The darkened halls of the Black Citadel echoed with faint whispers of energy coursing through its ancient walls.
Torches of purple fire lined the corridors, casting shadows that seemed alive. In the heart of this domain, Lucius sat in his private chamber, his throne a mass of jagged obsidian, reflecting his commanding presence.
Across from him stood Grimm, his imposing figure illuminated by the faint glow of his aura. The boy's skull-like mask betrayed no emotion, but his clenched fists and rigid stance spoke volumes.
"I've been patient, Father," Grimm said, his voice sharp, tinged with frustration. "You've trained me, nurtured me, and kept me safe. But I'm not a child anymore."
Lucius studied his son, his purple eyes glowing faintly.
