Prologue
Lord Aesl stood beneath the vaulted dome of his great hall, cloaked not in glory, but in silence. The marble pillars that once bore witness to jubilant feasts now loomed like mourners at a wake. His court stood still, breath held, as if the very stones beneath their feet waited to crack.
"We must evacuate the castle," Elder Sirll's voice broke the stillness, a whisper, yet it fell like thunder. A dire truth, spoken aloud at last.
At first, disbelief crossed Lord Aesl's face, then horror. The weight of his decisions bore down like iron. The war, born from pride and miscalculation, had turned on him. Fealatin, jewel of the east, city of parchment and promise was no more than smoldering rubble and stolen banners. Ash in the air. Blood in the streets. Half of it burned, the other half lost.
His thoughts spiraled back to gentler days: scholars in flowing robes, scribes clattering in the halls, children reading under blossom trees within the court gardens. He remembered laughter. He remembered light. Now all that remained was ruin and regret.
"My Lord… Fealatin has fallen," Elder Birhe dared, voice unsteady, like a candle in wind.
Aesl turned his gaze, sharp and cold. Birhe said no more, but the words lingered, final, fatal.
Stone groaned somewhere deep below. A tremor passed through the floor like a warning breath from the abyss. The keep would not hold much longer.
The Lord rose at last. Not as ruler, but as witness to his own undoing. His boots rang against the cracked tiles as he strode to the balcony. And there, he saw it, his kingdom in flame. Towers toppled. The second bridge broken. The eleventh court overrun.
"One of the Feral Courts has fallen," he said, voice calm, like a man speaking to ghosts. "Fealatin… the second bridge… the eleventh court… all lost, under my rule. I, Aesl of Kia, great-grandson of Lord Deanio Catalan… have failed."
Another quake split the night. From the shadows of the hall, a cry went out.
"Evacuate the castle!"
Panic surged like floodwater. The halls, once echoing with music, now filled with fleeing footsteps and shouted names. Courtiers, scribes, kitchen maids, gone in a wave of fear.
But she came toward him, Lady Ahri, eyes rimmed red with sleepless nights and secrets kept. Her gown was torn at the hem. Ash smeared her cheek. Yet she walked with the grace of old blood.
"How fares my lad?" Aesl asked, voice fraying at the edges.
She fell into his arms, her breath shivering against his chest.
"Better than you," she murmured.
They both knew. There would be no more dawns for them together. He would not leave. She must. Within her, she carried the last flicker of the Drakarian line, a child unborn, a legacy not yet extinguished.
"I will buy you time," he whispered.
And she nodded, tears unshed. Her duty would take her into exile. His, to death.
One by one, the court ladies vanished. The last of the servants bowed low and fled. Only the commandant remained, sword drawn, beside his lord.
Outside, the sky cracked open with fire. And so fell Fealatin. its fate sealed, its defenders few, its legend just beginning.