Chapter 3:

Interlude: Noir — The Double Black

Epics of Tarronia: Fire & Shadow


Beyond the wastelands of Zerren and the deadly gorges of Kithar Canyon, the High Tarron Council gathered—not for politics, not for war, but to witness Noir’s first appearance among the councilors.

The grand hall, crafted from polished obsidian, was adorned with crimson banners bearing the sigils of Tarron houses long faded into history. The light filtered through tall stained-glass windows, casting fractured beams across the raised platforms where councilors sat. The architecture was regal yet austere: high arches, intricate carvings, and a vaulted ceiling that echoed every murmur.

Glittering with countless crimson eyes—the mark of all Tarrons—the chamber breathed silent intensity. At its heart, on the most prominent raised seat, sat a young boy. Black hair framed his face, and matching black eyes—the rarest trait among their kind—shone with piercing, calculating brilliance.

Though his body was slight, his presence loomed vast, eclipsing the hall. Every crimson gaze turned to him, reverence and fear entwined in a hush bordering on worship.

Across the room, one figure remained unmoved—a jet-black-haired man, his beard neatly kept, crimson eyes fixed on the boy with studied calm. No awe crossed his expression; he assessed, waited, judged.

Senior Senator: “Honored are we to once again have the company of our Liege, Noir.”

Whispers filled the hall. The seat one step above Noir remained empty, unnoticed by most, as if it held no importance; its significance lingered like a shadow.

A voice cut through the hall with cold finality:
“So the time has come. We shall reclaim what is rightfully ours, restore our dominion, and put these barbaric humans in their place. They dare call us Denominos — ‘the Named Ones as Devil’ — a blasphemy against their very masters!”

A ripple of agreement passed through the council. The black-haired man remained silent.

And yet those barbaric humans resisted the last great Noir with ease…” another senator said, in rejection.

Curse the Usher! It was not fledgling humans who thwarted us, but the Accursed Weapons—and that was over a millennium ago! Only the House of Usher remains; the rest are lost to obscurity. Some even doubt they ever existed,” a sharper voice cut in.

Usher—the man of countless legends and deeper mysteries. Revered by humans, cursed by Tarrons, his truth veiled in shadow. Even the House of Usher, bound to his lineage, had no record of him. All that endured was a portrait—a face in paint, widely believed to be the architect of the Wonder Weapons, creations so powerful they allowed frail humans to stand against Tarron might.

Another councilor added: “And there are reports that some of these weapons have been seized by Tarrons and rendered useless.”

Agreement spread—except from one. The black-haired man, Hijar, the most powerful among Tarrons, spoke, his voice carrying weight that silenced the room.

Arrogance does not win wars, nor does unreasonable confidence. That was the downfall of the previous Noir. We must not forget Sigrid of the House of Usher—he killed three black-haired Tarrons. Even Freyja, whom many believed had reached Noir’s level, was defeated.”

Black-haired Tarrons, though not as powerful as a Noir, were rarities—so rare an unknowing soul might mistake them for Noir, such was their might. Yet Sigrid had defeated three, on different fields and occasions.

A chill swept through the chamber, subtle yet undeniable, as if the air bent beneath Hijar’s words. The councilors leaned forward, crimson eyes sharp with unease.

The senior senator spoke again: “Blasphemy! Freyja was not a Noir. Even a dozen black-haired Tarrons could not match a Noir.” He turned his gaze on the boy with reverence. “My Liege, oh Great Noir! Our opinions matter little—we await your wisdom, your command.”

All eyes turned to the boy, silent—not from boredom or indifference, but with keen observance. He moved neither with arrogance nor haste; his composure was absolute.

Why must we be afraid of lesser beings?”

His voice carried no pride, no malice—only calm, cold reasoning. He met Hijar’s gaze directly, acknowledging his wisdom without challenge. A single finger lifted, sharp as a blade, and a bolt of lightning shot toward Hijar—vanishing before it could touch him.

Murmurs swelled like a rising tide. Why had the boy attacked Hijar? Was he mature enough? Did he even realize what he had done?

Hijar remained still, unflinching, his crimson eyes unwavering. Even the young Noir could not touch him.

For the first time, doubt crept into the councilors’ hearts. Had they overestimated this boy?

The young Noir stood unflinching beneath the murmurs. He felt the doubts pressing in, the air once brimming with confidence now tainted with uncertainty. Yet his voice stayed calm, steady as stone.

Weak as we stand now…” It was an unspoken rule—the Noir must never address himself as a singular being.

“…but we are not stagnant. Our chalice keeps filling with power, and it knows no bounds. Djon the Absolute never faltered, even when mocked and beaten by his twin—the one all believed destined for the empty throne behind us.”

Every gaze shifted to the vacant seat one step above Noir, its shadow heavier than ever.

Djon the Absolute, as his name implies, was the mightiest Tarron ever recorded. Yet his youth was frail, his strength slow to awaken. So unremarkable was he that many deemed him unworthy, certain he could never rival his twin. In time, doubts turned to dread, and his power became the measure by which all others were judged.

Every gaze shifted to the vacant seat, its shadow heavier than ever.

Noir continued: “Though we, as Noir, will never match Djon the Absolute…” Among Tarrons, power was sealed at birth, yet fate bowed to no house. Only the Double Blacks born as twins—rarer than the rarest of their kin—stood above a Noir in might and dominion.

“…yet our power knows no bounds. It grows endlessly, ceaselessly. Today, we stand short of touching the greatness of Hijar. But the time is not far when we shall climb that mountain with ease.”

A faint smile touched Hijar’s lips. The boy had passed the trial. Hijar had never sought to doubt nor belittle the Noir—his loyalty was absolute. Rising, he bowed deeply, his crimson eyes alight with fierce pride.

Victory is not far. We are blessed with the most wise Noir.”

The chamber erupted. Crimson eyes glimmered like a storm of stars, blazing with renewed conviction and unshakable hope.

Twelve winters have passed since that fateful council, and yet its shadow lingers over the lands of men. In all that time, the boy’s power has grown, veiled in a silence heavier than any storm. The Wonder Weapons of old lie lost, nowhere to be found; the Blazing Sword, still fledgling, offers little defense. Yet the quiet of Noir brings humanity no hope—only an ominous sense of the grand designs that his delay portends.

Servo
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