The Shokan kingdom

Chapter 24: Kuatan.

It was difficult to say when the first life had been taken in the war. Harder still to imagine who would be the last.

When Reiko first raised Shao Kahn's old banners and openly challenged Fenrir's claim to the throne, many in the imperial court spoke optimistically of weeks: a month, perhaps two if the loyalists proved particularly stubborn. Outworld had survived rebellions before. Armies would clash, strongholds fall, and the surviving commanders would bend the knee. Yet, life would move forward.

That had been the hope that had settled in the realm…But the war had cared very little for it.

Weeks became months. Battles spread from the open plains into cities, mountain passes, trade roads and settlements that had never expected to become strategically important. The new imperial legions fought beneath Fenrir's banner against soldiers who still carried the hammer and skull-helm insignia of Shao Kahn and followed Reiko with the fanatical conviction of men who believed the old Emperor's death had been an insult history itself demanded they correct.

Fenrir stopped counting the battles after the first several dozen. Some memories remained anyway. Yatoro burnt. He and Carkas had spent hours dragging civilians from collapsing buildings after Reiko abandoned the position only to ignite it behind him. Syzoth turning visible beside him just as a loyalist spear came within inches of his spine, ripping the attacker away before Fenrir had even realised the danger.

Jade standing atop a broken battlement with her staff planted beside her, her green robes blackened by smoke while she directed wounded soldiers through a breach. Kitana's fans spinning through a storm of arrows before she ordered the imperial archers to return fire.

He could even remember Erron Black dragging him behind the carcass of a siege beast moments before a volley tore apart the ground where he had been standing. “Don't go dyin' before payday, Emperor,” the gunslinger had called over the explosions.

Fenrir had laughed then. He could barely remember what his laughter sounded like now. There had been victories…There had also been defeats. Even miserable engagements where both armies limped away from the battlefield and neither side possessed enough corpses to call itself the winner.

Fenrir remembered the dead from those most clearly. Not their names. That was impossible to remember now, yet he never forgot their faces. Just like the deeds of his fellow warriors in combat, he could easily remember the horrors of war. It wasn’t long ago that he saw one of his own men, whose legs had disappeared beneath rubble, still choose to fight till his last breath in Fenrir’s name. He could remember the loyalist no older than some of the squires who served within the palace, staring at him in terrified disbelief after Arondite passed through his chest… The two imperial guards lay beside one another after holding the stronghold's doors with their lives.

Fenrir had killed more people since the rebellion began than he cared to contemplate. Some nights, when sleep refused him, he wondered whether the future he claimed to fight for could truly be worth the mountain of dead required to reach it.

Then morning came, reports with it. They were almost always the same: a village threatened, a loyalist column moving. Perhaps even a supply route cut. Sometimes, if lucky, a peaceful day might show itself underneath a red sun. Yet those days were few and far between; Reiko made sure of that.

The general possessed advantages Fenrir could not simply overcome through strength. Numbers were the first.

When Shao Kahn died, a great portion of the old imperial army had transferred allegiance to Fenrir. But not all of it. Entire garrisons remained under officers who had served Shao Kahn for decades, some even centuries. Old noble houses supplied Reiko with coin, armour and soldiers. Fortresses built to defend Outworld from foreign invasion became loyalist strongholds almost overnight.

The second advantage was far worse. Reiko knew war; he understood it better than anyone. Fenrir had faced brilliant fighters before, but Reiko's greatest weapon was rarely the hammer in his hands. It was the mind behind it.

Among Shao Kahn's generals, none had understood campaigns as Reiko did. He could look at a map and see weakness where everyone else saw distance. He would send a thousand soldiers toward one fortress merely to force Fenrir to redeploy five thousand, then strike somewhere else while the imperial army scrambled to respond.

He understood exactly what Fenrir could not afford to lose. Civilians. Reiko did not possess that limitation. If sacrificing three villages gave him enough time to seize one fortress, he would do it. If an army had to freeze on a winter road so another could complete a flanking movement, he accepted the dead before they had even begun marching.

He would make the imperial troops stop to evacuate civilians; In doing so, gaining hours to plan his next move. Even if Fenrir defended every settlement, his forces thinned. He couldn’t concentrate his armies; Because in doing so, another settlement would burn. There was a cruel brilliance to it. Fenrir hated him for that almost as much as he respected the danger he represented.

Even through the worst nights of winter, Reiko never stopped. Snow had covered Outworld's northern roads while loyalist patrols continued through it. Frozen corpses had been discovered beside abandoned siege engines, dead soldiers still gripping ropes because their officers had ordered them onward after frostbite had already blackened their hands.

Reiko did not care whether his soldiers loved him. Less so whether Outworld's people called him butcher, fanatic or monster. He wanted one thing, and one thing only. To honour Shao Kahn. And in Reiko's mind there was only one offering worthy enough for the dead Emperor. Fenrir's head impaled on a stake at the palace entrance.

Yet the war was not the thought that hurt Fenrir most. That distinction belonged to someone who had not appeared upon any battlefield…Mileena.

The first days after her disappearance had been defined by confidence. The monarchs were certain they would find her. Barong had sent agents into every major settlement under imperial control. Carkas had alerted the border garrisons. Syzoth searched routes others could not reach. Skarlet led scouting parties personally whenever the war allowed her to leave Fenrir's side.

At first, Fenrir thought it would take days. Then one week passed…Then, two. The reports became thinner. Rumours began to replace evidence. Yet, Skarlet followed every lead. One took her three days across the wastes only to discover that the mysterious woman she was searching for was a tarkatan mercenary wearing scavenged violet armour. Another ended at the remains of a caravan slaughtered by loyalists. For hours, Skarlet searched every corpse herself. Mileena was not among them.

Eventually winter ended. The first warmer winds crossed Outworld. Yet Mileena remained missing. Fenrir stopped guessing when she would return, yet hope remained inside of him.

Kitana stopped asking whether Barong had received news before breakfast. Her grief changed as the months passed. At first, guilt had sharpened her. She threw herself into governance and into the fray of battle because stillness allowed memory to catch her. She planned troop movements until dawn, presided over councils on almost no sleep and rode into battle with the measured fury of someone determined to punish herself through usefulness.

That method worked…For a time. Slowly but surely, the guilt began to consume the strength it once produced. There were nights when Fenrir awoke to find Kitana crying quietly beside him. Other nights she spoke Mileena's name while asleep. Sometimes she reached across the bed as though searching for someone who was long since gone.

Both Fenrir and Jade would hold her when it happened. But neither could give Kitana what she actually wanted. Nothing else would be enough. Not victory or Jade’s tenderness. Not even Fenrir forgiving him. Kitana could only truly confront what she had done when Mileena was alive and standing before her again. And as the months lengthened, the possibility that such a moment might never come began poisoning her in ways even she could no longer conceal.

Yet no one had searched harder than Skarlet. The crimson assassin had seemingly forgotten what a full night's sleep felt like. Whenever Fenrir needed her for battle, she fought. Whenever he did not, she searched.

She questioned smugglers, caravan masters, sorcerers and criminals. She travelled roads Mileena might have known from her years under Shao Kahn and inspected abandoned safehouses that only former imperial assassins would remember.

Sometimes she returned to the palace after several days looking so exhausted that Fenrir ordered her to sleep. Sometimes she obeyed. Other times, she merely waited until he was no longer looking.

Skarlet did not expect Mileena's forgiveness; that was not why she searched anymore. Perhaps at first, she had believed finding her could undo something. Maybe she could make him smile as he once did. Make the world resemble what it had been before that night.

But somewhere during the endless roads and false reports, Skarlet had stopped treating Mileena as something that needed to be returned to someone else. Deep down in her heart, she wanted to know she was alive. Because she could easily remember looking at another woman who had been created, shaped and used by Shao Kahn and Shang Tsung and choosing obedience when choice had mattered most. That guilt belonged to her alone.

Skarlet had begun to understand that atonement did not mean begging the wounded person to remove it. It meant carrying it differently. That lesson, passed on by Fenrir and cemented by Jade, had begun changing smaller things too. She followed Fenrir’s advice after that warm night they shared together; Her chambers no longer resembled those of an assassin waiting for an assignment.

She had begun to place small objects as decorations, tokens of the many places she had been. Nothing anyone would normally call trophies. Such as: a polished crimson stone found beside a river, a crooked brass coin from a market town whose insignia amused her, a little wooden beast carved by an elderly craftsman who had insisted that she take it after she defended his village and even a small fragment of green glass that caught the afternoon light in a way Skarlet found strangely beautiful.

Once, such things would have seemed useless. Now that was precisely why she kept them. She liked them. They were strangely calming, even more knowing that they belonged to her because she had chosen so.

Fenrir had begun to notice it. He said little when the first few appeared. One evening, after returning from another battle, he had paused after seeing the small wooden beast falling from her pocket. He picked it up carefully and, intrigued, with a smirk on his lips for the first time in a while, he asked: “This yours?”

Skarlet had almost answered defensively. Instead, she said, “Yes.”

Fenrir inspected the crudely carved animal. “Ugly little bastard.” Skarlet had stared at him. Then, unexpectedly, the edges of his grin warmed. For a moment Skarlet could see the man that she had lost. Her Fenrir. “I like him.”

It lasted perhaps two seconds. Skarlet remembered them warmly. Fenrir's smile had become rare. Mileena's disappearance and the war had changed him. He was still Fenrir. Those closest to him could still occasionally coax the irreverent Earthrealmer from beneath the crown. But the Emperor others saw had become colder. More measured in his words.

He no longer joked with soldiers before every battle. Instead, he walked the lines silently, inspected their armour, asked commanders whether their men had eaten and checked escape routes for civilians. Victories did not make him cheer. After each battle, Fenrir asked for casualty numbers before anyone offered him congratulations. Eventually even Carkas stopped trying to tell him when a victory deserved celebration. The war had stripped it of all ceremony.

Sometimes he slept while still wearing parts of his armour because removing them seemed unnecessary when another messenger might arrive before dawn; he despised it. Jade saw that more clearly than anyone; every night and day, she tried to comfort him with tender words almost to no avail. Fenrir had never wanted to become the kind of man whose arrival silenced rooms. Yet now, under the cold and unforgiving atmosphere war brought with it, it was the image he was given to all his followers.

Fenrir understood why it had happened. Outworld could not afford to see its Emperor collapse while Reiko's armies circled like carrion birds. There would be time to rest after the war. He simply had to survive long enough to reach it.

Strangely, the people seemed to believe in him more strongly the longer he privately doubted himself. Citizens carried Fenrir's wolf insignia. Even the merchants donated supplies while the blacksmiths worked through the night repairing armour without waiting for payment from the crown.

Instead, they saw the emperor who fought beside ordinary soldiers instead of watching from behind them. One who would give their life for them.

And so did those closest to him. As mentioned earlier, Erron Black remained the strangest example. Fenrir still paid him. But coin alone did not explain why the gunslinger had once emptied both revolvers into a group of loyalists advancing on Fenrir after his contract had technically expired three hours earlier.

When Fenrir mentioned it later, Erron merely tilted his hat. “Just…Doing my job.” Fenrir suspected there was more underneath the answer, yet he did not push.

Syzoth was different in that regard. The zaterran had become one of the few certainties of the war. Carkas was Fenrir's military spine, the man who could take a shattered army and force it into a steady formation.

While Carkas and Erron were his frontline, Syzoth was Fenrir’s Shadow. Syzoth would scout ahead, slip through enemy lines unseen and kill officers swiftly. He would even pull wounded soldiers from places no ordinary warrior could reach. And never once asked whether Fenrir still intended to honour the promise made months earlier. Because deep down, the creature formerly known as Reptile trusted him.

Yet Fenrir had not forgotten. If the Elder Gods could be persuaded to restore even a handful of Saurians, enough for the species to begin again, Syzoth would lead them. He had grown as a leader in the months under his rulership, and Fenrir had noticed.

Fenrir saw leadership in the way Syzoth took responsibility even when nobody had asked him to. How he began to think beyond his own survival.

Ermac, meanwhile, remained something else entirely. He had become a weapon of last resort. Fenrir hated thinking of them that way. Perhaps that was exactly why Ermac trusted him to do it.

When an imperial line was on the verge of collapse, when thousands of loyalist soldiers threatened to overwhelm an army through sheer numbers, Ermac could alter the battlefield almost by themselves. One powerful concentrated spell and destruction would follow. But not without a price. Ermac’s soul chamber always followed, accompanied by a silent and steady recovery.

Fenrir never ordered the technique lightly. Reiko, understanding Fenrir’s trump card in his hand, had begun deliberately stretching engagements, forcing Fenrir to choose whether a particular battle was important enough to spend Ermac's strength. It was another game Reiko was playing with Fenrir. And lately, He had been winning more of those decisions.

They were not decisive victories, but just enough to push Fenrir’s forces back. Nevertheless, imperial territory remained larger. Fenrir held most of the population centres that mattered. Yet Reiko possessed more soldiers, veteran commanders and the freedom to wage a kind of war Fenrir refused to imitate. The balance was tilting. And if nothing changed, time would favour the loyalists. Which was why every road now led to one place.

Kuatan. The capital of the shokan.

The single greatest concentration of military power in Outworld that had not yet committed itself fully to either side. Whoever left Kuatan with the shokan armies behind them would possess enough force to break the stalemate.

Both men knew it, and Shang Tsung, the man who had orchestrated this war from the shadows, certainly knew it. Everything depended upon who received the shokan crown.

That knowledge accompanied Fenrir beneath the earth. The imperial delegation entered Kuatan beneath an escort of fifty soldiers, large enough to provide protection but small enough to not resemble an invading force.

Fenrir rode at the centre with Kitana and Jade by his side. Behind them came Syzoth and Skarlet, followed by the imperial guards.

Ermac remained at the palace, recovering within the Soul Chamber after the latest battle. Carkas commanded the armies whilst holding vulnerable western territories. Erron had been sent alongside one of those columns, ostensibly because his marksmanship was useful and, according to him, “Somebody's gotta teach these bastards how to shoot straight.” Fenrir would have preferred all of them here. Yet politically, that was impossible. Reiko would not stop his relentless attacks because his enemy had a coronation to attend.

The deeper they travelled into Kuatan, the more obvious it became that the danger here would require a different kind of warfare. Restraint and patience. The news that Fenrir publicly supported Sheeva had struck Kuatan like a hammer against an anvil. Among the Shokan, few political disagreements remained merely political for long. Several lesser claimants to Gorbak's throne had already disappeared from contention. Some lost formal challenges. Others lost their lives. A few discovered very quickly that declaring oneself worthy of ruling the Shokans was easier said than done.

Now, only two remained. Goro and Sheeva. Prince Goro possessed what no argument could erase. He was Gorbak's son, the rightful heir according to centuries of shokan tradition and one of the most celebrated warriors their people had ever produced. He had defeated champions from countless realms. His tournament victories had become part of Shokan legend long before Fenrir was born.

Many clans loved him. Many others respected him as much as they despised him. To them, Goro represented what the Shokan had always understood themselves to be. Warriors. Conquerors. A people whose strength carried no shame.

Under Shao Kahn, Goro and Gorbak had stood nearer to the imperial throne than almost any other rulers in Outworld. Shokan victories brought prestige. Their warriors became the spearpoint of invasion after invasion.

Some Shokans remembered those days proudly. That pride was not entirely foolish. It had given them influence and glory. A feared name across the realms. But glory had not filled their empty homes.

For every Shokan champion honoured in Shao Kahn's arena, hundreds more died in wars whose rewards went elsewhere. Generation after generation marched outward while the Centaurs grew stronger across the steppes. Old clan rivalries sharpened with it…Birth numbers declined. What Shao Kahn called honour increasingly looked to the younger shokans like penance.

Goro saw that sacrifice as proof of greatness. His critics saw a people slowly bleeding itself dry, and Sheeva had become the voice of that second vision.

Sheeva did not reject strength; no shokan could. She rejected the senselessness that came with it. Once second only to Goro in military command, and later trusted as Sindel's protector, Sheeva had seen enough politics and wars to understand that power could be expressed through something other than conquest.

Her arguments were simple enough to be dangerous. What if the Shokan fought because the Shokan chose to? What if their dead belonged to causes their people judged worthy? What if loyalty to Outworld became alliance rather than obligation? Fenrir offered precisely that.

Autonomy.

If Sheeva took the throne and the shokan supported Fenrir through the civil war, the new imperial government would formally recognise their right to determine whether Shokan armies participated in future external wars.

The proposal had nearly caused three separate arguments between Fenrir and Kitana. “If we grant this formally,” she had warned him, “the Tarkatans will ask what separates their blood from the Shokan’s.”

He had understood her concern. If every person within Outworld became autonomous enough, one poorly handled generation could fracture the realm completely. Nevertheless, Fenrir returned to the same conclusion every time. Shao Kahn had created unity through fear. He would rather discover whether unity could survive without it.

Kitana eventually agreed. Not without conditions, though. Treaties, responsibilities and obligations to defend Outworld itself were obligatory moving forward. They were not giving away a kingdom because Sheeva happened to be their friend.

Beneath all their idealism lay a practical political calculation neither of them pretended not to see. Give a proud people the right to refuse you, and when they choose to stand beside you anyway, loyalty would mean something. It would be forged through brotherhood and hardship rather than fear. That was Fenrir's wager in the end. He would discover soon enough whether he had gambled Outworld on the right Shokan.

There was another danger too. The centaurs.

Shokan and centaurs had hated one another for generations. Both were martial folk, and both had competed for Shao Kahn's favour. Goro's victories had often placed the Shokan above Motaro's kin in the old imperial hierarchy, breeding resentment deep enough that the death of Shao Kahn had done nothing to diminish it.

Now centaur eyes watched Kuatan from the steppes. They did not necessarily care which Shokan wore the crown. Some, such as Motaro, simply hoped the succession tore Kuatan apart badly enough that the centaurs could emerge as Outworld's dominant military force afterwards.

Fenrir could defeat Reiko here and create another war before the first had ended. “No pressure.” He thought with a chuckle. His horse descended another broad stone ramp; it was then that the subterranean city of Kuatan opened beneath them.

For a moment, even Fenrir forgot the politics. The city was unlike anything else in Outworld. The immense cavern housing central Kuatan stretched so far into the darkness that Fenrir could not immediately see its end. Great columns of natural stone rose toward a ceiling hidden behind smoke and mineral haze. Lava rivers cut through the city in incandescent orange veins, filling the underground world with heat and ruddy light.

The first thing Fenrir felt was the temperature. Warmth rolled against him in waves strong enough that his horse snorted irritably. It was shortly accompanied by the sound of tools, of hammers. Hundreds of them echoed through the cave. Shokan forges lined sections of the lower city, built directly beside channels diverting molten rock into enormous foundries. Smiths worked anvils large enough to serve as tables in Earthrealm. Some hammered steel with two hands while manipulating tongs and bellows with the other pair.

The architecture around them had been built according to the stone and the people that lived underneath it. The doors were enormous, the balconies broad enough for warriors twice Fenrir's width. Stairways possessed deep steps designed for heavier bodies. Even the weapons displayed above forge entrances were absurd by human standards.

The older portions of the city seemed carved directly from the mountain itself, obsidian polished until lava-light reflected across it like dark mirrors.

Kuatan had been built beneath the volcanic lands of Kai-Lung, territory once associated with Outworld's ancient dragons. Old stories claimed Onaga himself had risen from lands not far from here, long before dragons became another dying memory of what Outworld had once contained.

The Shokan carried that ancestry proudly. They called themselves descendants of dragons. Walking through Kuatan, Fenrir understood why. Ancient dragon imagery appeared everywhere; their legacy carved in stone.

Farther from the central volcanic chambers, breaks in the cavern walls opened into something stranger: underground jungles thriving beneath the heat. Thick prehistoric vegetation climbed around black stone. Distant animal cries echoed from green darkness where the tigrar-shokan were born.

Fenrir's eyes travelled across the crowd that had gathered around them as they rode ahead.

Jade leaned slightly toward him from her saddle. “You know, it reminds me somewhat of Sun Do.”

Fenrir gave her a sideways look. “Kind…of?” Jade smiled faintly. He nodded toward the crowds gathering beside the road. “I remember the people in Sun Do having two arms.”

Jade's laugh came softly. For a moment, the sound loosened something in Fenrir's chest. “Well,” she replied, elegant as ever, “there is that little distinction.”

Fenrir smiled; it was a brief moment. Jade noticed anyway; she always did. Kitana heard the exchange but did not join immediately. She rode on Fenrir's other side, posture perfect. Where Jade allowed herself to observe the city with curiosity, Kitana seemed to have placed every emotion behind a courtly armour before they entered Kuatan.

The crowd watched them closely. Some Shokan bowed. Others folded their arms across their chests and stared openly with disdain. Several murmured Fenrir's name. The city was divided even before they reached the palace.

Then Kitana heard something else. A young shokan near the edge of the crowd tugged on his mother's lower arm. “Where is the other queen?” The mother stiffened. She pulled him backwards before he could ask again.

Kitana's expression never changed. Only Jade, riding close enough to know her, noticed the slight tightening of Kitana's fingers around the reins. Fenrir did too, yet he said nothing. She appreciated that. She lifted her chin and continued riding as though nothing had happened.

The crowd thickened as they approached the central districts. The imperial soldiers accompanying them shifted uneasily behind them. Skarlet rode close enough to Fenrir that she could intervene in seconds. Her eyes never stopped moving. Syzoth remained on the opposite flank.

In the distance, the jewel of the city presented itself to them. The Golvalin Palace. Even among Kuatan's monumental architecture, it dominated the cavern. The palace appeared to have been carved from an entire section of mountain rather than built. Towers of obsidian rose around a central fortress supported by gigantic stone arches spanning lava channels beneath it. Bridges connected platforms at several heights, while enormous shokan statues depicting kings and heroes stood carved into the cliff face around the entrance.

It was here that the fate of Outworld would be decided. The place where a king or queen would be chosen. If Sheeva emerged with the clans behind her, Reiko would suddenly face Shokan armies in addition to Fenrir's legions. If Goro took the crown and chose the loyalists… Fenrir couldn’t allow himself to finish that thought.

His horse continued forward. Then a voice thundered across the road. “HALT!” Every imperial soldier stopped. Fenrir's hand moved instinctively toward his side. A massive figure advanced into the centre of the avenue. A familiar one. Fenrir blinked. Then smiled despite himself. It was none other than Kintaro.

The tigrar-shokan towered above nearly everyone nearby, his orange fur broken by black stripes running across his chest and shoulders that were thick enough to make even other shokan look modestly proportioned. Razor claws extended slightly from each hand while spiked armour protected his shoulders, waist and forearms.

His amber eyes locked immediately onto Fenrir. Steam left his nostrils as he breathed. He recognised him immediately. Fenrir remembered their first encounter well. He was rescuing Sonya in the tower when Kintaro tried to stop him, accompanied by Noob Saibot and Sheeva. Then later in the arena before his fight with Shao Kahn, Goro and Kintaro together.

Kintaro had apparently remembered every second. His claws flexed once. Then stopped. His disdain would have to take a rest for now. He was here on behalf of Kuatan and its people.

“Well,” Fenrir said, “that's a familiar face. Greetings, Kintaro.”

The Shokan's upper lip drew back enough to expose fangs. “Emperor.” The title did not sound affectionate.

Fenrir dismounted. “We have business inside.”

Kintaro's eyes narrowed. “I am aware.”

“Good. That saves us some time then.” The emperor added with a smirk.

One of Kintaro's lower hands curled. “You remain as irritating as I remember.”

Fenrir gave him an approving nod. “It’s nice seeing you too, Kintaro.”

Kintaro’s gaze passed over Kitana and Jade, then the guards behind them. “You will go no farther until my warriors complete the inspection.”

Several Shokan guards stepped forward. The imperial soldiers reacted immediately, taking a defensive posture. Fenrir raised one hand. Suddenly, everybody stopped, awaiting his command.

Kintaro watched him. Fenrir held his gaze for several seconds. He disliked the demand. Every instinct in him rejected letting foreign soldiers search his people while he stood there as emperor. Yet, he needed to obey their rules if he wanted to be on their good side.

He lowered his hand. “Let them.”

One imperial captain looked toward him. “My lord—”

“That's an order.”

The weapons stayed sheathed. Kintaro's expression shifted by the smallest amount. Shokan guards approached.

Skarlet dismounted when one came near her. The guard hesitated after noticing the blood-red weapons strapped along her body.

Skarlet stared at him. “Be careful where you put them,” she said coldly. “You might lose your hand if you are not careful.”

The guard stared in fear, then their eyes narrowed. Threatening.

Skarlet's expression remained just as deadly.

Fenrir sighed. “Skarlet.”

Her eyes stayed on the Shokan. “I was just informing him.”

“Try being less informative. Remember, we are guests.” Fenrir replied solemnly. The guard wisely inspected the visible weapons and moved on.

Kitana descended from her horse with far greater dignity. One shokan warrior approached and bowed before checking the weapons secured along her body. “This is unnecessary, Kintaro.” Her voice remained polished despite the irritation underneath. “We entered Kuatan by invitation. We mean no harm.”

Kintaro displayed his fangs. “You entered our city with fifty armed soldiers.”

Kitana lifted one brow. “They are our escort.”

“You outworlders seem to enjoy changing the meaning of words to suit you when needed.” Kintaro looked toward Fenrir. “You support one claimant to our throne. Half the city knows it. The other half resents you for it. If you were foolish enough to arrive without weapons, I would question whether Outworld deserved its Emperor.”

That silenced even Kitana for a moment. Then, Kintaro continued. “But no weapon enters Golvalin without our knowledge.”

Kintaro was not humiliating them. He was enforcing Shokan authority in Shokan territory. If Fenrir meant anything he said about autonomy, he would have to learn to tolerate exactly that.

Kitana evidently reached the same conclusion. Her shoulders eased a fraction.

The inspections continued one by one. Then Kintaro added: “You are allowed to go through. Nevertheless, you are already giving away a worse image than our other honorary guest.”

Jade turned toward him. “Other guest?”

Kintaro's expression became difficult to read. Annoyance, perhaps. “Yes.”

Jade glanced toward Fenrir. Then Kitana. “Who else is here?” Jade asked. “We were told the crown had only invited our delegation.” Kintaro didn’t reply.

Then, a voice answered from behind them. Smooth and cultivated. Poison disguised as courtesy. “Not quite, my dear Queen.”

Every member of the imperial delegation stiffened. Fenrir knew the voice before turning. Syzoth hissed in disdain, taking a defensive stance. Skarlet went utterly still.

Kitana slowly looked over her shoulder. Shang Tsung stood beneath a broad obsidian arch at the edge of the avenue. His hands rested behind his back. His posture relaxed, his smile not so much. “I too received an invitation to this remarkable city.” Shang Tsung spoke, a venomous grin spread on his face. “It’s a pleasure to see you all again.”

Syzoth stepped closer to Fenrir. His reptilian eyes never left Shang Tsung. The sorcerer's gaze passed briefly over the zaterran with mild amusement. Syzoth did not react. He had known too many of Shang Tsung's games to be baited by a smile.

Skarlet's attention, however, had gone elsewhere. Someone stood beside the sorcerer. A slim hooded figure wrapped in dark silk from shoulders to boots.

At first glance, there was nothing extraordinary about the stranger beyond the care taken to conceal every identifiable feature. The robe hung loosely enough to reveal the light armour beneath it, and the hood cast the upper face into shadow. Yet something about the figure pulled at the group immediately.

Kitana felt it first. The stranger was staring directly at her. Kitana had spent centuries in courts. She knew what curiosity, suspicion, fear, envy and the many other expressions utilized to hide one’s true intentions. Yet, this was different. There was grievance in those hidden eyes; they carried something personal. An old grudge, maybe. Perhaps even hatred.

Skarlet narrowed her eyes once she saw the figure. She had spent months searching for a shape. Anything that could help her in her search. The person beside Shang Tsung matched too many of those aspects, though not perfectly.

The robe distorted the silhouette. The stance was quieter than Mileena's usually was. Then another sensation reached her. Its blood. Skarlet's magic touched the world through it, whether she wanted it to or not. Every living creature carried a signature, a scent she could sense. Yet the figure was hidden beneath something unnatural. Sorcery and alchemy had been used as a countermeasure regarding Skarlet. The sorcerer had once again outplayed them.

But beneath all of it, Skarlet could sense something familiar.

familiarity.

Her breath caught once she sensed it. “No…” She thought. It wasn’t enough for it to be proof of her theory. She had followed too many false trails already. Yet this one felt like a hunch, a powerful one that pulled her in. Syzoth noticed Skarlet's reaction and glanced toward the hooded figure. Then back to Shang. His body lowered almost imperceptibly. Whatever this was, the sorcerer had planned it.

Kitana stepped forward. “You possess remarkable courage, sorcerer, to show your face before us.” Her voice was cold enough to cut the thin and tense air that loomed around them.

Shang Tsung's smile widened. “Courage?” He tilted his head. “Such an ungenerous interpretation. I would have called it courtesy.”

Kitana's hands clenched. “Your war has drowned Outworld in blood.”

“My war?” Shang repeated pleasantly. “General Reiko would be terribly offended to hear you deny him his accomplishments.” Jade's eyes narrowed. Shang continued before anyone interrupted. “Though speaking of family disagreements…” His attention settled fully upon Kitana. The poisonous grin returned once again. “I hear your own court has suffered a rather unfortunate…separation.”

Kitana went rigid at the sorcerer’s comment, her eyes flared with ire. Shang's eyes, instead, gleamed jovially. “How is your sister?”

Her fist rose before thought caught it. Jade caught her wrist hard and steady. Kitana turned sharply. Jade did not look at her. Her eyes remained fixed upon Shang Tsung; no words escaped her lips. But her grip said everything. “He's baiting you. Don’t let his poisonous words defeat you.”

Kitana breathed once or twice. Shang watched her, pleased at the chaos he had created with a simple word. He wanted the strike. Kitana understood in that moment the sorcerer’s game. If she attacked him here, in Kuatan, before Shokan guards and rival clans, Fenrir's delegation would become the aggressor.

She lowered her fist. Shang's expression showed faint disappointment.

Jade released Kitana from her hold. “Mind your tongue, sorcerer.” Jade's voice carried none of Mileena's fire or Kitana's frost. It was no less dangerous. “The next time, I won’t stop her.

Shang Tsung turned his attention towards her. “Queen Jade.” He bowed just enough to make the courtesy insulting. “Ever the measured blade.”

Jade stared at him with disdain. “Try and test how measured I am, sorcerer.”

Shang chuckled. “Perhaps in another evening.”

Fenrir barely heard them. His gaze had moved to the hooded figure. Something inside him tightened. Just like Skarlet, he felt something was pulling him towards the figure. His hunch told him the figure and he had history. Yet he couldn’t understand from where.

Then, it hit him. “No…It can’t be.” After all these months…No.

He had imagined Mileena in crowds before. Seen violet fabric from a distance and felt his heart stop. Turned at voices that sounded almost like hers. Grief had made a liar of his senses more than once.

But this figure…The height. The build. Even the posture beneath the robe reminded him of her. Fenrir could stare in dismay. The figure slowly looked toward him. For a moment, longer than either of them had expected, their eyes met.

Everything else seemed to recede. The stranger looked at him with something that hurt infinitely more: longing. Sorrow even. A softness so immediate that Fenrir forgot how to breathe. His heart slammed against his ribs. “Mileena?” The name never reached his mouth.

The hooded figure's body shifted almost imperceptibly toward him. As though some instinct had commanded a step. Then it stopped, her hidden face turned away. Fenrir felt the movement like rejection…perhaps even restraint. He could not decide which frightened him more.

Fenrir stepped forward. This time Shang's mockery diminished. Of everyone present, Fenrir was the one person he treated differently. He enjoyed provoking Kitana. He regarded Syzoth with dismissive contempt. But Fenrir had killed Shao Kahn. Had defeated warriors Shang knew intimately. He even outsmarted him from time to time.

There was hatred in the sorcerer's expression. But respect lived beside it. An ugly respect, that was. The kind only a predator held for another creature it had not yet learned how to hunt.

Fenrir stopped within several paces. “What are you doing here? Sorcerer.” His voice remained low and controlled.

Shang's own expression became more solemn. “Attending to politics.”

Fenrir's eyes flicked briefly toward the hooded figure. Then back. “You don't attend to anything unless you profit from it.”

Shang's mouth curved. “My, my emperor, you have learned quickly.”

“Answer me.” Fenrir retorted.

Shang Tsung clasped his hands behind his back. “Prince Goro invited me personally.” Kitana's jaw tightened. She had expected as much. “He desired a representative familiar with the traditions of the old imperial court, one capable of speaking to the agreements his father maintained with Shao Kahn and to the...benefits once enjoyed by Shokan warriors under that arrangement.” Goro wanted precedent. Someone who could tell traditionalist clans that Fenrir's reforms were not change, but abandonment of the status they had once possessed. He wanted to rally them under the principle of fear and warmongering. And Shang Tsung wanted something just as obvious. A Shokan king whom he could control. One powerful enough to restrain and crush Fenrir's armies.

Fenrir's eyes hardened. “That’s convenient.”

Shang smiled. “Yes, politics frequently are, my dear emperor.” Then he looked toward Kitana. “Besides, how could I refuse such a cordial invitation?”

Kintaro finally stepped between the two delegations. All four of his arms folded across his chest. His patience had visibly expired. “Enough.” Both leader and puppeteer turned to look at the shokan. Kintaro looked between them. His loyalty leaned toward Goro. Yet standing there, he was not Goro's servant. He was a shokan, in flesh and bone. And in the end, he wanted what was best for his people. He wouldn’t disregard Sheeva; her proposal had logic. But he would only be swayed if what was said in the meeting truly would make the shokan stronger.

“Both of you were invited here because both candidates demanded the right to have their respective supporters heard before the clans.” He looked directly at Fenrir. “You had made your claim and will speak for Sheeva.” Then to Shang. “You will speak for Goro.” Kintaro continued. “Neither of you will choose who the shokan will choose as king. The clans will.” Fenrir respected the statement immediately. Shang's expression gave away little, yet his faded grin answered for itself.

Fenrir nodded. “As it should.” That earned him another subtle reassessment from Kintaro.

Shang merely smiled, then bowed his head respectfully. Yet it was only for courtesy. “Of course.”

Kintaro pointed one of his upper arms toward Golvalin Palace. “You will both follow me.” Then his gaze swept over Kitana, Jade, Skarlet, Syzoth and the surrounding guards. “Your people will obey Shokan law while beneath our mountain.”

Fenrir answered first. “They will.”

Kintaro nodded. Then, continued. “If either delegation wishes to kill the other, I do not care. But do it now, and the surviving delegation will miss the council.” Then, one of his lower hands gestured towards them. “Then the crown will be decided without your voice.”

Shang bowed his head. “A compelling argument,” Kintaro grunted. Shang's eyes returned to Fenrir. “Very well.” That poisonous confidence returned with that venomous smirk the sorcerer carried himself with. “Lead on.”

Kintaro looked toward Fenrir. Fenrir glanced first at Kitana. Her face had regained its courtly composure, though fury still burned behind her eyes. Then to Jade. She gave him a small nod. Fenrir swallowed. “No time to waste then.”

He gestured toward the imperial guards. The formation began moving. Kintaro turned and led the way toward the Golvalin. Shang Tsung followed several paces behind him. The hooded figure moved beside the sorcerer.

As they passed beneath the first great arch leading toward the palace, Fenrir watched the hooded stranger ahead. The figure's gait remained maddeningly familiar.

Skarlet moved near him now. She spoke so quietly that only Fenrir could hear. “Something is wrong.”

Fenrir kept his eyes ahead. “What is it?”

Skarlet hesitated. That alone frightened him. “Keep a place on it.” Her crimson eyes narrowed towards the figure. “Her blood feels enchanted. I believe the sorcerer is hiding something from us once again.”

Fenrir looked toward the sorcerer. Shang walked ahead with the relaxed posture of a man whose plan had already begun working. “Yeah,” Fenrir muttered. “Be on guard.”

Fenrir kept his gaze upon the figure; doubts began to creep in his mind. The prior thought returned to him. As painful as it was, he hoped it wasn’t the case. Because if so…then whatever would happen would not be pretty for anyone involved. Especially now that the sorcerer had shown his fangs. There was more to play here than just Outworld’s fate; perhaps even his fate would be decided under the earth.

W/N: From now on, I'm doing the polls on Poll maker so people on AO3 and webnovel can vote as well.

POLLS: https://linkto.run/p/BSKJFGRL (Please copy and paste the link if you can't open it from here)