High above the serrated spine of the mountains, a raven glided on the thinning air. Its wings barely moved as it rode the cold currents, black feathers drinking in the gray light of an overcast sky. Below, the peaks folded into one another like broken teeth, their valleys drowned in shadow. The bird circled once, then fixed its sharp gaze on the stone mass embedded in the mountain’s face.

  Clawborn Citadel did not rise from the peaks so much as it grew from them. Towers and walls fused seamlessly to the rock, their dark stone indistinguishable from the mountain at a distance. The fortress loomed in silence, heavy and watchful, as if were aware of the raven’s presence. The bird angled its wings and descended, its shadow sliding across sheer cliffs, over the winding switchback roads, and toward the iron gate carved deep into the mountainside.

  Passing beneath that gate meant leaving the world behind. The wind fell away. Sound dulled. Stone closed in. The climb toward the citadel narrowed into steep ramps and worn steps, flanked by black rock walls scored with age and clawed sigils. Iron braziers burned at fixed intervals, their light steady and cold. Guards stood wordless in alcoves, their forms rigid, their attention absolute.

  Beyond the final portcullis, the mountain swallowed all trace of the kingdom outside. Inside Clawborn Citadel, the darkness was not emptiness. It was deliberate, shaped to remind all who entered that they stood within the grasp of power.

  The walls were carved directly from the mountain, leaving their surfaces uneven and scarred, as if the stone itself had resisted and lost. Dark basalt and iron-veined granite pressed close on every side, cold to the touch and damp in the deeper corridors. Light was scarce and intentional. Torches burned low in iron claws bolted into the walls, their flames casting long, distorted shadows that shifted even when nothing else moved.

  There were no open spaces meant for comfort. Every hall narrowed as it stretched onward, every ceiling hung just low enough to weigh on the mind. Sound behaved strangely here. Footsteps echoed too long. Whispers carried farther than they should. Silence felt observed.

  The Great Hall opened suddenly from one such corridor, vast and stripped of warmth. A long black stone floor drew the eye toward a raised dais at the far end, where the Clawborn Throne rested, carved from a single slab of obsidian-like rock. Its sharp angles and rigid lines offered no pretense of mercy. Rule here was not meant to be gentle.

  The walls were bare of banners. Instead, carved reliefs depicted victories, executions, and conquered enemies. Faces were left unfinished, smoothed away as if identity didn’t matter. Iron braziers burned with a faint green hue, fueled by oils that stained the air with a bitter, metallic scent. Above, narrow slit windows admitted thin blades of mountain light, never enough to warm the stone.

  Beyond the Hall, the citadel tightened once more. Corridors twisted through the mountain like veins. Some were wide enough for marching soldiers, others forced travelers to turn sideways to pass. Doorways were low and heavy, compelling an unconscious bow from anyone who entered. Chambers offered little comfort. Stone beds, heavy furs, iron chests. Even the ruling family lived in austere chambers, their rooms shaped by authority rather than luxury. Claw motifs appeared everywhere, etched into frames, carved into furniture, worked into metal until the symbol became inseparable from the structure itself.

  Far below lay the depths. Dungeons stretched into darkness where daylight had never reached. Chains hung used and heavy. Water dripped steadily from unseen cracks, counting time in slow, maddening intervals. Some chambers predated the Clawborn Dynasty entirely. Their sealed doors were blackened with age. Even guards avoided them.

  Deeper still, Was the Great Meeting Room, a place not of ceremony, but of decision. Set far from the grand halls meant for display, it lay buried within the mountain’s core. The stone here was thick and unadorned, its surfaces smoothed by centuries of hands resting, gripping, striking. The air was colder than elsewhere, carrying the faint scent of ash, iron, and old parchment. Sound obeyed different rules here. Voices carried clearly, but never far. Raised tones seemed to vanish before reaching the walls.

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  The lack of light in the room meant faces were often half-lit. The walls bore no banners. Instead, iron pins and hooks held scrolls, sealed orders, and reports bound in dark leather. Scarcely placed candles left wax drippings on the stone below in thick layers.

  At the center of the room stood a massive council table carved from a single slab of black stone. Fine etched lines mapped the surrounding realms across its surface. Borders were scratched and re-scratched. Cities marked by shallow cuts. Mountain passes worn pale by repeated tracing. Nothing here was decorative. Everything served memory or strategy. A low shelf held hourglasses filled with black, white, and red sand, that were turned according to the weight of what was being decided.

  High-backed chairs of iron and dark wood encircled the table, each bearing the claw sigil worked into the metal. The Empress’ seat was set apart not by height, but by placement. Her chair backed against a narrow vertical window cut into the far wall, a slit revealing only sky and stone. When she sat, the mountain rose behind her, silent and immense.

  This was where wars were planned, alliances severed, and lives reduced to lines scratched into stone. The Great Meeting Room was the true heart of the Clawborn Citadel.

  Here, power did not posture. It pronounced

  ***

  The doors to the Great Meeting Room sealed with a dull, final sound, stone fitting to stone. Those already seated did not look up. One by one, the chairs around the black stone table were filled, each figure cloaked in dark robes, each face hidden behind a mask wrought of metal, bone, or lacquered wood. No one here showed their true features.

  At the head of the table sat Empress Octavia.

  Her robe was a deep crimson; the color of old blood dried into fabric. A polished mask concealed her face entirely, smooth and severe, broken only by narrow eye slits that reflected the firelight. She sat motionless, hands folded upon the table’s edge. Even masked, her presence pressed upon the room.

  Silence held until she nodded her head once.

  A robed figure to her left spoke first.

  “There has been activity at the lone tower near the North South crossing. Minimal movement, but enough to suggest it’s no longer dormant.”

  After a pause, Empress Octavia lifted her head slightly.

  “We have more important issues as of late,” she said. Her voice was controlled, edged with impatience. “A solitary tower does not threaten the dynasty.”

  No one challenged her.

  At the other end of the table, a woman leaned forward, the faint scrape of stone against stone echoed in the quiet chamber. Her mask was angular; iron etched with fine symbols.

  “Ore shipments are increasing,” she said. “They are coming in to compensate for the shortfall caused by reduced mining output. Stockpiles will stabilize if the flow remains uninterrupted.”

  Octavia’s fingers tapped once against the table. A signal to continue.

  To the Empress’s right, her closest advisor spoke. His robe was darker than the others, his mask simpler, unadorned.

  “Additional pressure must be applied to the gathering villages,” he said. “Resource production must increase.”

  No justification followed. None was required.

  Across the table, another man shifted in his seat, shadows breaking across his mask as he spoke.

  “Trade routes remain inconsistent. Access issues continue along the southern passes. If unresolved, we will fail to meet the dynasty’s objectives.”

  The room seemed to tighten at his words.

  Empress Octavia turned her head toward him, slow and deliberate. The firelight caught the edge of her mask, revealing a faint, serpentine curve beneath the metal.

  “Plans are already underway,” she hissed softly.

  The sound cut through the chamber, sharp and final. No one asked for further explanation, and none was offered.

  A pause settled over the table, thick and expectant, before another voice near the center of the table broke the silence.

  “Grey Ridge taxes,” they said. “Whispers of increases are spreading through the outer territories. If enacted, this will cause further resistance and interfere with our objectives.”

  The words lingered in the cold air.

  “They think we are under their rule,” the Empress said, her voice quiet and venomous. “This will be corrected soon enough.”

  No one spoke. The implication settled like ash.

  The main advisor rose from his chair.

  “There is another matter,” he said. “Edrin Kavos. Mage of the north. A portal maker.”

  Several figures shifted at the name.

  “Reports of his recent activities suggest active portals,” the advisor continued. “Movement beyond sanctioned boundaries. The pattern is… deliberate.”

  Empress Octavia did not hesitate.

  “Summon Edrin.”

  Her advisor bowed his head and returned to his seat. Around the table, masked faces turned inward, calculations already forming. Plans adjusting. Risks reevaluating.

  With a subtle gesture from the Empress, the meeting ended. Chairs scraped softly against stone as the council rose, their forms dissolving into the narrow corridors of Clawborn Citadel.

  Octavia remained seated, crimson against black, the mountain standing silent behind her. Whatever correction was coming, it had already begun.

  Dreamlike LitRPG Psychological Thriller

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  Alex Dawson's quiet life of classes and gaming shatters when he dreams of a crimson sky, a fallen moon, and a stranger on a mirror-like sea.

  The dream doesn't fade. An ancient system awakens, and Alex is dragged into the hidden realms of dreams where some want him to awaken, others want him to break, and one wants him back.

  Free to read on Royal Road