Imperial Capital
Anárion left the throne room at a measured pace, accompanied by his four guards. The dull sound of their boots echoed against the polished marble tiles, a steady and disciplined rhythm that contrasted sharply with the constant bustle of the imperial palace. Courtiers, junior officers, and servants instinctively stepped aside as he passed, lowering their heads or feigning sudden occupation.
Everyone knew that face.Everyone knew that name.
The Ashen Phoenix.
Anárion paid these glances little attention. His mind was elsewhere. He observed his own soldiers marching beside him with an almost inhuman precision.
The Black Númenóreans.
Beneath their heavy, reinforced obsidian armor, they were no longer entirely human. The blood of Númenor—once bearing a greatness even the Elves had respected—had nearly vanished from the world. Dilution, oblivion, intermingling, successive betrayals: all had contributed to the gradual extinction of that exceptional lineage.
But Sauron never forgot what belonged to him.
Through ancient rituals, curses born of the darkest ages, and a form of necromancy refined to a level that even the Valar had once feared, he had recalled his elite soldiers. They were neither dead nor alive. Their flesh was sustained by a will foreign to this world, their minds bound to his by oaths engraved in the deepest core of their essence.
They felt neither fear nor doubt.They knew neither fatigue nor hesitation.
They obeyed.
There was a reason he had once been called the Necromancer.
A feeling of cold pride crossed his mind—not the excessive arrogance of Melkor, but the methodical satisfaction of a craftsman contemplating a successful creation. Yet this success had come at a cost.
A heavy cost.
The resurrection of the Black Númenóreans had consumed a significant portion of the power he had so painstakingly recovered over millennia. His physical vessel, still unstable, bore the marks of it. Beneath the immaculate gloves he wore at all times, a dark mist sometimes seeped from his hands, dispersing almost instantly into the air like unhealthy smoke.
A constant reminder of his condition.
As long as his soul remained incomplete, his powers would remain limited.
The divine source of Melkor, absorbed during the attempted possession, had stabilized his existence. It had given him an anchor, a foothold in reality. But the destruction of the One Ring had inflicted an irreversible wound.
The Ring was not merely an artifact.
It was a fragment of himself.
An essential part of his soul—shaped, bound, anchored in the material world. When the Ring was destroyed, that fragment had scattered, shattered.
Of course, he had tried to recover them.
But the White Council had acted with rare speed and clarity. The fragments had been sealed by ancient magic, then entrusted to a Maia charged with their protection: Yahweh.
Normally, such a method would have sufficed to banish him forever—but fate had decided otherwise.
They did not know one thing: during the attempted possession, Melkor had embedded within Sauron's soul a fragment of his own divine source. A tiny seed, almost imperceptible… yet real. That essence had allowed him to survive what should have been total annihilation.
Once again, his enemies had underestimated him.
They should have cast the seal into the Void, where even an Ainur cannot exist. That mistake—Sauron would never forget it. And he would exploit it.
Yahweh had withdrawn into a sub-dimension shaped according to his ideals: the High Heavens. There, he had welcomed a new race that had emerged in the Fifth Age: the Angels. Few in number, but of remarkable power, they were born from a rigid social structure founded on obedience, justice, and absolute faith in their creator.
They regarded Yahweh as their father.
He had forged their culture, their morality, their conception of good and evil. Under his influence, they had become benevolent beings—protectors, proud of their mission.
But some… were too proud.
The memory of Lucifer crossed Sauron's mind with icy clarity.
Yahweh's favored son. A being whose power nearly rivaled that of a Maia. A brilliant, arrogant spirit, incapable of viewing humans as anything but an imperfect race, unworthy of celestial protection.
Out of love for his creator, Lucifer had long restrained this contempt. But Sauron had recognized the flaw. Through whispers, carefully distorted truths, and seemingly innocent questions, he had slowly nurtured that pride until it became rebellion.
For centuries, Sauron had been unable to act directly upon the world. Yet his influence had spread like a silent shadow. Saruman. Hades. Lucifer. And even Kaguya Ōtsutsuki and her entire lineage.
All had, at one point or another, heard his whispers.
When Lucifer fell into the sub-dimension called Hell, he carried with him the first layer of the seal. From his blood was born a new race: the Demons—beings of passion, wrath, and desire, shaped by fall and resentment.
When Yahweh understood what had occurred, his rage shook the celestial planes themselves. Angels and Demons clashed in a conflict of unimaginable violence. A third faction emerged: the Fallen Angels, those who rejected Yahweh's authority without following Lucifer.
The war devastated everything.
In the end, no faction triumphed.
Yahweh and Lucifer slew one another. The Fallen Angels teetered on the brink of extinction. At last, the survivors signed a peace treaty, and the angelic and demonic factions each swore to protect the fragment of the seal they possessed.
Now, the primary obstacle was gone.
All that remained was to wait.
Sauron could not attack the High Heavens directly. Even without Yahweh, the Angels remained a formidable force. Subtlety was still the best option. As always.
Patience was his favored weapon.
Lost in these thoughts, Anárion continued through the palace until he reached the imperial gardens. There, a familiar presence drew his attention.
Esdeath.
The most powerful woman on the continent.
He gestured for his guards to remain behind and ensure he would not be disturbed. Barely had he taken a few steps when she threw herself against him and kissed him with burning fervor.
The Dark Lord felt nothing.
He was not a young human ruled by instinct. The Ainur could love—but Sauron had not felt such a sentiment since the Age of the Trees.
So why did he seem bound to the Ice Queen?
Simply because it was the perfect way to control her.
Because she was a perfect tool.
Deprived of his most loyal lieutenants, unable to summon Angmar or other major servants, Sauron had sought individuals of exceptional potential. Saeko was one such rare talent.
Esdeath, however, was unique.
When she mastered the Teigu Demon's Extract, he understood. All other bearers had succumbed to madness or been consumed by its power. She had not. She had tamed a force he had believed inaccessible to a human.
For a long time, he searched for a way to bring her into his service. Most humans were drawn to simple things: wealth, power, lust… But the woman this nation considered the most terrifying being on the continent pursued an ideal many deemed pure—she sought someone who would love her for what she was.
After many encounters, several duels, and subtle influence upon her mind, the Ice Queen succumbed to the charm of the Dark Lord. Until Angmar returned to his service, she would command his armies.
Breaking the kiss, Anárion gently lifted her chin.
"Too much affection would draw attention. Honest must not discover the truth about us, must he?"
"Tch. No one would dare spy on us. And if anyone tried, they'd end up impaled on a spear of ice."
It was obvious that anyone who challenged the Ice Queen and the Ashen Phoenix would not live long. She tried to kiss him again, but his palm pressed lightly against her lips.
"Work before pleasure."
She obeyed, mildly irritated.
"What orders did Honest give you?"
"Now that you're protecting the Capital, Honest wants to send me to exterminate the western tribes. That fool acts without thinking—your frontier base is only five days' march from those savages, yet he chose to recall you here and send me in your place."
Anárion understood at once.
He considered the information she had given him. It took him less than a minute to grasp the Prime Minister's plan.
"It seems Honest is trying to eliminate a few troublesome rats."
"What do you mean?" the beautiful woman asked.
"Even if I've returned to protect the Capital, everyone knows I must remain near the outer walls at all times to coordinate the legions in case of an attack. If you depart for the West, the palace will be deprived of one of its most powerful protectors. That will inevitably attract Night Raid."
Far from foolish, Esdeath quickly understood as well.
"So those assassins might seize the opportunity to try to eliminate Honest or the Emperor."
"Exactly. Honest is an intelligent man and knows the risks of sending you away from the palace. I believe he is acting deliberately, intending to eliminate Night Raid using his son and Budo."
Feeling her bloodlust rise, Esdeath asked,"Should we intervene in this conspiracy? I have scores to settle with Night Raid for what they did to my Jaegers."
"Patience. Let our enemies slaughter one another, and we will finish them when they are already on the ground. This is only the beginning of a far greater conflict—one with stakes far beyond a single empire," Anárion replied.
Esdeath's usually azure eyes ignited at the prospect of the coming battles.
Yes… the moment was approaching when her thirst for conquest would finally be satisfied.