Chapter 1: The Execution of an Empress
Rain fell in sheets, soaking the cobbled streets of the Imperial Square, turning dust into thick pools of mud. The air was heavy with the scent of wet stone and burning incense, the low murmurs of the gathered crowd blending into the distant toll of the cathedral bells.
Seraphina knelt on the execution platform, her once-glorious gown reduced to tattered silk, its crimson embroidery now indistinguishable from the blood on her skin. Her wrists bore deep bruises from the iron chains, her ankles raw where the shackles had dug in.
Yet, her back remained straight. Her chin held high.
She would not kneel like a common traitor.
She was still an Empress.
Lightning slashed across the sky, illuminating the towering figure standing at the foot of the platform. Kaelith.
Her husband.
The man she had crowned, the man she had trusted, the man who had whispered sweet promises in the dead of night—now the man who had condemned her to die.
The emerald eyes she had once drowned in held nothing for her now. No sorrow. No hesitation. Only cold, calculating silence.
"Seraphina Delyth Valeria," the High Priest's voice rang through the downpour, sharp and unyielding. "You have been found guilty of treason, conspiracy against the throne, and the use of forbidden magic. The punishment is death."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Seraphina exhaled slowly, her fingers curling into fists.
She could feel their eyes on her—the nobles who had once pledged loyalty, the soldiers who had once served at her command. Some looked away in shame. Others watched hungrily, waiting to see an Empress fall.
A sharp laugh built in her throat.
Treason?
She had given everything for this empire. She had bled for it, fought for it, shaped it into something powerful. And this was how it repaid her?
Kaelith stepped forward, his voice as smooth and unshaken as ever. "Do you have any last words, Seraphina?"
She lifted her gaze to him, her lips curving into a smirk—mocking, fearless, unbroken.
"You should have killed me sooner."
A flicker of something passed through his eyes. Then, it was gone.
The executioner approached, his face hidden behind a silver mask, his gloved hands gripping the Blade of Judgment—a sword engraved with ancient runes, said to sever the soul from the body.
She did not flinch.
She did not beg.
She was Seraphina Delyth Valeria, and she would not die a coward.
As the blade descended, the sigil on her wrist burned.
A crimson glow erupted from her skin, spirals of ancient magic writhing like fire. The air crackled, and for the first time, fear flashed in the High Priest's eyes.
The storm above raged louder.
Then, just before the blade met her throat—
A whisper, soft as a breath, curled through the air.
"This is not the end."
The magic surged.
And Seraphina Delyth Valeria vanished.