"Boy," a gruff voice resonated in the long empty halls of the Palace of Peace, echoing off the cold marble walls. It was aged—not loud, but heavy with the weight of countless battles, astounding strength, and tribulations witnessed through a lifetime.
It was a voice like a mountain.
"Step aside."
The Mountain of Monroe, a man as courteous as the title he had earned through lifelong service to the late King, now stood before the innermost sanctum of the Palace.
Standing outside the Queen's personal bedchamber, the old man attempted what would seem unthinkable—breaching a lady's quarters, a breach of decorum for someone of his stature.
But who would deny entry to the strongest man in the Kingdom? A man whose presence alone would demand an entire elite Alkavian squadron to even consider resistance?
And yet, it was someone he knew—his own student, the one he had raised into a knight of formidable renown.
"I won't repeat myself again, Stubborn. Move."
The last word was different. It shimmered in the air, his body weight shifting ever so slightly—enough to ring alarm bells in the vice captain's seasoned instincts.
Still, he responded with action, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword, wrapping around the worn leather grip.
"And neither will I, Captain Lastrange," Stubborn replied, eyes like steel piercing into his old master's. "The Queen's orders were clear—no one is to enter her chambers or disturb Lady Fiana's rest."
"Not Duke Windslow. Not even you, Master. And certainly…"
His voice trailed into silence as he turned his blade, not toward the Captain, but toward the only other figure present.
A hooded figure in black—faceless, featureless, invisible even to the sharpest senses of the young vice captain.
"...not him."
Captain Lastrange allowed a grim smile to tug at his lips before erasing it beneath a mask of stoic resolve. He drew his sword—a blade of mythril, forged by the Magi himself. Perhaps the finest weapon in the Kingdom, rivaled only by Her Majesty's Excalibur, the sword renowned for its taste for heads.
And yet, the old Captain's sword had seen no less blood than the Queen's.
This same blade, which the vice captain had grown up watching in awe, now pointed at him.
Words could not describe the feeling.
A tide of fear, mixed with a whisper of excitement—to finally face his master.
At least, that's how he should feel. Just a few weeks ago, perhaps.
But the passion had dimmed.
To reach the peak? To surpass his master? What was the point?
Not when He existed.
His presence had restrained the vice captain, made him more measured, more sensible.
"I've sworn an Oath, Master Lastrange. You, of all people, should understand its weight."
His words cut deeper than any sword, chipping away at the mountain of a man.
Still, Lastrange raised his blade, ready to teach his disciple one final lesson—until the hooded figure reached out, placing a single hand on his shoulder.
A whisper followed.
The Captain bent slightly, allowing the figure to speak into his ear. Whatever was said changed his stance.
He turned again to his disciple, who remained rooted like a pillar, blade extended, unwavering.
Confusion lingered in the Captain's eyes.
Why here? Why now?
Why had Azuleth abandoned her duties as Queen just the day prior?
And most pressing of all, what had happened to Lady Fiana?
In any other time, the disappearance of someone so highborn would have rattled the foundations of the Palace.
But the Queen's calm assurance that she was simply recovering in her quarters, paired with her father's distraction in the recent surge of economic and magical advancements in Alkavia, dulled all suspicion.
At least among the powerful. For who else, besides the Great Dukes or Her Majesty herself, would dare attempt entry into those sacred chambers?
No man alive held such authority.
Tension thickened the air like a drawn bowstring. The knight's blade rested against his master's chest, trembling only with conviction.
His eyes did not falter.
"You have done enough, Vice Captain Stubborn," a startlingly sweet voice cut through the moment like a knife through silk.
Both men turned.
They had sensed nothing.
Even the hooded figure turned, surprised.
The voice dripped like honey in wine, sweet yet scarlet—like roses in bloom after bloodshed.
"In fact, you did better than I expected."
Each word sang red. Not just colored, but dyed in crimson intent. Scarlet assurance. A lullaby soaked in madness.
"You may leave."
And so, the Vice Captain sheathed his blade—and left.
"Father," she spoke, with no resemblance left color in her voice, "Captain Lastrage."
"Let's have a talk shall we?" She let out a tiny smile. Despite her deminor, both of the men understood at a glance, the girl was acting strangly, causing them to raise thier brows.
The question rose like a whisper through their hearts:
When had Azuleth ever looked so... relaxed?
She beckoned them without a word, leading them deeper still, to a place beyond reach—the Queen's Solarium.
A place holier than even her royal bedchambers. Perhaps a few maids might dare sweep her room on a good day, but this place?
Not even the Dukes dared breathe its name lightly. To enter it unbidden was to declare war on the royal bloodline.
A hush fell over the polished obsidian floor as a voice like cracking stone rasped out,
"Where's the boy?"
The speaker removed his hood.
It was the Emperor of Alkavia.
His face old and weathered, but no less royal.
His tone bore command, not question. Though he no longer wore the crown, the crown had never made the king.
"Last I heard, he was enjoying sunlight after sealing himself in that damn room. So…"
He scanned the glass-lit chamber, voice sharp enough to pierce steel.
"Where is he?"
Then, more venomously,
"Where is that charlatan?"
[Emperor Luscious's POV]
He had every right to be furious.
Their long conversation still echoed in his mind—he had judged the boy. Measured him. Trusted his own instincts, shaped by decades of manipulating the highest echelons of power across nations.
At first, everything went according to plan.
The boy didn't seek destruction, only influence. Integration over rebellion. A rare and intelligent move, especially for one as powerful as him. The Emperor admired it. He wasn't just a monster in strength—he knew exactly what he was worth. And he knew the worth of patience.
Other kingdoms might have rejected him outright. But Alkavia? With its unprecedented unity and Queen Azuleth's shrewd leadership, it had become the ideal nest for a weapon disguised as a man.
He gave away knowledge freely. Spoke to Lady Fiana with open trust, even knowing her father was one of the realm's most powerful Dukes. He made no moves to form alliances outside. It all fit the Emperor's psychological profile.
He was supposed to wait.
Gather strength. Squeeze Alkavia dry. Then move.
And with that power, he would invade the other nations—break their thrones, shatter their orders, and force the ruling class to kneel.
The terrifying part wasn't his strength. It was its nature.
Unrestrained.
The boy had no weaknesses that the Emperor knew of, no connections, no history, nothing.
It was as if he appeared out of thin air.
Still, dispite possing the strength of a monster, the boy was clearly more than just some mindless beast acting on his natural urges.
He was disciplined in his goal, focusing solely on gathering strength.
That discipline made him predictable.
Manageable.
And as long as he was predictable, the Emperor wasn't worried.
Alkavia would benefit.
And with their alliance with the Magi sealed in secret, the future war was practically preordained. The continent would burn, and Alkavia would rise from its ashes, a new Empire.
One nation. One Queen. One throne.
Even the Magi—Wester, the Emperor's oldest friend—had long since aggreed to this proposal, even pushing for her rule, seeking no interest in the tiresome trivalities of managing such a vast nation. It would bring him no joy, and much more imprtantly, what reason would he have to seek the political power as the Queen would undoubtly fulfill any requests he made as long as they remained feasible.
The only unpredictable variable in the entire equation… was the boy.
One shift in interest, one misalignment of ambition — and the whole tapestry could unravel.
All that remained was their meeting.
And from what the Emperor could foresee, it would unfold like clockwork:
The boy would ask to become his disciple.
And Wester, with that mad gleam in his eyes, would accept.
So long as he—the Emperor—vouched for the boy, Wester wouldn't care about the rest.
The man only ever cared about one thing:
How far could magic go?
It was perfect.
Too perfect.
Like a script ordained by fate itself.
It made the Emperor's bones ache.
'To think… I was this close to rest,' he thought bitterly. 'And another one like Wester appears. Couldn't he have waited until after I was dead?'
He had barely survived managing Wester's raw magical talent during the Great War. Building the Nation of the Magi had taken everything from him.
Now this.
Another prodigy. Another storm. Another burden.
And still, the plan had worked. Until...
It didn't.
Lady Fiana vanished. Just disappeared.
No longer flitting about the castle, charming nobles and guests, carrying secret messages and sacred artifacts, coordinating the Kingdom's elite.
She even tested the boy's preferences on Azuleth's request, bringing him beauties of every race and bloodline under the Kingdom's sun.
And then... gone.
An entire day now.
Supposedly recuperating in Azuleth's chambers, after passing out in front of the boy.
It didn't make sense.
Why cut off your one trusted liaison to the nation?
Why halt every single plan?
It was like watching a boulder thundering down a mountain... suddenly lodged into a crack.
All progress was put on hold.
Instead, the boy now appeared next to Azuleth constantly.
She even called him husband.
But the Emperor knew.
He had refused her offer for children.
So what was this? Was it lust?
No. That wasn't it.
The Emperor clenched his jaw, the weight of his doubts beginning to fracture beneath the pressure.
"Did I… misread him?"
Everything—every sign, every pattern—pointed toward that unsettling possibility. And yet, something didn't sit right. If the boy's true aim had always been Azuleth, then why had he gone to such lengths? Why involve Lady Fiana? Why construct an elaborate foundation of influence only to abandon it? The throne had always been within reach—Azuleth would have given it to him willingly.
So why now?
Why the sudden silence?
Why the abrupt change in momentum?
Had he missed something? The Emperor's mind surged with frustration, desperately scanning past events, looking for cracks in a narrative he once believed he had mastered. His mouth moved faster than his mind could process, demanding answers from the only person in the room who might still be in control—his daughter.
But Azuleth didn't answer with words. Instead, she turned slowly, casually brushing through the folds of her silken robes, her demeanor relaxed, almost amused. Her hand emerged holding four delicate slips of paper, and though her expression remained composed, the gleam in her eyes betrayed a quiet, barely contained euphoria.
"Here," she said, with the air of someone offering a trinket to an old friend.
Yet the Emperor felt something shift in the air, something ancient and trembling, as if an invisible line had just been crossed. He took the offered paper without protest, as did Captain Lastrange.
The Emperor looked down at the invitation in his hand, and the moment he registered what he was reading, his breath caught in his throat.
A frown crept across his face, slow and uncertain, as the weight of the words pulled his thoughts into chaos. It had been a long time - too long - since something his daughter did had left him this unbalanced. The royal seal was unmistakable, the parchment as official as it was elegant, but it wasn't the seal that unsettled him.
It was what was missing.
No mention of the groom. No name. No title. Just her own, etched in gilded ink like a silent declaration.
And worse still-
"It's tomorrow?" the Emperor asked, the words tumbling out in a breath that betrayed more fear than anger.
Captain Lastrange, standing just behind him, said nothing, his eyes narrowing on the Queen with a gaze that danced between concern and curiosity. He couldn't yet decide if this was an occasion worthy of alarm—or celebration.
Azuleth, unfazed, turned her head slightly over her shoulder. Her voice was velvet and fire all at once.
"Yes, dear father."
She extended the remaining two invitations outward, seemingly offering them to empty air. Her fingers held steady in the silence, as if waiting for the wind itself to receive them.
"And you are all invited," she said calmly, her voice echoing with deliberate weight, "infact, everyone is invited."
Then, with the faintest smile playing on her lips, she added while turning to face her back: "Even you… my dear sister."
The moment the words were spoken, the protective enchantments that cloaked the Solarium began to unravel. Space itself seemed to shimmer, light warping like water around heat, and from the folds of distorted air stepped two silent figures.
They had passed the guards.
Bypassed the magic circles.
Even eluded the ever-watchful senses of Captain Lastrange.
But not Azuleth.
Never Azuleth.
From nothingness emerged a young woman clad in a sleek, sapphire-blue gown; modest yet designed for movement, elegant but pragmatic. At her side stood a man whose presence instantly shifted the weight of the room.
An old man, tall and quiet, his beard flowing like white smoke down his chest, his staff carved with the glyphs of forgotten ages. His eyes, calm and eternal, shimmered like twin stars caught in the dusk.
He did not speak. He didn't need to.
His very presence radiated knowledge, power, and history. He bore the weight of realms on his shoulders as easily as one might carry a cloak.
If you didn't know who he was, you might mistake him for a scholar.
But those who did… knew better.
He was the Magi.
The King of Aetherfall.
The pinnacle of magic.
"So..." the Magi finally spoke, his voice far too young for the age carved into his face. Calm, but carrying a trace of impatience, while his eyes scanned the quiet air around him, "where is he?"
His voice was calm - too calm - like the surface of a still lake moments before a ripple. He took a step forward, his staff gently tapping the polished stone floor, echoing like fate announcing itself.
"Where is this anomaly," he continued, not smiling, not frowning; simply knowing.
His eyes shinned in anticipation.
"Where is this anomaly that destiny seems so eager for me to meet?"