a more “efficient” laborer. His guttural “aba aba” was the only sound as we navigated icy roads. I felt no pity for him—only the weight of my own tardiness. The clock tower’s second-to-last toll rang as we arrived.
The hotel was a palace of decadent grandeur, its spires piercing the sky, its windows glowing like a beast’s eyes. Inside, crystal chandeliers cast fractured light across marble floors and tapestries depicting Polyarvia’s mythic past—kings slaying dragons, queens weeping blood. My threadbare coat marked me as an outsider, but the letter in my pocket was my key.
A footman led me up a spiraling staircase to a banquet hall alive with hollow merriment. Nobles in silks and furs laughed too sharply, their eyes predatory. A woman approached, her midnight-blue gown shimmering, her green eyes cutting like blades. “Mr. Shaw,” she said, her voice smooth as velvet, “I am Lady Vireena, advisor to His Majesty. The Prime Minister spoke highly of you.”
“I’m honored,” I said, though my mind churned. “The letter mentioned a gift. Why me?”
Her smile was enigmatic. “The king has his reasons. All will be revealed.” She guided me through the crowd, past sneering dukes and whispering countesses. The banquet table groaned under roasted pheasant, sculpted fruits, and wines that gleamed like venom. But the air was wrong—too heavy, too still. I caught whispers of a “reckoning,” a “prophecy,” a “shadow over the realm.” My instincts screamed: this was no celebration.
Vireena seated me near an empty ebony throne. “His Majesty will join us shortly,” she said, her tone opaque. Across the table, a scarred man with jeweled fingers glared at me. A frail scholar clutched a book, muttering feverishly. The hall felt like a snare.
A trumpet sounded, and silence fell. King Shizvar IV entered—not the frail monarch I’d envisioned, but a figure of dread majesty. His silver hair gleamed beneath a sapphire circlet, his robes flowing like liquid night. His dark eyes locked onto mine, and the crowd’s murmurs became a hiss. “Mr. Taylor Shaw,” he intoned, his voice like thunder. “You have answered our summons. Tonight, you shall know why.”
A servant presented a velvet cushion bearing an ancient key, its ornate surface etched with runes that pulsed with eerie light. “This is the Key of Avarion,” the king said. “It will unlock a truth that may save our realm—or destroy it.”
My hand trembled as I took the key. Its cold metal burned, whispering secrets I couldn’t yet decipher. Vireena leaned close, her breath icy. “Beware, Mr. Shaw. Not all who smile here are your allies. The king’s gift comes at a cost.”
The banquet resumed, but the laughter rang false. I saw the cracks—the fear beneath the finery, the desperation in every glance. The key weighed heavy in my pocket as I ate, each bite tasting of dust. Then, the lights flickered, and a scream tore through the hall.
A noblewoman collapsed, her wineglass shattering. Blood seeped from her lips, her eyes wide with horror. “The shadow…” she gasped, then fell still. Chaos erupted, but the king remained unmoved, his gaze fixed on me. “The Key of Avarion chooses its bearer,” he murmured. “And the shadow knows.”
Vireena pulled me aside amid the pandemonium. “The key opens the King’s Room, beneath the hotel,” she whispered. “But it’s no vault of riches. It holds Polyarvia’s darkest secret—a pact forged centuries ago with something… not of this world. The shadow she spoke of—it’s stirring.”
I wanted to flee, but the key’s whispers grew louder, pulling me downward. With Vireena’s reluctant guidance, I descended a hidden stairwell, the air growing colder, the walls slick with something like oil. At the bottom was a door, its surface carved with the key’s runes. My hand shook as I inserted it.
The door creaked open, revealing a chamber that defied reason. The walls pulsed like living flesh, and a mirror dominated the room, its surface rippling like black water. In it, I saw not my reflection but a figure—tall, cloaked, its face a void. It spoke my name, its voice a chorus of the damned. “You were chosen,” it said, “because you dreamed of kings. Now, you will serve.”
I stumbled back, but the door slammed shut. Vireena was gone. The mirror’s figure stepped forward, its form bleeding into reality. The key burned in my hand, and I understood: the gift was no honor. It was a curse. The shadow, bound by Polyarvia’s kings, was breaking free. I was its new keeper—or its prey.
Upstairs, the banquet continued, oblivious. But I knew the truth: the shadow was loose, and it wore my face. As its icy fingers closed around my heart, I heard my childhood dream echo in the dark: “I’ll be a king.” And in that moment, I realized I was—king of a nightmare realm, forever bound to the King’s Room.
