The grand hall of Krovzaryan pulsed with muted celebration—the low hum of music weaving through the towering arches, the clinking of goblets, the faint chatter of nobles still wary beneath their rehearsed praises. Black and crimson banners embroidered with gold and silver coiled like serpents from the pillars, their shadows stretching along the obsidian-marble floors beneath the flickering torchlight.
Erebus sat at the imperial high table, the newly crowned emperor of Krovzaryan—yet his posture was a silhouette of detachment.
Goblets overflowed with spiced mead, platters of roasted game, fruits, and sugared delicacies were laid in abundance, servants moving like clockwork across the hall. At the edges, loyal commanders, freshly bound vassals, and curious emissaries from far territories raised their cups in strained toasts.
But Erebus tasted none of it.
His deep black velvet and white fur lined cloak weighed heavy across his broad shoulders, the imperial circlet pressing faintly against his temple, its cool metal a reminder that this—this empire forged in ash and rebellion—was now his to command.
And yet… his mind wandered beyond these walls.
The hollow echo of a different hall bled into his thoughts—the grand palace of Amanécer, months ago, veiled in sunlight and silken grandeur. That day—the last banquet before his departure—should've been triumphant, the alliance cemented, their lineage protected.
Instead, whispers filled the marble halls like venom laced into honeyed words.
He remembered standing at the periphery of the Amanécerian banquet, goblet in hand, face unreadable as he listened:
"Her children bear his cursed blood… did you see the younger one's eyes? Demonic…"
"Princess Luciana—reduced to bearing half-blood heirs… What a tragedy for Amanécer's line."
"She defiled herself with that barbarian… the 'Shadow general' they call him now."
The memory twisted like a knife in his chest.
Back then, they had spoken as if he were deaf—or worse, unworthy of presence at his own alliance banquet. Noble families, silken smiles masking the rot beneath, their eyes sliding past him to assess Luciana with pity, suspicion… resentment.
Even then, his titles, his wars, his victories weren't enough to wash away his origins—the beggar lord, the war-born mongrel elevated by force, not favor.
Their contempt bled onto his children.
Nemesis, too young to understand but old enough to sense the wariness in glances.
Hades, a babe unaware that he was born marked by the world's quiet rejection.
And Luciana… dignified, bound to duty, but not untouched by the cruelty she masked with her composure.
The ghost of those words clung to him now, even as the Krovzaryan court celebrated his coronation.
He barely noticed the music swell as another round of toasts rippled through the hall. His focus drifted to the crowd where Callum, his steadfast war ally, now Krovzaryan's only prime minister approached—flanked by his wife Calypso, her sparkling emerald eyes a stark contrast to the somber palette of the imperial hall, and their young son, Lucius.
Lucius's eyes found Erebus with an awe-struck spark—the naive admiration of a boy raised on tales of conquest, of a leader who carved an empire from rebellion and ruin.
The way Lucius watched him…
It stirred something raw beneath Erebus's armored facade—a chasm carved deeper by absence.
It should've been Nemesis by his side, standing at the fringes of power, uncertain but observant, bearing the same silvery ashen hair that defied both Amanécer's purity and Erebus's legacy.
It should've been Hades, tugging at his cloak with small, curious hands.
Ra'el, cradled in Luciana's arms, oblivious to the politics that threatened to fracture their existence.
But the banquet roared on without them.
The laughter, the formal declarations, the oaths of loyalty—they filled the hall, yet rang hollow in Erebus's ears.
His gaze lingered on Callum and Calypso exchanging quiet words, Lucius leaning excitedly toward his father, recounting fragments of wartime heroics.
Erebus exhaled slowly, the sigh heavy with exhaustion, with grief expertly buried beneath years of discipline.
His empire was rising—the name Krovzaryan whispered across the realms with growing reverence and dread. Territories surrendered, crowns bowed, cities rebuilt under his sigil. But as he stared into the crowd of loyalists, opportunists, and sycophants, none of it filled the absence carved by exile from his family.
Not the throne.
Not the crown.
Not the illusion of belonging.
His enemies feared him.
His allies obeyed him.
But his sons—their tiny hands, their small faces, their needs—remained out of reach.
And Luciana…
The memory of her expression at that last Amanécerian banquet seared through him. Eyes defiant yet weary. Her composure a shield, her words measured, her love for their children buried beneath duty.
They had built this fractured world together—tethered by necessity, sharpened by scars. But the distance between them now… it stretched wider than oceans.
A servant poured more wine. Another noble approached with shallow praise.
Erebus straightened, his expression smoothing into imperial indifference, his crown glinting beneath the chandelier light.
His heart remained absent from the celebration—but his resolve… that burned relentless.
Let them whisper.
Let them scheme.
The world had shunned him once—now, it would kneel.
But once the empire was secure… he would take them with him back. Luciana,Nemesis, Hades. and Ra'el.
And those who whispered poison into their futures…
They would learn the price of underestimating the beggar-turned-emperor.