The moon hung high over the empire, a silver specter casting its light upon a realm held in breathless anticipation. It glistened over marble towers and gilded banners, bathing the Imperial Capital in ghostly luminance. But in the dark crevices—where secrets were whispered like prayers and daggers replaced diplomacy—the true war was only just beginning.
Kael Valerius stood at the edge of the Velstara estate, his silhouette cloaked in black, blending seamlessly into the obsidian night. Before him, the manor loomed—a symbol of noble lineage and once-unquestioned loyalty. That loyalty had since withered.
Now, it was time for retribution.
Behind him, Selene stood tall and alert, her silver armor dulled with shadow-enchantment to mute its shine. Around her, nine of the empire's finest—Kael's chosen elites—waited in absolute silence. No orders needed repeating. No doubts lingered.
"Guards at every entrance," Selene murmured, her sharp eyes already charting paths of execution. "Crossbows on the southern balconies. Two sentries posted at the inner gate. They expect trouble."
Kael's smirk was a whisper in the dark. "Then let's be exactly what they fear."
He gave a subtle motion—just two fingers raised and flicked forward. That was all it took.
Like shadows unraveling from the night, his team moved. They didn't run. They flowed. Soundless, lethal, disciplined.
Kael led the charge.
The first sentry patrolling the east garden barely had time to glance over his shoulder before Kael's dagger pierced the base of his skull. He collapsed with a muffled thud, blood soaking into the soil beneath the moonlit roses. Another, closer to the stables, turned at the sound—but Selene was already behind him, her blade slicing across his throat in one swift motion. The guard gurgled, fell, and was gone.
No alarms. No cries.
Only silence, spreading like ink across parchment.
They swept through the estate like a phantom storm—clearing sentries, disarming traps, disabling enchanted wards with surgical precision. One by one, doors were opened. Corridors secured. Courtyards seized.
Within fifteen minutes, the outer estate was Kael's.
At the center of the grand manor, golden torchlight flickered against high arches and velvet drapes. The House of Velstara had gathered in the main hall—nobles, guards, and retainers milling in nervous tension. They had sensed something.
But not enough.
The great oak doors thundered open, and the room froze.
Kael stepped through, flanked by Selene and his silent warriors. No fanfare. No herald.
Only presence.
Duke Alaric Velstara, a man once known for his silver tongue and cautious diplomacy, staggered to his feet, face pale beneath his crimson house sigil.
"L-Lord Kael," he stammered, his voice breaking like brittle glass. "Th-This is an unexpected visit…"
Kael's boots echoed across the marble as he advanced. His cloak whispered behind him, black as a raven's wing. He didn't stop until he stood before the Duke's dais.
"Unexpected?" Kael's voice was soft—too soft. "Then perhaps your son's meetings with Archon agents were accidental. Perhaps your house's wavering loyalties were... misunderstandings."
The room's air grew colder, heavier. Not even the crackle of fire dared speak.
The Duke swallowed hard. "My son… is young. Misguided. But I would never—"
"But he is still alive," Kael interrupted, his tone flat.
The pause that followed was louder than any shout.
Then, two of Kael's warriors emerged from the side doors, dragging a bound figure between them. The young man's fine robes were torn, his face bruised, and his eyes wide with terror.
The Duke's son.
Kael knelt before the trembling noble, studying him as one might study an insect caught under glass.
"Did the Archons promise you power?" he asked, voice low.
The youth whimpered behind his gag, but his fear betrayed him. He nodded.
Kael leaned in, almost whispering into the boy's ear. "Did they promise you a throne?"
Another nod—this one slower. Resigned.
Kael exhaled—soft, measured.
"Then allow me to show you what becomes of those who chase crowns without earning them."
He stood.
And with a flick of his wrist—
A blade flashed in the torchlight.
The noble boy's throat opened in a red arc, and he collapsed at his father's feet, twitching once before stillness took him.
Gasps echoed across the chamber. A few screamed. Most remained frozen in horror.
Blood pooled like spilled wine on the marble floor.
Kael turned, meeting the Duke's eyes.
"This," he said, voice devoid of emotion, "is mercy."
Alaric Velstara fell to his knees, hands trembling. "W-What… what would you have me do?"
Kael stepped closer. The scent of blood and cold steel filled the space between them.
"From this moment on, you serve me," Kael said. "Not the Empire. Not the gods. Not your ambitions. Me. Every coin, every sword, every whisper your house controls—flows through me."
The Duke lowered his head. "Y-Yes, my lord."
Kael looked beyond him—to the gathered retainers, advisors, and frightened nobles.
"Is there any among you who objects?"
Silence.
Then, one by one, they dropped to their knees. Submission in its purest form.
Kael's expression didn't change. He turned on his heel and walked back toward the doors. Selene followed, wiping her blade clean with a silk handkerchief.
Behind them, the Velstara banners still hung high—but their meaning had shifted.
The sigil remained. The name endured.
But the soul of the house now belonged to Kael Valerius.
Outside, the night wind stirred the trees, carrying the scent of blood and the echo of a new truth.
The Archons had made their first move.
Now Kael had answered.
The empire would learn—there was no throne in heaven.
The true throne was forged in the dark.
And Kael Valerius now sat upon it.
To be continued...