The war horns of Varethys, raw and primal, tore through the fragile peace of dawn, each blast a splinter of sound driven deep into the heart of the capital. They were the sound of inevitable ruin, echoing off the jade-tiled roofs and white marble towers of Jadeon, shaking the very foundations of the Imperial Sanctum.
Magna stood exposed on the balcony of the Imperial Sanctum, the morning wind, surprisingly biting for a Xianthosi dawn, whipping strands of her seafoam-blue hair across her face. She was clad in a simple, dark teal silk gown, its lack of ornamentation a stark contrast to the flowing, multi-layered finery usually found within these palace walls. The silk felt thin, insufficient against the chill that seemed to emanate not from the air, but from the burgeoning dread in her soul. Her soft, wide-set grey eyes, usually so serene they could calm a storm, were now shadowed with a profound despair, and a delicate smattering of freckles, like scattered stardust, dusted the bridge of her nose.
Below, the vast expanse of the Scarlet Plains, usually a vibrant tapestry of farmed terraces and blooming fields, churned into a maelstrom of steel and blood. From her elevated vantage, she watched the armies of three kingdoms clash – Xianthos' crimson banners, emblazoned with the coiled dragon, snapped defiantly in the wind, their disciplined phalanxes holding the line. To their flanks, Kazaroth's golden falcons wheeled overhead, a whirlwind of horsemen and archers. And now, crashing against the outermost defenses like a vengeful tide, cutting a swath through the green and gold, came the storm-gray forces of her homeland, Varethys, their longships beached on the riverbanks, their warriors surging forward with axe and shield.
He came.
Her father. King Valerius. He had sworn on her mother's memory, on the sacred waters of Haelmora, he wouldn't. Not like this. Not here.
"You should be inside." Lucien's voice, smooth as Ember-Jade yet edged with steel, came from directly behind her. He wore a practical, deep blue tunic over dark trousers, the rich fabric unadorned, devoid of the intricate embroidery and jade jewels of his formal attire. His long, black hair was pulled back simply, revealing the sharpness of his jawline. His amber-brown eyes, sharp and intelligent, reflected the rising sun and the distant glint of battle, yet remained unreadable. His hand closed around her wrist—the touch that for five years had made her pulse quicken, that had once promised warmth, now felt like a shackle, cold and unyielding.
Magna wrenched free, her movement sharp, desperate. "You knew this would happen."
"I knew your father would break his word. Just as I knew you'd stand here watching for him." His voice was devoid of emotion, a flat statement of fact.
The accusation stung, twisting the nascent hope within her. "You gave him no choice, Lucien! Your blockade starved our ports! Your soldiers—"
"A king always has choices, Magna." He stepped closer, his shadow falling over her, eclipsing the dawn. "He chose war the moment he sent you here as his 'gift'."
Magna spun to face him, the fury in her gaze battling the tears that threatened to well. "I came as a bride! A queen!"
"Did you?" His fingers, long and elegant, traced the Storm-Onyx pendant at her throat—the one piece of home she refused to remove, a constant, cool weight against her skin. "When you paint your seascapes at midnight, do you dream of Haelmora's rugged shores? When you walk these manicured gardens, do you measure each step back to your ship, back to the life you supposedly left behind?"
Her breath hitched. "I loved you," she whispered, the words ragged, tasting of ash. "For five years, I was your queen. Your wife. Did any of it... did I... mean anything to you at all?" The raw vulnerability in her voice was almost painful to hear, even for her own ears. "The quiet evenings, the laughter, the plans we made... was it all a pretense? A calculated act?"
Lucien's expression remained perfectly still, his eyes like polished amber-brown stones. "Magna," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, devoid of comfort. "You were a pawn. From the moment your father's envoys first proposed this alliance, you were merely a piece on the board. A valuable piece, I grant you, but a piece nonetheless."
A cold dread seeped into her bones, deeper than the chill of the morning. "Would you... if you had a chance to do it all again, would you choose differently?"
He tilted his head slightly, a gesture that was almost curious, almost analytical. "No. Xianthos must remain free. It demands strength. It demands ruthless action. Your father's aggression threatened that. And you... you were simply the means to ensure his downfall and the ultimate security of my kingdom." His gaze hardened, losing any trace of humanity. "I need to end him. And you. To keep Xianthos free."
A roar, louder than any yet, erupted from below. It wasn't the clash of steel, but the sound of something breaking. Her father's black dragon standard, the symbol of Varethys, now flew dangerously close to the front lines, his elite forces, the Stormguard, breaking through Xianthos' outer defenses, smashing through the crimson ranks.
Lucien's hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly. "He's early."
The words chilled her, freezing the last vestiges of hope and love into shards of ice within her heart. This wasn't just a betrayal of vows; it was a trap sprung too soon. A cold, calculated trap meant to ensnare not just her father, but her as well.
Then she saw it.
Her father, a formidable figure even from this distance, astride his black warhorse, raising his massive recurve bow. He wasn't aiming at the shattered gates. Not at the scrambling soldiers below. His aim was impossibly true, impossibly focused.
Straight at Lucien's heart.
Time slowed to a crawl, each agonizing second stretching into an eternity.
Magna opened her mouth to scream—a sound trapped in her throat, a choked gasp of horror and understanding.
The arrow struck. Not Lucien.
It struck with the cruel precision of a lover's betrayal.
She felt it before she heard it—a hot, sickening punch between her ribs, just below her heart. A blossoming warmth that quickly turned to fire. Violet fletching quivered before her eyes, an impossible, mocking beauty. Her favorite color. A final, exquisite mockery from the father who'd once called her his "little storm."
Lucien's arms encircled her from behind, not to comfort, but to hold her upright, to keep her from crumpling as her legs failed beneath her. "Steady, my queen," he murmured against her ear, his voice still smooth, still amber-jade cold. "It is the duty of the Queen to die for her King." A duty he had carefully, meticulously orchestrated.
Blood bubbled at her lips, a metallic taste coating her tongue. Around them, hundreds of faces watched from the palace grounds, hushed and unmoving—Xianthosi nobles with their hungry, calculating eyes, already feasting on her dying breaths, their ambition glinting beneath the rising sun.
He pressed something cold against the wound—not the healing warmth of Ember-Jade, the precious stone of Xianthos, but something darker, something alien. A stone she didn't recognize, its surface swirling with shadows that seemed to drink the light.
Not salvation.
Damnation.
The world fractured. The pain receded, replaced by a dizzying disorientation.
Suddenly she was elsewhere—and everywhere. A disjointed vision flashed through her fading consciousness:
* Herself standing over Lucien's fallen, lifeless body, a different gem, radiant and pure, glowing with vengeful light in her palm.
* The three sacred stones of the kingdoms—Sky-Turquoise, Ember-Jade, Storm-Onyx—merging into one terrible, blinding light that consumed everything.
* A voice, ancient and resonant, whispering through the fabric of time itself: "You must choose differently. You must live."
The vision shattered as abruptly as it came, broken by the harsh reality of Lucien letting her crumple to the cold, hard stones of the balcony.
Cold seeped through her thin silk gown, chilling her to the bone. The sky wheeled overhead, a vast, indifferent blue, the same mocking color as the day she'd arrived in Xianthos as a bride, full of naive hope.
Lucien turned away, his back to her, but not before she caught a glimpse—the barest tremor in his sword hand, the subtle way his throat worked, as if swallowing poison. A flicker of something, quickly masked.
A voice, insidious and slithering, coiled from the shadows between her slowing heartbeats: "Do you want to live again?"
Magna's fading vision fixed on Lucien's retreating back as he strode purposefully toward the archers lining the battlements. Toward her father. Toward the war he'd chosen over her, over their marriage, over her very life.
Yes, she thought with her last, burning spark of fury. Let me remember your love when I destroy you.
Darkness, absolute and consuming, swallowed her whole.