The moon hung high in the velvety expanse of the summer night sky, a cold, indifferent orb amidst the twinkling, pinprick stars. Five figures, cloaked in shadow, slipped with the silent grace of specters through the palace gates, their movements fluid and practiced. They crept along the deserted, echoing halls, their forms melting into the deeper pockets of darkness, expertly evading the patrolling guards with an ease born of ruthless efficiency.
Each held a gleaming, wickedly sharp weapon, its polished surface absorbing the meager moonlight, and their faces, obscured by dark cloth, betrayed no emotion. Soon, with a chilling certainty, they found where their target slept, a vulnerable point in the heart of the formidable Imperial residence.
In a large, opulent bedroom, bathed in the cool, silver glow that seeped through the expansive, arched glass windows, a man lay deeply in slumber. His black hair, long and silken, fanned across the pristine white pillows, contrasting sharply with the pale skin of his face. His eyes were closed, revealing the elegant curve of his long, dark lashes against his high cheekbones, lending him a deceptive air of serene vulnerability. He was clad in a long black sleeping robe, its silken fabric falling open slightly at the chest, subtly revealing the chiseled contours of his abdomen. By his bedside, within easy reach, lay a gleaming katana, its hilt intricate and dark.
For a few tense moments, the assassins remained frozen, their breaths held, each silently drinking in the sight of him, his striking looks a momentary distraction from their grim purpose.
One assassin, the most daring, quickly lunged forward, his hand snatching the katana from the bedside table with a soft thwip that seemed to snap the others out of their trance. With synchronized precision, they all leaped, their blades catching the moonlight, ready to descend upon their unsuspecting prey.
And then, in a single, fluid motion that defied the very laws of sleep, the target's eyes flew open. They were not the soft, human eyes of a slumbering man, but twin pools of pulsating blood-red, devoid of warmth, brimming with ancient power and immediate, lethal intent.
Before the first assassin's blade could complete its arc, the man moved. He erupted from the bed with a raw, savage power, his body a blur of motion. A bone-jarring crack echoed in the silent chamber as he easily, almost casually, broke the first assassin's arm, his grip like iron. As the man crumpled with a stifled cry, the figure swiftly disarmed him, snatching the falling sword even as his gaze darted to where his own katana was now being wielded by another assailant.
He met the second assassin, the one with his katana, with a terrifying, almost supernatural speed. Their blades clashed, a screech of steel on steel that sent sparks dancing in the moonlight. The man moved with brutal grace, a whirlwind of controlled violence.
He parried a thrust with effortless precision, then spun, his stolen sword a lethal extension of his will. The assassin barely had time to register the cold kiss of steel before the blade sliced through his torso, a sickening thud preceding the gush of crimson that stained the pristine carpet. The body fell, lifeless.
The third assassin, lunging from the side, aimed a dagger at the man's exposed back, but the figure seemed to possess eyes in the back of his head. He twisted, a snarl pulling at his lips, and caught the assassin's wrist. There was another sickening crack as bones shattered, and the man, without breaking stride, drove his knee into the assassin's gut, forcing a strangled gasp. With a vicious grunt, he yanked the dagger free from the man's limp hand and, with a swift, merciless thrust, plunged it into the assassin's throat, silencing his gurgle of pain as blood bubbled forth.
The remaining two, seeing the swift, merciless demise of their comrades, exchanged a desperate, fleeting glance. They lunged simultaneously, a desperate, pincer attack. The man met the first with a brutal kick to the chest that sent him sprawling back against the ornate wall, a gasp of agony escaping his lips.
As the second, more cautious assassin, tried to flank him, he spun, his long black robe swirling around him like a shroud. He moved with a predatory stillness, his eyes fixed on his opponent. He blocked a sweeping strike from a broadsword with his newly acquired blade, the force of the impact vibrating through his arm, but he held firm. T
hen, with a flicker of movement too fast for the human eye, he disarmed the assassin, sending the heavy sword clattering to the floor. Before the assassin could even register the loss, the man seized him by the throat, his fingers like steel bands. He lifted the man effortlessly, his feet dangling uselessly in the air, a silent, choking plea in his eyes. With a final, terrifying squeeze, he snapped his neck, the limp body dropping to the floor with a dull thud.
The first assassin, who had been thrown against the wall, managed a weak groan, attempting to push himself up, his broken arm dangling uselessly. The man turned, his blood-red eyes gleaming in the moonlight, a feral satisfaction flickering in their depths. Without a word, he strode over, and with a swift, decisive stomp, crushed the man's head against the marble floor, a gruesome sound echoing in the now silent room.
Suddenly, the heavy oak doors to the chamber burst open with a resounding crash, and a dozen Imperial Guards, fully armored and armed, rushed in, their faces etched with a mixture of frantic urgency and grim determination.
They had expected to find a scene of chaos, perhaps even their sovereign wounded, but what they saw froze them in their tracks: five lifeless, bloodied forms sprawled across the luxurious carpets, and standing amidst the carnage, utterly unscathed, was the victor, the man himself, Emperor Emris Ravenswood, his chest lightly heaving from the exertion, the stolen sword still gripped loosely in his hand, a thin trail of crimson marring its polished surface.
A tense silence permeated the room, broken only by the rapid, shallow breaths of the stunned guards. Emris, his gaze sweeping over the scene with an almost bored disdain, finally turned his blood-red eyes towards them. His voice, when he spoke, was a cold, sharp blade, cutting through the heavy air.
"I expected you to arrive much later," Emperor Emris Ravenswood stated, his tone devoid of any emotion, his gaze lingering on their petrified faces. "A commendable effort, I suppose. Good job for arriving two minutes early." T
he guards, in the throes of utter shock at being so directly addressed, and by the sheer, terrifying presence of their Emperor, quickly fell to their knees, their armored forms hitting the ground with a synchronized thud. They bowed low, touching their foreheads to the blood-stained carpet, trembling like mortals prostrating themselves before an angry god, their voices a unified, desperate chant of apologies, a litany of "Your Imperial Majesty, forgive us! We failed!" rising in the hushed chamber.
Emris merely rolled his eyes, a flicker of utter annoyance crossing his features, as if their terror and apologies were a trivial inconvenience. He glanced at the dead assassins, their bodies now little more than discarded rags.
"I need this all cleaned up," he stated dryly, his voice flat, "and someone needs to investigate this, thoroughly. Find out who sent them, who aided them. I want names. And of course," he added, a dark, chilling smile slowly curving his lips, revealing just a hint of teeth, "someone needs to significantly tighten palace security. I do not appreciate such... sloppiness."
The last words, laced with an unspoken threat, sent a profound chill down the guards' spines, each man wondering if they were about to meet their own bloody end this very night for their perceived failure.
❛ ━━━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜
Soon, the relentless descent of the moon gave way to the quiet emergence of dawn, its pale light gradually pushing back the remnants of night. The sun then rose high, gleaming with a brilliant, indifferent splendor upon the waking world.
Not that Odeliah, however, knew anything about the gleaming of the sun, or the gentle awakening of the day. Her curtains, thick and heavy, were tightly shut, drawn against any intrusion of light, plunging her room into a perpetual twilight, cold and somber. She was hiding under her blankets yet again, a fragile, self-imposed prisoner, deliberately hidden from the world outside her four walls.
She had been in her room for an interminable three months now, a voluntary hermit, not daring to venture outside, anywhere beyond the confines of her self-imposed exile. She spent her days cooped up within her solitary chamber, listlessly turning the pages of old novels, their words blurring into meaningless patterns, and eating barely enough to sustain herself, her once vibrant spirit now a dim ember.
It had been precisely three months.
Three long, agonizing months since her engagement with Cedric had so abruptly and publicly ended, and Amorette's, with audacious speed, had begun. There were now only two short months remaining until Amorette and Cedric were to be married, a date that loomed like a dark, inevitable cloud on Odeliah's desolate horizon.
At first, their father had been predictably outraged by the scandalous turn of events, his initial fury echoing through the manor halls. But his anger, fierce as it was, quickly subsided, their objections melting away when they heard the chilling, irrefutable news: Amorette and Cedric had received the personal blessing of the Emperor himself.
And in Belamour, no one, absolutely no one, dared to cross Emris Ravenswood.
Sometimes, in the quiet, suffocating solitude of her room, Odeliah's heart would ache with a bitter, simmering anger when she heard of this development—that he, the ruthless, terrifying Emperor, had not only approved, but blessed their union. She wished, with a fervent, desperate longing, that he had been in one of his infamous foul moods that day, that he had cut down the lovesick duo with a single, contemptuous gesture, rather than gracing them with an honor he had bestowed upon no one else in living memory.
Knock. Knock.
The soft, insistent rap against her door roused Odeliah from her morbid reverie. "Come in," she murmured, her voice hoarse from disuse, a vague weariness lacing her tone.
But the words had barely left her lips when a surge of immediate, sharp regret washed over her as she saw the figure who entered: Amorette, her younger sister, all of twenty years old, standing poised in the doorway.
Lush white hair, styled with an effortless grace that seemed to mock Odeliah's own disheveled state, cascaded around a face framed by soft, kind pale purple eyes that held a deceptive innocence, set against skin as pale and delicate as porcelain. Amorette was a striking, almost haunting image of their late mother, a mirror of the woman who had so captivated their father. It was probably why Father had always cherished Amorette so profoundly, why Odeliah had always, invariably, been second-best.
Amorette had always been showered with the greatest gifts, wrapped in the silken blankets of adoration, cherished, and meticulously protected from any hint of hardship. And Odeliah remembered, with a searing clarity, how Amorette would watch Odeliah's harsh, often cruel lessons, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching her lips as she witnessed the pain Odeliah endured.
They were not close.
They were, in truth, worlds apart, separated by a chasm of unspoken resentments and bitter rivalries.
Always had they fought for Father's fleeting attention, a silent, relentless war for his affections, and always, invariably, Amorette had won. Always Amorette, with her guileless charm and soft eyes, had managed to steal away Odeliah's few precious gifts, tarnishing her rare victories as much as she possibly could. The only truly significant victory Odeliah had ever claimed, the only undisputed prize, was being the fiancée of Cedric Harper, the illustrious Grand Duke's heir.
Well, until now.
Amorette, with her cunning manipulations and her innocent facade, had stolen away Cedric, too. Yet another glittering trophy to add to her already overflowing shelf of conquests, another bitter loss for Odeliah.
Odeliah suspected, with a cold, analytical certainty, that Amorette harbored no genuine love for Cedric. It was all a calculated ruse, a meticulously orchestrated play to gain an unassailable upper hand on Odeliah, to utterly demolish her, to finally and irrevocably usurp her position.
Then Amorette spoke, her voice soft and melodious, imbued with an almost saccharine sweetness. "Odeliah, my dearest sister," she began, taking a few delicate steps into the dim room, her hands clasped demurely before her, "are you truly quite well? You have been sequestered away for so long now, and everyone worries. Papa especially."
Her words were laced with a practiced concern, a velvety soft tone that grated on Odeliah's frayed nerves. "Mother often said that the greatest beauty is found in solitude, but even she cherished the occasional company, the soft murmur of conversation." She paused, her pale purple eyes sweeping over the disarray of Odeliah's room, a subtle flicker of something akin to pity, or perhaps disdain, crossing her features. "You look... so tired, sister. The light of the world seems to have dimmed for you, does it not?"
Odeliah scoffed, a dry, humorless sound that was utterly out of place for a lady of her breeding. She didn't bother to lift herself from beneath the blankets.
"Well? Do you truly believe, Amorette, that I am well? Or rather, do you truly believe that I am so utterly foolish as to think you genuinely care?" Her voice, though muffled by the blankets, held a raw, cutting edge. The calmness she had so painstakingly cultivated for a lifetime, the composure that had been her shield, was utterly gone, shattered beyond repair. "You stand there, feigning concern, with that saccharine smile, when you know perfectly well the agony I have endured! Do you remember, little sister, the endless hours? The tutors, their faces contorted with disapproval, their voices sharp as whips, smacking my wrists with their wooden rulers, yelling at me for a single misplaced word, for a historical date forgotten? Do you remember standing there, sweet and innocent, your eyes wide with feigned sympathy, while I was chastised, humiliated, abused? All of it, Amorette, all of it for him! For Cedric! For the promise of a future that has now been so casually, so cruelly, snatched away by your greedy, grasping hands!"
She pushed herself up, suddenly, violently, her white hair a wild, disheveled cloud around her pale face, her green eyes blazing with a fierce, untamed anger.
"You speak of happiness, but what do you know of gilded cages? You will live in a gilded cage, Amorette," Odeliah continued, her voice rising to a fever pitch, each word a hammer blow, "always watched, always scrutinized, your every move dictated by the invisible strings of expectation and duty, just as mine was! You think you have won freedom, but you have merely exchanged one form of servitude for another, albeit one wrapped in velvet and adorned with jewels! You will learn, dearest sister, that the weight of society's expectations, the constant need to present a flawless facade, is a burden far heavier than any beating stick! You will be a trophy, a pretty ornament, paraded for the world to see, and you will learn the bitter taste of a life lived for others, never for yourself!"
Her eyes, narrowed to dangerous slits, fixed on Amorette's unmoving face. "Do you truly believe you will be happy, surrounded by the whispers and jealousies of court, forever striving to maintain a perfection that drains the very life from you? You, who have never had to truly work for anything, will crumble beneath that pressure."
Amorette's soft expression faltered for the barest moment, a flicker of something unreadable in her pale eyes, before her composure snapped back into place.
"You are merely bitter, Odeliah," she murmured, her voice still smooth, but with an underlying edge of steel. "You speak of cages because you were never truly free, even within your own mind. I, however, will embrace my position. I will thrive where you withered. And Cedric, unlike you, understands the true nature of love, the kind that blossoms freely, unburdened by archaic arrangements."
Odeliah laughed, a harsh, grating sound that held no mirth. "Love? You speak of love, you who saw my suffering and did nothing but smile? You, who coveted what was mine simply because it was mine, not because you desired it for itself? Your love for Cedric is as flimsy as the spring breeze, a convenient pretense to elevate yourself. Do you think I don't see through you? Do you truly believe he would have looked at you had I not been discarded first? You are merely a consolation prize, a lesser substitute, and a means to an end for both of you!"
She leaned forward, her eyes blazing with a cold fury. "I know, Amorette, you are utterly thrilled that I am a hermit now. You revel in my disgrace. You will be absolutely delighted if Father, in his desperation, marries me off to some decrepit, old marquess in the countryside, simply because I've gone quite mad, quite senile, trapped within these four walls, driven to despair by your triumph."
Her smile widened, devoid of mirth, chilling in its intensity. "Go on, then, little sister. Spread the rumors. Tell everyone that Odeliah Luciano, the once-perfect Lady, has finally lost her mind. Tell them I rave, that I speak in riddles, that I am utterly unfit for polite society, a broken, useless thing. Tell them I shall join the ranks of the madwomen in the hidden towers, for it is a fate you would undoubtedly cheer."
Amorette, who had listened to Odeliah's furious tirade with an unblinking, almost serene expression, finally allowed her own smile to widen. It was not the soft, kind smile she showed the world, but a cold, calculating curve of her lips, her pale purple eyes hardening, losing their deceptive warmth. All pretense of sisterly concern vanished, replaced by a pure, unadulterated gloating.
She took another slow, deliberate step towards the bed, her voice dropping to a low, chilling whisper, a conspiratorial intimacy that belied the venom in her words.
"You are quite right, Odeliah," Amorette murmured, her voice like silk, "I am glad. Truly, utterly glad. For years, I watched you, the perfect one, the chosen one, receiving all the praise, all the attention, while I stood in your shadow, dismissed, overlooked. But now... now it is my time to shine. And yes," her smile sharpened, becoming a cruel, predatory grin, "I'm so very glad I've stolen everything you have, sister. Every single, precious thing. And there is nothing you can do about it."
With those chilling words hanging in the air like poison, like a final, victorious blow, she turned, her movements as graceful and unhurried as ever, and glided silently from the room, leaving Odeliah utterly alone in the suffocating twilight.
When Amorette left, the last vestige of Odeliah's fury drained away, replaced by a profound, desolate emptiness. Tears, hot and silent, began to course down her pale cheeks, not a loud, ragged sobbing, but a quiet, steady stream, a testament to a grief too deep for noisy lamentation. She sank onto her bed, her limbs weak, her disheveled white hair fanned around her, the cold comfort of the blankets now seeming mocking.
She was free from the gilded cage, truly free in a way she had never been before. But that cage, however confining and painful, had been her entire life, her singular purpose, her only identity.
And now, without it, she was utterly, devastatingly, lost.