The moon hung like a silver dagger over the capital, its pale light casting long, spectral shadows across the noble estates. Within the black-stone walls of the Emerald Keep, a different kind of weapon was being forged—not of steel, but of ambition, fear, and control.
Kael Ardyn, now Duke of Ravenmire, sat at the head of a table carved from obsidian and inlaid with runes of old dynasties—long dead, yet watching.
Before him were the highest lords and ladies of the empire.
Each cloaked in silk, each hiding fangs behind jeweled smiles.
And Kael, calm as ever, was the blade pressed to their throats.
A servant poured Draeven wine into Kael's chalice—an insult to some at the table, for that vintage was only poured for monarchs and blood-born lords. Kael sipped it with casual indifference.
To his left, Marquis Veylan, the merchant prince whose coin ran half the guilds. Greedy. Predictable.
To his right, Countess Lysara, the court widow with poisoned lips and three dead husbands.
Across from him, Duke Raenholt—an old warhound, armor beneath his velvet, eyes that had seen too many corpses and too few victories.
Tension clung to the air like mist over a battlefield.
Kael didn't speak immediately. He let silence weigh on them—make them squirm.
Then, with a relaxed smile: "I assume you've all heard the rumors."
Veylan chuckled. "Rumors? That you seduced the Princess? Or that you slit the Hero's throat with words instead of a blade? Yes, Duke Ardyn, the court buzzes."
Lysara tilted her head. "And yet you sit here. Untouched. Unburned. Remarkable."
Kael set his chalice down. "Rumors are the currency of the weak. I deal in truths."
The air shifted.
"I did not inherit this seat. I claimed it. You may despise that—but deep down, you respect it."
Raenholt sneered. "You mistake fear for respect, boy."
Kael met his gaze—unflinching. "Then perhaps you've forgotten the difference."
The chamber doors groaned open. A soldier stepped in, kneeling before Kael.
"Milord. Urgent word from the capital."
Kael nodded. "Speak."
"Sir Aldric—the Hero—dueled a commoner in the lower districts today. He lost."
A sharp inhale rippled through the nobles like a cold wind.
Raenholt straightened. "That's impossible."
The soldier continued. "Crowds witnessed it. The commoner was untrained, but fast. Aldric fought recklessly—some say desperately. The people now mock him. Some say the gods have turned their backs."
Lysara's eyes sparkled with curiosity. "A tarnished Hero. How... fragile symbols can be."
Kael reclined in his seat, lips brushing his goblet. "Faith built on illusion collapses faster than stone."
Raenholt slammed his fist on the table. "You orchestrated this. He was the Empire's sword."
Kael didn't flinch. "Then it was a dull sword. And this kingdom needs more than rusted legends. It needs evolution."
The room fell into a heavy silence.
Kael looked around, voice calm—deadly. "The world is changing. I offer you all a place in what comes next. Choose wisely. I will not offer twice."
As the council began to dissolve—some shaken, some tempted—a final interruption came.
A messenger in imperial garb, bearing a scroll sealed in gold.
Kael took it, unfurled the parchment, and read silently.
The Grand Imperial Banquet.
An event reserved only for the chosen—where empires whispered, and dynasties bled behind smiles.
He folded the scroll, slid it beside his goblet, and rose.
"I trust we're done here," he said, already turning.
Veylan stood, cautiously. "You're going, then? To the banquet?"
Kael paused at the door, casting a shadow longer than the throne itself.
"I'm not going to attend," he said.
"I'm going to conquer."
And then he vanished into the hall—leaving behind lords and ladies who realized, too late, that a storm wasn't coming.
It was already here.
To be continued…