The golden dunes of the south were behind them now. The winds had changed; they were no longer dry and warm but cold with the scent of northern woods. Prince Mustafa al-Rahid ibn Shahzayr sat beneath a velvet canopy atop a lavishly enchanted carriage—furnished in rich silks, draped with sapphires, and guarded by a column of desert riders with scimitars gleaming in the pale sun.
He looked up at the distant peaks of the Empire of Veldora, where spires reached toward the heavens and dragons once circled their roosts. His kohl-lined and fierce eyes shimmered with amusement.
"How curious," he murmured, tracing a finger along the edge of a carved wooden box that bore the sigil of the royal Everheart line. "A brother invites me and a father… fading."
He smiled.
"And somewhere in that nest of serpents—you, little bird."
He had never truly met Princess Sonya. Her letters, passed through emissaries, were few and cold. And yet the stories... they painted her in fire—a woman of will. A daughter forged not by love, but by war. And now, blooming into ambition.
"I wonder," he whispered, "will you burn like the rest? Or will you dance for me?"
His fingers curled into a fist.
"I will have you. For me. And me alone."
Just then, the flaps of the tent rustled. One of his spies, clad in dark desert garb, slipped in and kneeled.
"My prince," the spy whispered. "As you ride, the Empire falters. The emperor remains cloistered in his fortress. He suspects treachery—he smells rebellion."
Mustafa's lips curled into a grin.
"He should."
The spy continued, "The courtiers are split. Your arrival has stirred old houses. Even Ravenclaw may attend."
That name made Mustafa chuckle, low and deep.
"The wolf who won't kneel. I've read about him. Let him come. He will not scare me. Veldora forgets that a lion does not ask permission to enter a den of wolves."
He dismissed the spy with a flick of his fingers.
"Let them sharpen blades. Let them whisper. I come not to beg. I come… to take."
Servants rushed about like ants as preparations for the Royal Banquet began. Gold-rimmed carriages were summoned. Silks were laid out on long tables. Ballrooms were tested with violin strains and imperial wine shipments.
And above it all, in her private chamber high in the East Wing, Princess Sonya stood before her mirror, chin tilted in defiance.
She didn't look like a princess.
She looked like a weapon.
"Get me the red one," she said coldly to her handmaiden. "The ruby dress. The one that cuts across the collar like a blade."
The maid hesitated.
"But… Your Highness, it's… daring."
"That's the point," Sonya replied, eyes never leaving her reflection. "They want a maiden to parade beside the Sultan's dog. They expect a girl to bow before Julius's puppets."
Her hands clenched.
"Let them see fire instead. Let the banquet be a battlefield."
She turned, walking barefoot across the cold floor.
"Make sure the slit rides high. I want every duke's daughter trembling in their shoes when I walk through that hall. If they're going to stare, let them choke."
The maid nodded and hurried off.
Sonya's mind, however, wasn't on the dress. It was in the letters she'd sent.
One to Ravenclaw, with veiled intent and dangerous implications.
One to Grandmother Isolde, her mother's mother—the last of the old witches who had sworn no allegiance to Julius, and whose counsel could tip tides.
And one to a man in chains beneath the old monastery ruins. A man with no name, whom they said once served the Cult of Somatra before cutting his tongue out.
She was setting her pieces on the board. One red heel at a time.
"Let Julius dress the court," she whispered to herself. "Let Mustafa smile for the Emperor. Let Alice twirl in her petty rebellion. I will walk into that banquet and set the room on fire."
Outside her balcony, Veyren passed again, cloaked and unreadable. The girl by his side, de—quiet nd, l —glanced up at her window for just a moment. Sonya paused. A flicker of intuition.
"Something's wrong with that one…"
But there was no time.
The banquet approached. Her father was watching. Her brother was scheming. Mustafa was arriving with intentions masked in gold and blood.
And the one man she had dared to invite—Ravenclaw—had yet to reply.
Still… she knew one thing:
"I am the Queen on this board. They can play their pawns."
The wind had turned cold that morning.
Sonya sat at her writing desk, the edges of her fingers stained faintly with ink, her eyes still foggy from the long hours spent composing a second letter—one that danced dangerously on the edge of courtship, strategy, and veiled threats. She had begun it three times already, each version more restrained than the last. Her fourth draft remained unfinished, the pen frozen in her fingers.
And then…
A knock at her chamber door.
Soft. Purposeful.
Her maid, ever dutiful, cracked the door open.
"Your Highness… a letter. Marked with the black wax seal. The one from House Ravenclaw."
Sonya's breath caught mid-chest. That seal… the obsidian crest, shaped like a raven with its wings spread, clutching a sword and a scroll. Not stamped by a scribe. Not pressed by some attendant.
This was his seal.
"Bring it to me. Now."
She took the letter with hands steadier than they should have been, though her pulse whispered betrayal in her throat. The parchment was thick, cut from highland paper, edges singed slightly from Ravenclaw's distinct sealing method: fire instead of wax. A sign to all who dared intercept it.
She broke the seal with her thumb.
And read.
The Letter from Ravenclaw
To Princess Sonya von Everheart,
The one who tamed a beast and wears a crown of secrets—
Your letter arrived. Of course it did. I knew it would. You never move without purpose, and your timing is never accidental.
You want me at your brother's banquet? Very well. I'll attend. I will come to the capital as you requested—not as a guest, nor as a knight in your fairy tale. I'll walk through those golden doors in silver and black, and every noble who ever whispered my name in fear will know that I do not bow, not even to kings.
I am coming, Sonya.
Please don't mistake my silence for submission. You chose your game. Let us play it on marble floors, beneath chandeliers and masks, where daggers glint like diamonds.
Until then, choose your next move carefully. You may still be a queen on the board, but I've never played by anyone's rules.
—Ravenclaw
She read it once.
Twice.
A third time, slower, the words biting into her like wind on bare skin.
He accepted. He was coming. But more than that, he was provoked. Stirred. Challenged.
Sonya felt her lips twitch, the ghost of a smirk forming.
"Good," she whispered. "I wouldn't have wanted it easy."
She folded the letter and held it to her chest briefly. Not out of affection, but calculation. Her gambit had worked. The most dangerous man in the Empire had stepped onto her stage.
Her eyes went to the unfinished letter on her desk.
"Burn it," she told her maid, gesturing to it. "I no longer need to write."
Then she stopped and walked towards the window, staring at the moon.
She walked to the window, where the Academy banner fluttered above the gardens. Students moved below like ants in elegant uniforms, smiling and whispering about the coming feast. They didn't know. They couldn't know.
They'll think it's a celebration, she thought. But the banquet will be a battlefield. And I intend to dance on the blood-stained marble with wolves.
Somewhere in the capital, her brother Julius was setting traps.
Somewhere on the roads, Mustafa was getting closer, eyes full of lust and conquest.
And now, Ravenclaw was coming too.
.
The convoy of Prince Mustafa of Arqaban crossed the great stone bridge of Serenthia just as the sun dipped behind the distant hills, dyeing the skies in blood-orange hues. The tall marble spires of the Veldoran Capital rose before him, etched in shadow and light, like the jagged teeth of some sleeping colossus. The wind carried the scent of aged incense, burning in the thousands of temples that lined the inner sanctums of the city, mingled with the faint fragrance of early-spring jasmine.
Mustafa reclined slightly in his carriage, golden silk draped lazily across his lap, one hand toying with the seal-ring of his father, Sultan Amin of Arqaban. The other rested near the hilt of his curved ceremonial dagger — not out of caution, but habit. A predator always kept its claws close.
He peered out the window.
So this is the Imperial Capital of Veldora. For all its history and claims of divine sovereignty, it looked like a peacock trying too hard to impress — gilded domes, excessive fountains, too many flags waving from every archway.
And yet… Sonya lived here.
The thought sent a curious warmth fluttering through his chest, not love—not yet-but possession. He had never met the princess. Her letters were clipped and polite, her name carved into the wind by diplomats and generals alike. But he had seen a sketch once, from a trader who passed through the courts of the north.
"Hair black as obsidian… eyes like storm clouds over the dunes…" the man had said. Mustafa remembered those words well.
Little bird, he thought. You belong to me now.
The thought was not romantic. It was absolute.
He would make her his wife, not out of softness, but strategy. She was the Emperor's daughter. A bridge. A key. A blade. She was also, rumor said, ambitious. Dangerous. That made her more interesting — and more useful.
He chuckled to himself softly, tracing the rim of a wineglass as the carriage slowed.
"Prince," a voice called from the front of the convoy. "We approach the gates."
Mustafa pulled back the curtain. The gatehouses of the capital towered like mountains — ten men tall, with obsidian gates flanked by golden lions, their mouths open in perpetual roar. A thousand guards lined the path, spears crossed like ribs above his entrance.
From the Imperial Balcony, perched atop the Celestial Tower, the Emperor watched.
So did the Empress, veiled in silks the color of wine, her gaze unreadable.
Mustafa met their eyes — or perhaps imagined he did. He did not bow.
He noted the absence of the royal family's full splendor. The Crown Prince, notably, was missing. So the rumors were true. The House of Veldora was not as whole as it claimed to be. There were fractures beneath the polished marble.
"Dismissed already?" Mustafa murmured under his breath, lips curling. "Interesting."
A courier from Arqaban rode up beside his carriage, dusty and worn.
"Speak," Mustafa said, not turning.
"My prince," the spy whispered, "the court is in quiet disarray. The emperor holds power, but barely. There are feuds behind curtains, poison behind courtesies. Princess Sonya is… ambitious. Your arrival was not expected this soon."
Mustafa closed his eyes, smiling faintly.
Perfect.
"My dear Sonya," he said softly, "you may think you dance alone on this board, but I bring a game of my own. And soon, all your pretty pawns will kneel to Arqaban."
As the gates opened with a groan that echoed like a dragon's sigh, the convoy rolled forward. Banners unfurled, trumpets sang, and the capital's streets were lit with torches — not for welcome, but for show. The people clapped, but the sound felt distant. Hollow.
Mustafa stared up once more at the imperial balcony.
I see you, Emperor. I see your crumbling empire. And I am the fire you have invited into your home.
The heavy double doors of Ravenclaw's chambers swung open with a deep groan of ancient wood. Light from the lantern sconces cast long, flickering shadows across the crimson and obsidian carpet that ran through the center of the room like a ceremonial path to war.
Inside, chaos reigned—though the sort that only a man like him would allow.
Cloaks were flung, scrolls opened, maps pinned to boards and desks overflowing with reports, missives, and sealed parchments dripping with wax. Dozens of figures—his spies, informants, and shadow brokers—filled the chamber like ravens gathering before a storm. Men and women from every walk of life: a baker who once served in the palace kitchen, a former noble's bastard child trained in poisons, a theater actress turned mimic, a mute boy with eyes sharper than steel. Every one of them loyal not to the Empire, not to the crown, but to him.
Ravenclaw stepped in, dressed in dark military finery, cloak brushing the marble floor, a cigarette lazily dancing between his lips. He paused at the threshold, brows arched in theatrical amusement.
"Well," he drawled, voice like honey over blades, "what is this? Did someone spill sugar in a rabbit's warren? Why is the whole damn Bunny's Lair gathered here?"
A few chuckled nervously. Most kept silent.
The air snapped to tension again as one of the spies, a lean, sharp-faced man in grey, stepped forward and said, "Second Prince Julius is making moves, sire. Something big. Multiple operatives report increased visits to old allies in the southern counties—retired generals, merchants who were banished, and former church officials. He's calling in debts."
Ravenclaw moved across the chamber and sat on the edge of his blackwood desk, letting the smoke curl from his cigarette as he took that in. "And?"
Another figure, a younger woman with ink-stained fingers, stepped forward next. "Prince Mustafa of Arqaban has arrived at the capital. No official word yet from the Imperial Court, but he's already been received at the foreign guest palace. Sonya hasn't denied the rumors."
Ravenclaw's jaw tightened for only a moment. Then he gave a wolfish smile.
"Sonya… You're playing a bold game, princess," he murmured to himself.
The woman added, "Whispers say he may be seeking her hand. Arqaban could tie a political knot strong enough to choke the Crown Prince himself."
Another voice from the shadows: "And while that happens, your trade routes in the Eastern Corridor are being strangled. Taxes are rising in all checkpoints where the Second Prince holds influence. Your caravans will be delayed. Your clients will look for safer deals."
Ravenclaw crushed the cigarette under his heel and stood, drawing his coat closed. His gaze swept across the room—cool, measured, but deadly sharp.
"So." His voice dropped low. "Julius thinks with one imported peacock and some coin-bribed taxmen, he can choke the serpent that feeds half the Empire."
He walked slowly toward the map, eyes narrowing at the trade routes, marked in silver ink. He tapped the crossings, the bottlenecks. "He forgets," Ravenclaw said softly, "who made these roads. Who owns the loyalty of the Eas??
He turned to the spy who mentioned the caravans.
"Start bleeding the middlemen. Delay the delayers. I want each checkpoint under Julius's flag to experience a... plague of misfortunes. Broken axles, sick oxen, thieves that vanish like ghosts. Subtle. Quiet. Untraceable."
"Yes, milord."
"And as for Mustafa..." He tilted his head. "Send word to our contacts in the foreign palace. I want his route, his guards, and the full list of gifts he brought for the Imperial Court. If he plans to impress Sonya, I want to know whether he brings her silk or steel."
The chamber was silent, only the scratching of pens and the rustling of paper echoing in the room.
"Any word from the north?" Ravenclaw asked without turning.
A young man with sun-bleached hair stood. "Still nothing from House Yale. But the Dmitri cavalry has been unusually quiet. That kind of quiet comes before someone takes a swing."
"Tell Dmitri that their horses are drinking from my rivers. If they choose to stay silent, I will assume they're riding against me."
He moved to the desk and opened the drawer, pulling out the sealed letter Sonya had sent days earlier—the one that had started this dance. Her seal still glinted faintly in the dim light.
He looked at it and smiled grimly.
"She asks for an alliance, then invites the son of a desert king to charm her. What will it be, Sonya? Do you want the dagger or the veil?"
He turned to his spies.
"Keep your eyes on her. If she chooses me, she'd better come clean. But if she plays both sides... well, queens who think they are gods tend to forget the blade under the table."
They nodded.
"Dismissed. Keep your ears wide. Tell the streets that the Raven flies again."
As the shadows slipped out of the chamber like fog fleeing the morning sun, Ravenclaw stood alone before the city map. The Empire was burning beneath its weight. Julius pulled strings. Mustafa smiled like a snake. And Sonya—sweet, venomous Sonya—was building her kingdom in red velvet.
Ravenclaw lit another cigarette and whispered,
"Let the banquet begin."
The roads leading to the Imperial Capital of Veldora glimmered faintly beneath the setting sun, cobbled stones glowing orange and gold beneath the ornate wheels of the royal carriage. Silk curtains fluttered slightly with the breeze, brushing against the sharp cheekbones of Princess Sonya von Everhart as she sat inside, arms folded, gaze distant.
The carriage interior was lined with deep crimson velvet, embroidered with the imperial crest—a lion piercing a sun. But Sonya wore no smile of pride. Her thoughts, as ever, were tangled in webs spun far deeper than most within the capital's walls could comprehend.
"Ravenclaw," she whispered under her breath, eyes narrowing as her fingers played with the jeweled handle of her dagger.
Once a dangerous variable, now a calculated piece on the board. She had sent the letter, offering a fragile hand of alliance. And he'd accepted. But Sonya was no fool. She had grown up watching men flatter her father, plot behind her brother's back, and die whispering prayers to gods who never listened. Ravenclaw was not a man who could be tamed—not by gold, not by blood, not by love.
"He's a fox," she muttered again, staring at the Imperial skyline now piercing the horizon. "A fox who plays in the shadows of wolves."
The city gates loomed ahead. Soldiers saluted sharply as the banners unfurled. The gates creaked open, revealing the spires of Veldora, their gold-plated tips reaching toward the dusk sky like fingers clutching power.
Her convoy rolled in. Citizens watched with curiosity, whispers following her like ghostly threads.
"That's the Princess."
"She returns after years…"
"Some say she's to be engaged to a foreign prince."
She ignored them all.
As the carriage turned into the royal boulevard, her grip on the seat tightened. Her instincts screamed: Something is changing.
The convoy came to a halt just before the marble steps of the Inner Sanctum—the heart of the palace, the soul of the Empire. Guards opened her door as her silver boots touched stone. At the top of the staircase stood a maid, her blue uniform pressed sharp, her hands clasped nervously.
She bowed low. "Your Highness. Welcome home. His Imperial Majesty, Her Grace the Empress, and. Several members of the Council await you in the Room of Command."
Sonya's eyes flicked to the upper towers.
The Room of Command? That wasn't used unless something urgent—or dangerous—was at hand.
She gave a slow nod, waved her attendants back, and followed the maid inside.
The palace corridors were as she remembered: vast, echoing, cold. Portraits of ancestors long dead lined the walls, their eyes painted with too much pride, too much judgment. Every step she took echoed like a countdown. Her crimson cloak swayed behind her like a trail of fire.
As they approached the Room of Command, the palace's tempo seemed to shift. Guards grew more silent. Hallways are still.
The towering double doors of iron and dark oak were flanked by two of the Black Knights, their armor obsidian, their faces hidden beneath raven-wing helmets.
One of them opened the door.
Sonya stepped inside.
The Room of Command was a cavernous chamber, round, with a vast obsidian table in the center, shaped like the Empire itself. Small figurines—soldiers, ships, cavalry, and tokens of trade—marked every border. Tactical maps, freshly inked, hung on walls under crystal-glass panels. A chandelier of black glass burned overhead, casting a cruel light.
Seated at the head of the table was Emperor Albrecht von Everhart, silver-haired and silent, his knuckles white against the hilt of his cane. Beside him, in regal green and gold, sat Empress Theodora, her sharp features unreadable, her gaze hawk-like.
To their sides were high ministers, war councillors, and a few vacant chairs—most notably, the Crown Prince's.
Sonya stepped forward, her heels clicking like blades against the stone floor, and bowed just enough to meet protocol—not too deep, never groveling.
"You summoned me, Your Majesty," she said, eyes flickering from her father to her mother.
The Emperor's voice was slow, gravel-thick. "You returned faster than expected."
"I was summoned, was I not?" Sonya responded coolly.
The Empress was the first to smile. It wasn't warm. "Always the one with sharp answers."
Emperor Albrecht waved a hand, and one of the ministers moved a stack of reports aside. "Sit, daughter."
She obeyed, settling into the leather seat like a queen before a war council.
"We have… matters to discuss," the Emperor began, "of foreign presence, political posturing, and your recent correspondence with certain... dangerous allies."
Sonya met his gaze without flinching.
"Prince Mustafa of Arqaban is in the capital," her mother added. "And it seems the young lion is here not merely for diplomacy."
"I've heard the same," Sonya replied.
"Have you also heard," one of the military generals said, "that he's been gifting gold and spices to councilmen? That he asking about you? Your chambers, your schedule?"
Sonya's lips curved faintly. "So he's predictable. Shall we punish him for being obvious?"
The Emperor leaned forward.
"And what of Ravenclaw? You write to a man who has bled our soldiers dry in half a dozen border disputes. A man who sits upon more gold than the state treasury. A man we once branded a traitor."
"He is no friend of Julius," Sonya replied smoothly. "And right now, I am more interested in crippling that viper than pretending Mustafa is some exotic suitor."
The room stirred. A few of the old ministers exchanged glances.
The Empress raised her brows. "So that's your game. You're playing Julius off Mustafa, and Ravenclaw off them both."
"Call it what you will," Sonya said, folding her hands over the table. "But I will not be anyone's pawn."
The Emperor sat back. "Then be careful, daughter. In this game, queens are not immune to capture. Especially when the king is bleeding... and the board itself is cracking."
The map shimmered under the candlelight. The borders of Arqaban flared in red. Julius's territories were marked in shadow. Ravenclaw's lands were sketched in silver.
And Sonya's future... was unwritten.
But she would write it—word by word, dagger by dagger, kiss by kiss.
In the bowels of the old capital, far below the polished marble halls and towering spires of the palace, there lay a forgotten place — a crypt-turned-sanctuary, lined with roots and cold stone, lit only by the dying breath of a few flickering candles. The air was thick, unmoving, as if the world above dared not disturb what lingered here.
There, at a crooked desk carved from bonewood, sat a figure cloaked in layers of tattered silk and velvet blacker than the void. Her fingers — long and pale — moved with delicate grace, penning a letter on parchment dyed in deep bloodred ink. The scratching of the quill echoed through the chamber like whispers from a thousand mouths.
She didn't glance up, even as the shadows around her stirred.
A smile curled across her face — not one of kindness, but something ancient, something bitter and knowing.
"Oh dear Sonya," she whispered, the words carried on a breath so faint it could've been mistaken for the hiss of a snake. "So now… you play games."
The sound of her pen halted. She sat still, listening, as though the air itself was speaking secrets to her.
"You plot, you scheme, you pretend to stand alongside the cunning little fox. How quaint. How adorable."
Her smile widened — not from joy, but from the sheer thrill of the unfolding chaos.
"I gave you the dagger and you chose to dance with it. Will you cut your enemies... or yourself?"
Then, her eyes — oh, those eyes — opened slowly, glowing with a red so deep it devoured the light. It was not the crimson of blood, but something far older, colder, a color only the dead would recognize.
In the silence that followed, a laugh echoed. Soft at first. Then louder.
Then louder.
And louder.
It wasn't human. It wasn't sane.
It reverberated across the ancient stones, seeping into the roots, into the bones of the earth, as if the darkness itself were laughing.