The Empire of Veynar sprawled like a jeweled beast across fertile valleys and jagged mountains, its marble cities rising proud against the sky.
From the east, its banners could be seen fluttering crimson and silver, stitched with the double-headed falcon that marked both dominion and destiny.
Farmers in the fields bowed when patrols passed; merchants weighed their coins against the stability of imperial law; and noble lords feasted beneath vaulted ceilings, secure under the watchful shadow of the Emperor's will.
But beneath the grandeur, whispers traveled like smoke in alleys and taverns.
Far from the palace's golden halls, in a quiet courtyard nestled between ivy-covered stone, General Rynold Dareth tended to his garden.
The man was a legend once, the Iron Fang of the southern campaigns, his name sung in barracks and feared by foreign kings.
But now, in his age of retreat, he wore no armor.
His tunic was plain, his scarred arms bare, hands soiled from earth instead of blood.
He crouched low by the rosebushes, pruning carefully, murmuring to the plants as though they were old comrades.
The courtyard smelled of wet soil and lavender. A clay watering pot sat by his knee, the late morning sun painting faint warmth across the weathered lines of his face.
Rynold breathed deep, savoring the ordinary peace.
It did not last.
Boots struck the stone path with sharp purpose.
Rynold did not look up immediately; he knew the rhythm of military steps, and peace seldom survived their arrival.
He plucked a single dead petal, dropped it gently, then rose to his full, daunting height.
A young soldier in the gray-and-crimson of the Emperor's personal guard stood rigidly, helm tucked under his arm.
His face was tight, pale from carrying ill news.
He saluted sharply.
"General Dareth," he began, voice clipped with formality.
Rynold's brow furrowed. "Speak it plain, lad. You look as if you've seen a ghost."
The soldier's throat bobbed. "It's about General Caelen."
At the name, the old general stilled.
His hand lingered on the shears, knuckles whitening. Slowly, he set them down on the stone ledge.
"Go on."
The soldier hesitated, as though weighing the weight of each word. "He… defied orders during the extermination campaign. He turned on his own men, struck them down, and fled. The Emperor has declared him traitor to crown and country. Every banner of the Empire now hunts him."
The garden fell quiet. Even the birds seemed to still their song.
Rynold's eyes, gray as weathered steel, closed for a long breath.
In that silence, the soldier dared glance at him, half expecting a roar, a curse, an eruption of fury.
Instead, the general only exhaled, slow and heavy, as though he had carried the possibility of this moment in his chest for years.
"I see," Rynold said at last, voice rough.
The soldier shifted, uncertain. "General… the Emperor demands your presence. Immediately. He wishes to discuss your former protégé."
The old man's jaw clenched. "Former," he echoed, bitter on his tongue.
He bent, picked up the watering pot, and poured its contents carefully over the roots of a withering rose.
Water trickled down, darkening the soil, glistening in the light.
His movements were measured, deliberate, but his silence stretched taut as a drawn bow.
The soldier dared to add: "Sir… if I may—people are saying it was madness. That he lost his mind. Others whisper of sorcery, of corruption. Do you believe it?"
Rynold's gaze snapped up, hard as a blade's edge.
The boy flinched.
"How would i know," the general said, low and heavy. "You didn't watch him grow, didn't see the fire in his eyes when he was still a boy too small for the blade he carried. You didn't hear him swear, with bleeding palms, that he would become the shield of this Empire. I raised him like a son, soldier. And if he's betrayed us now…" His voice cracked like splintered wood, just once, before he forced steel back into it. "…then may the gods damn me as much as him for failing to turn him straight."
The soldier swallowed, bowing his head. "Forgive me, sir. I didn't mean—"
Rynold waved him off with a stiff hand, turning his back.
His broad shoulders seemed smaller somehow, bowed under invisible weight.
He stared at the roses, their fragile beauty, the way they bloomed bright despite thorns.
His lips pressed tight as memory clawed unbidden: a younger Caelen, boyish, wild-haired, sparring in the training yard until dusk.
The laughter when he triumphed, the stubborn scowl when he lost. Rynold had thought—hoped—that discipline would shape that raw fire into something unbreakable.
Instead, it had broken differently.
At length, Rynold muttered, not to the soldier, but to the flowers at his feet: "Caelen… what have you done?"
The soldier shifted uncomfortably. "Shall I ready your escort, General?"
Rynold straightened, towering once more, the soldier's question hardening the lines of his face.
He reached for his cloak draped over the bench, swung it across his shoulders. When he turned, his expression was carved from stone.
"Yes," he said. "The Emperor waits for no man."
But as he strode past, his hand brushed one of the roses, its thorn nicking his finger.
A bead of blood welled, bright red against weathered skin.
He did not flinch.
Instead, he closed his fist, hiding the sting, and walked on with heavy steps, the soldier trailing in his wake.
The garden, left behind, grew silent once more—save for the whisper of petals stirred by wind, as if mourning in his stead.