As the light from the orb dimmed, Number 11 exhaled slowly, finally allowing the tension to leave his body.
His wings fluttered nervously as he drifted back toward the screens where he was watching the humans.
"Always watching… always waiting to pounce," he muttered, his expression sour.
"Number 3 acts like a king, but he'll never be the true ruler. Only one has that right."
His mind wandered to thoughts of the Fairy King, Beruel, a name spoken with reverence and fear among the fae.
Beruel had been one of the few to rise in power, securing influence not only within the fairy courts but also within the darker forces of the Nether Cult.
Beruel's strength was legendary, his ambition boundless—and it was for him that Number 11 worked tirelessly, hoping to prove his worth.
"I must succeed for the King," he whispered, his sharp eyes glinting with determination.
