His eyes became bejeweled emeralds, shimmering with contained fury, as the fire suspended above the iron torches bent toward them—drawn like moths to soul-bound hosts. The flames twisted, transformed. Near him, they burned emerald green. Near her, they flared into a deep, violent red.
The rest of the hall dimmed, its shadows thickening in the absence of shared light. Tension rippled through the soldiers lining the chamber. Their stance shifted, hands inching toward the hilts of their swords.
"My lord of Pallas, you tread beyond the bounds of your station," one of the guards warned, voice taut.
The blonde noble turned, offering the soldier a disdainful glance and a slow, curling sneer.
"Hold thy tongue. Not even the bite of steel shall quell the wrath of fire once it is loosed."
The green fire coiled around him, snaking through the air, but as it approached her, it faltered—nearly swallowed by the red blaze that danced like a living thing around her form.
"Would that your mother still lived to see you, Rukana—she would know not this daughter before me," he added, his voice barbed with cold remembrance.
The red fire flickered violently in response, then began to die down, hissing into vapor. Stray embers floated back to their iron cradles, restoring calm. The physician, pale and trembling, fell to the floor with a sickening thud—his robes soaked in shame.
A moment passed. Neither royal moved. The only sound was the uneasy rustle of armor.
Without a word, the guards stepped forward and dragged the unconscious man out of the chamber, leaving behind a stained floor and the stench of fear.
"For the memory of the late Empress, I shall forgo retribution," Rukana said coldly, her voice devoid of heat, "Let this pass—but know your place, Lord of Pallas. You are dismissed."
He did not argue. He turned and exited, the echo of his boots vanishing into the corridor.
The princess lingered, then walked toward the emperor's chamber. She hesitated at the door, her fingers resting on the carved wood before she stepped inside and shut it gently behind her.
For a moment, there was only stillness.
She had fallen to her knees just past the threshold. Her body trembled, but her face remained unmoved, blank. Eyes fixed on the far end of the room, her breaths shallow.
"Even the gods have turned their gaze from us, Father..." The words slipped through clenched teeth as tears trickled down her cheeks—silent, unceremonious. Her expression did not falter.
She bowed her head. "The gods have forsaken us all..."
Her hand found the edge of the door as she hoisted herself up. The tears dried swiftly on her cheeks as she forced her body to move. Her footsteps were uneven as she made her way toward the bed.
The emperor lay on his bed, his skin pallid, marred by pulsing black veins that crawled like grotesque worms beneath the surface. Each breath he took was shallow.
She lowered herself beside him, taking his cold hand into hers.
"The House of Pallas schemes to seize the court," she murmured, voice thick with bitterness. "And I—I am powerless to stay their hand. Thrasocorvii still holds, yet how long before its strength withers? Atratus, once steadfast, now cloaks itself in silence—cowards in all but name." Her voice cracked slightly. "And Livius... sends yet another charlatan in healer's garb."
A bitter laugh escaped her lips.
"They mean only to flee—sail off to Litorren ere the war reaches our gates."
She paused, breathing in his silence.
"I have but whispers and rumor left to place my faith upon."
The candlelight flickered against her tired face as her eyes fluttered closed. More tears escaped, tracing new lines down her cheeks.
"If the North must be lost to see you healed... then so be it," she whispered. "And once you wake, I shall chart a path for our escape—our survival."
Her fingers tightened around his hand.
"I shall repay our people their suffering, when peace returns—if it returns at all."
She inhaled sharply, fighting the lump in her throat.
"All this I vow to do. But I beg you… return from this sleep, Father."
.
.
.
Near the forests that once thrived in pristine splendor—now reduced to graveyards of forgotten corpses and rivers stained red—an army camp lay hidden from enemy eyes. Within the commander's tent, the generals were deep in discussion, deliberating a strategy to push back the relentless Milladorii assaults.
A sharp caw split the air above them.
Startled, they paused. Armor clinked and metal brushed against metal as they exited the tent, eyes sweeping the canopy overhead.
"Are my eyes deceived?" one of them muttered, squinting toward the sky.
Another, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, smirked. "A fair maiden stands yonder, northwestward."
The so-called blind general chuckled, "Ah, then my sight returns."
A second caw echoed—closer this time.
The red-haired general narrowed his amber eyes and raised a hand for silence. "Still your tongues."
"It cries yet veils itself. A cunning creature, that one," the stoutest among them grumbled, beads of sweat dotting his brow.
"Perhaps it fears ending up in a pot—seasoned and stewing!" the joker quipped, earning a round of muffled laughter.
The youngest, shorter and sterner than the rest, snapped, "That is enough. The creature may be a lure. The foe could be near."
The joker shrugged, subdued. The group stood still, their attention cast upward, scanning every branch and shadow.
A faint rustle. A flicker of movement. Then the red-haired general's eyes locked onto a curl of smoke drifting in the distance—barely visible through the treetops.
"There. In the north," he whispered.
Out of the haze, a phoenix burst forth—wreathed in flame and light. It soared like an arrow across the canopy, leaving behind a trail of smoke that began to rise, steady and ominous.
Recognition flashed in the general's eyes. He raised his hand, and fire curled up his arm like a golden sleeve—warm and controlled. The fiery bird descended, landed on his wrist, and disappeared into his flame with a whisper of embers.
From its dissolving form, an envelope fell. He caught it swiftly.
"The seal of the Empire..." he murmured, fingers tracing the wax.
He tore open the envelope and drew out a handwritten letter. At once, he recognized the enchantment woven into the parchment. To most, it would appear as nothing more than a routine dispatch from a distant post. But to his eyes, the true message emerged—etched in characters from a lexicon spoken by few and taught by fewer.
A heartbeat passed.
"Rally the men. We fall back at once!" His voice cut through the camp like a blade.
The generals looked at each other, stunned.
"My lord of Thrasocorvus, what word does the seal carry?" one asked.
The red-haired general crushed the letter in his fist. Flames consumed it, scattering ash into the wind. In the distance, the wall of smoke thickened, and the tips of wildfire flickered like warning tongues on the horizon.
He unsheathed his sword. Sunlight danced across its blade, glinting off polished steel and reflecting off the bark of a nearby tree.
"This ground we yield," he said gravely. "Make haste. We march for the river."