Since Ash and Nia's departure, the Solace Kingdom had decayed from within faster than any invading army could manage. In just five days, pride had soured into sheer panic.
King Caelum stood alone in the royal bedchamber, the air still scented with jasmine and betrayal, veins throbbing at his temples. The silk sheets lay twisted exactly as Lyssandra had left them that last night—he'd thought he owned her, but now her perfume hung heavy, sharp, and mockingly.
On the floor lay the shattered remains of the delicate silver wrist-collar he had once clasped around her throat. Beneath a jagged fragment rested a scrap of black cloth, crimson ink still fresh enough to glisten.
'Dear Bastard.
Wash Your Neck, Cause I'm Back
Love… or more like, hate to love
Sandra~'
Golden flames burst from Caelum's palms without warning, consuming fabric and speech in a single, furious instant, leaving only a soft drift of grey ash across the marble.
"This bitch!" he shouted, the force of it shattering crystal chandeliers and sending servants scattering in the halls beyond. His boots slammed against the floor, spiderwebbing the stone as he stormed away.
----
Meanwhile, in a kingdom that had forgotten the sun's face, a lone figure drifted through streets bathed in bruised violet twilight.
Ebonreach existed beneath a sky of perpetual storm, black clouds so low they scraped the spires, threaded with slow veins of violet lightning that never quite struck the ground. Polished obsidian pavement reflected the sickly green witch-fire that hissed in iron braziers instead of honest torches, every flame cold and hungry.
Buildings rose like broken blades of night glass and bone-white stone, windows glowing emerald with light that hurt to look at directly.
Citizens moved in total silence, cloaks of midnight wool brushing the ground, eyes fixed on nothing, because looking up too long invited questions no one survived answering. Above everything clawed the palace, one colossal shard of obsidian carved into a fortress.
A tall man, six-foot-two, with neck-length black hair framing golden eyes, moved through the crowd as if the shadows bent away for him.
At the inner gates, massive slabs of black steel etched with screaming faces that seemed to shift when unseen loomed above, and the guards dropped to their knees the moment he lowered his hood slightly.
Recognition cut sharper than any command. He walked on into halls where crimson and black banners hung like flayed hides.
At the threshold of the war council stood a woman in charcoal silk robes, silver runes shifting if you looked too long.
Her long white hair was braided close to her scalp, smoked-glass spectacles perched on her nose, lips painted deep crimson, a thin iron circlet marking her as the Royal Archivist.
In her gloved hands, she held a polished bone tablet carved with glowing violet script.
"Is everyone here?" the man asked, already pushing at the ebony doors.
"Yes, my liege," she replied, her voice sharp and cold as frost on steel. "The Twelve are seated. We've been ready to march since the day Ebonreach was born."
He paused, pinched her cheek with lazy affection. "Oh, Mia, you know better than to call me that. The King is the King. I'm just a mere advisor."
Then he pushed the doors wide and stepped inside, cloak sliding from his shoulders to pool on the floor like spilled shadow. Twelve figures turned as one.
At the far end, on a throne of black iron laced with the bones of dead monarchs, sat a mountain in spiked armor, beard braided with rings torn from conquered kings.
"Advisor Aster," the King rumbled, voice grinding stone against stone. "You're mightily late."
"My apologies," Aster said, golden eyes glinting as he took his seat at the King's right hand, the faint curve of his lips like a serpent tasting the air. "I was delayed by matters concerning the Kingdom."
The King leaned forward, knuckles popping against the armrest.
"For seven years we have waited, bled, and honed our blades in shadow. Now the world of Elaris will know what true power lies beneath these clouds. We march north, straight through the land's soft belly, and we stop only when every crown bows or burns."
Aster listened, head slightly tilted, thoughts stacking like cards in a deck only he could see. North meant Solace first, then the trade cities, then the Voss Dominion itself.
Predictable and sloppy.
"That's not a good idea," Aster said.
All eyes turned to him. The King's brow knit together like storm clouds colliding.
"If we keep going that way, we'll run into the Voss Kingdom," Aster went on, his tone calm, almost bored. "It's bound to happen."
"So what?" growled a scarred general, slamming his fist on the table. "Ebonreach doesn't fear those bastards."
Aster shook his head, the smile never reaching his eyes.
'I really can't stand thick-headed fools,' he thought before speaking.
"I've been watching the Voss Kingdom for a while now—more specifically, Kale Voss. The first SSS-rank talent in recorded history. I've tracked his movements, his trail… and it's strange. Far too strange."
He let the silence linger just long enough for discomfort to take root.
"Three kingdoms in six months. No war, no siege, no contests of strength. It's like he walks in and the crowns change hands before nightfall. And not just that… Kings visit the Voss palace days, sometimes weeks, before their own thrones are vacated," he said.
'Tsk, even that useless father of mine went,' he thought, as the room grew so quiet the witch-fire beyond the windows sounded like screams.
"Your insight has yet to fail us," the puppet king grunted at last, leaning back. "You're valuable to my regime for a reason. I trust your word."
Aster inclined his head, the image of humble gratitude.
Within the mirrored palace of his mind, the snake smiled wide enough to swallow the world.
'Ahh, once the final pieces fall into place… I'll be the one who wins it all~'