The storm outside was howling like a wounded beast, winds lashing Dragonstone with salt and fury. Within the war chamber, torches guttered under the pressure of wind, casting long shadows across stone walls carved with dragons, battles, and flame. Lords and ladies sat stiff around the obsidian table, maps of Westeros spread like offerings before gods who demanded blood.
Daemon Targaryen, Prince of the City, second son of House Targaryen, rider of Caraxes, lounged like a coiled serpent in his chair at the head. His silver-gold hair hung wild, untamed, a storm of its own. His violet eyes danced with fire and mockery, a wine cup in one hand, his other resting lazily on the pommel of Dark Sister, which lay against his thigh like a sleeping threat.
They were debating ships, armies, alliances, and threats from across the Narrow Sea. Braavos this, the Reach that. The same pathetic chorus of nervous men clinging to coin and comfort. One lord worried about the grain stores. Another moaned about pirates off the Stepstones. Daemon yawned.
And then the girl spoke.
Lady Hilda — new to the council, sharp of tongue and bolder than her years should allow. She stood, voice clear as a bell cutting through the fog. "With all due respect, my lords… who is more powerful than our house?"
The question lingered like smoke.
Daemon's cup froze halfway to his lips.
A beat of silence — then a slow, wicked smile spread across his face.
He laughed.
Low at first, like a growl in the throat of a dragon — then louder, wilder. He leaned forward, elbow on the table, grinning like a man about to enjoy himself far too much.
"More powerful than our house?" he said, voice thick with amusement. "Oh, girl… girl, girl, girl."
He stood, sweeping his cloak aside like wings unfurling. The room turned toward him, the flickering firelight painting him in gold and shadow.
"Do you even know who came before us?"
Lady Hilda, to her credit, lifted her chin. "House Veyron," she answered, "of the Northern Marches."
Daemon snorted. "Veyron," he muttered. "A pack of long-faced bastards with ice in their veins and frost in their arses. They conquered a mountain pass. Congratulations. Before them?"
She blinked, but answered. "House Taiberius. They held the plains. Their rule—"
"—was as soft as milk and twice as white," Daemon cut in. "Philosopher-kings. They prayed to stars and fucked their cousins for enlightenment. They built towers so tall they could whisper to the moon — and forgot to build walls to keep out the barbarians. Before them?"
Hilda paused. "I… I don't know."
Daemon grinned like a wolf.
"Exactly. You don't know. None of you do."
He strode to the map table and slammed his palm against the middle, right where the old empire's heart once beat.
"Because they've been buried. Not by time, by fear. By history itself. They weren't forgotten. They were silenced."
The lords exchanged glances. Even the flames seemed to listen now.
Daemon looked around, and when he spoke again, his voice dropped lower, darker, heavier with reverence and poison.
"House Hurellious."
A name like ancient thunder.
"The only house to ever rule it all. Every tribe, every race, every kingdom — bent, broken, or burned. The Hung tribes of the east were shattered. The Demihuman kings of the south were chained. The Holy Empire of the West — crucified and fed to their gods."
He began pacing, slowly, like a beast in thought.
"They did not tame dragons. Dragons knelt before them. They didn't hatch eggs — they summoned them from the skies. Some say their blood wasn't blood at all — it was molten fire and shadow. Their King, Aurex the Undying, ruled for a thousand years. A thousand. His daughters could sing storms into silence. His sons didn't ride dragons — they became them."
Daemon turned, eyes ablaze. "And what do we sit on?" he mocked, gesturing to the etched Iron Throne carved into the mural behind him. "A chair of iron. Melted swords of cowards and corpses. They? They had the Golden Throne, forged from something older than the world. They called it the Throne of God. Said it hummed when the truth was spoken, and burned liars alive just for sitting upon it."
He paused. Smiled. "I would've loved to sit on it."
Someone chuckled nervously. Daemon's eyes snapped to them, and the laughter died.
"We call ourselves dragonlords," he went on, voice a silken threat. "But we are children playing with fire, mimicking gods who once ruled with silence, shadow, and storm. Even Aegon the Conqueror — great as he was — did not rule all. He conquered Westeros. But House Hurellious? They owned the world."
He leaned forward on the table, both hands spread.
"So when you ask me who is more powerful than our house…"
He chuckled again, but there was no joy in it now.
"You think we're strong because we have dragons? Because we sit on a chair made of dead men's blades? That we have a right to rule because our blood runs hot and ancient?" He bared his teeth.
"We are echoes. Nothing more. A memory with wings."
One of the older lords, Lord Jarren of Gulltown — grey-bearded and always full of skepticism — scoffed loudly as Daemon's last words died into the stone walls.
"You speak like ghosts can rise," he said. "Like these myths of Hurellious will one day ride from the sea on golden steeds and save or destroy us. But we know the truth, my prince. It's all just smoke. A hoax — old wives' tales wrapped in royal perfume."
Daemon didn't flinch. He didn't scowl. He smiled.
That same damned, insufferable, knowing smile.
"No, no…" he whispered with dark delight, "they won't come back."
He turned slowly.
"They're already here."
The room stirred. Unease twisted through the air like an unseen serpent.
Daemon clapped once, sharp as a whipcrack.
"Felix!"
A younger knight, cloaked in black and red, stepped forward from the shadows near the door. He carried something wrapped in deep violet cloth, long, rectangular, bound with old silver chains.
Daemon took it with reverence.
"This," he said, brushing the cloth away, "was hidden in the old vault beneath the treasury. Where were they stored, the relics the Grand Maesters don't want sung about? Forgotten artifacts. Dangerous memories."
He held up the book.
It was bound in leather darker than night — not black, but the kind of dark that seemed to absorb light. The emblem on the front was a sun encircled by wings — no house crest known to Westeros.
Daemon placed it gently on the table.
"This was written by my great-grandfather," he said, eyes gleaming with something ancient and unholy. "A traitor. A liar. A lunatic, they said."
He looked up.
"A survivor, I say."
He turned the pages slowly, yellowed parchment whispering secrets.
"It tells of bloodlines hidden in plain sight. Of heirs smuggled across seas. Of names changed, sigils burned, truths buried. And in its final chapter…"
Daemon looked directly at Lord Jarren.
"…it names me."
The chamber held its breath.
Daemon leaned closer to the firelight.
"I am not merely of House Targaryen. My blood runs deeper. Older. I am the descendant — the last descendant — of Arthur von Hurellious, Emperor of the Known World, wielder of the Throne of God. And now…"
He tapped the book.
"…let me tell you a story."
The Rain-Laced LetterOne Hundred andFifty years ago, in the waning days of the shattered empire…
A young girl sat on the deck of a small merchant ship, cutting across the Raincloud Sea. The ship bore the flag of the Falcon Islands, heading toward the continent — toward Dragonskeep, the ruined capital of what remained of the human kingdoms.
The girl was barely fifteen, cloaked in sea-grey wool, her long silver-blonde hair braided simply. Her name was Aisha von Merrow.
She sat with a letter in her lap, ink-stained fingers scratching steadily.
"Dear Grandfather, The sea is not what I feared. It smells like salt and freedom, like cold laughter and something older. The sailors say dragons once flew above these waves — I sometimes think I hear wings in the wind. I haven't told anyone where I'm from. You said not to. I remember the way you whispered it into my hair — "Never speak your name unless you wish the world to burn."I won't. I promise. I've hidden the crest inside the lining of my dress. The sun-with-wings. No one saw. I don't think they would know it even if they did. They're all blind now. They only remember the Targaryens. They think dragons mean power. Fools. But I know the truth. You showed me. In the sealed chamber, beneath the broken statue of Aurex. I remember everything. I'll be strong. I'll be patient. I'll survive. Just like you said. Your blood lives in me. The fire waits.— Aisha.
She folded the letter, sealed it with wax, and kissed the sigil etched into the old ring she wore around her neck.
When she stepped onto the deck, the skies had grown heavy and dim. Light rain poured like whispers from the gods, and waves slapped the hull in slow, ominous rhythm.
And then—
She felt heat on her face.
She turned, squinting through the mist and drizzle.
Far on the horizon — a blaze.
Not the sun. Fire.
Tall merchant ships — once flying banners of green and silver — were engulfed in flame. Their sails torn, hulls cracking. The sea hissed where the heat touched it.
"Wh-what… what is that?" she gasped.
A gruff man beside her, tattooed and rain-soaked, didn't turn.
"This is death," he muttered.
She stared. "What… what do you mean?"
"They were pirates," he said. "Some say smugglers. Others say spies."
He pointed to the torn, burning flags.
"They were sunk on orders of the Archduke of the Empire."
Aisha's voice was steady but laced with a growing edge of disbelief. "What did they do, exactly?"
The man's eyes darkened, his gaze drifting toward the distant smoke curling over the sea. "They were looting, plundering the very people sworn under his protection. The villagers, the fishermen, the farmers—they took everything they could carry. Food meant for winter, gold meant to buy peace, even women—no one was spared."
A flicker of pain crossed Aisha's face. "Those are my people. I'm from Vale, by the way."
The man nodded slowly, as if weighing his next words carefully. "Vale is a land caught between tides of power and ambition. The Archduke's grip is firm but stretched thin. When the pirates strike, who else can the people turn to? The Empire promises protection, but it's a promise fraying at the edges."
Aisha folded her arms, her brows knitting together. "Then why did the Archduke order them sunk? Was it just to send a message?"
"A message, yes. A warning to those who'd dare challenge the Empire's reach. But it's more than politics—there's a darkness creeping beneath the surface. The Empire's enemies are not just outside these walls, but inside them. Loyalties shift, and shadows move in the court and the streets alike."
Her eyes narrowed, a surge of defiance sparking within her. "I was selected by the royal guards—trained under the best swordsmen, the finest strategists. I swore my blade to the Empire, to protect the innocent and uphold order."
The man's gaze softened just a fraction. "And yet, you question who you truly serve."
Aisha's voice was barely a whisper. "I do. Because power isn't always just. Because sometimes the line between protector and oppressor blurs. And because the man I met—he wears the mark of a bloodline long thought extinct. A bloodline with its claim, its vengeance."
The man stepped back into the mist, his silhouette fading into the night. "Be careful, Aisha. The paths you choose will shape not just your fate, but the fate of all who call this land home."
Later, alone in her chambers, Aisha let the door close softly behind her. The weight of the night's revelations pressed heavily on her chest. The familiar scent of aged wood and worn leather should have brought comfort, but instead, it only deepened her unrest.
She sank onto the narrow bench, fingers tracing the cold metal of the ring hidden beneath her sleeve — a relic she'd kept secret even from her closest comrades.
Her mind replayed the moment of her selection by the royal guards, the rigorous training under stern eyes, the camaraderie forged in sweat and steel. She remembered the pride that swelled within her when she first donned the guard's uniform, the promise whispered in every swing of her sword.
But now that promise felt fractured.
Who did the man truly serve?
Was he a harbinger of an ancient power awakening? A threat to everything she'd sworn to protect?
Her thoughts spiraled, caught between duty and doubt.
The Empire was shifting, cracks spreading through its foundations like a slow poison.
And somewhere, beyond the horizon, the ghosts of bloodlines past were stirring.
Aisha knew the choice ahead would not be easy.
But she would have to decide — loyalty to a fractured Empire, or allegiance to a legacy that could change the fate of the continent forever.
Daemon's voice turned low, almost reverent now, like a priest delivering prophecy — except his altar was wine, and his gospel was blood.
"She landed at the port of Ironreach," he said. "A gray place. Always raining, always stinking of salt and secrets. The gulls don't even scream there anymore. They just watch. Waiting."
The fire crackled behind him. The room leaned in.
"The docks were quiet that morning. Quiet in that way you only get when death's just passed through. Aisha stepped off the ship, and the first thing she saw wasn't the city. Wasn't the people. It was the crucifixes."
Daemon's grin returned — bitter, sharp.
"Rows of them. Lined across the shoreline. Bent iron poles with bodies nailed like parchment. Men with black flags sewn into their chests. Some are still twitching. The scent of burned flesh in the air. A sign hung above them, painted in blood: Thieves of the Sea, Judged by the Steel of the Sky."
He raised his cup, mockingly.
"The Archduke's justice."
He took a slow sip.
"Aisha didn't blink. Didn't ask questions. Just walked right past them. She was already used to the smell of rot by then. Grew up in it, fought through it. She came from the Broken Coast — a place where you learn fast that pity is a noose and mercy is a lie."
Daemon stood now, pacing slowly like a lion in a den of sheep.
"It took her three days to reach the capital. Not because the roads were long—no. The Archduke's new roads were swift, stone-laid, and lined with black banners. She reached in three days, but she saw enough horror in those three days to age a soul ten years."
He turned sharply.
"On the first day, she passed the Red Orchards — where the trees no longer grew fruit, but heads. Fifty-two of them. All bandits. All flayed. All grinning, even in death. Their faces twisted by something between fear and awe. At the center of the orchard was a pyre — unlit — with a throne of bones."
Daemon smirked, eyes glinting.
"That wasn't the Archduke's doing. That was someone else's. No one knows who. But the message was clear — this land belongs to fire and silence now."
He threw another log into the fire.
"On the second day, she crossed a ruined village — Draskhold. Burnt to the ground. Only one survivor: a child. Mute, eyes wide, clutching a sword too big for his hands. He wouldn't speak to her. Just pointed to the hills. That's when she saw them — the crows."
A pause.
"Thousands. Circling the cliffs. When she got closer, she saw the stakes. Not crucifixes this time — impalements. Spears jammed into the red rock, bodies twitching on the ends like meat on a spit. And carved into the cliffs, letter by letter, in blood:Don't harm the people. Or the mountain will harm you."
A younger knight at the table swallowed hard. Daemon just smiled at him.
"That's the funny thing about justice," he said. "It doesn't wear crowns. Sometimes it just takes a spear and makes an example out of monsters."
He leaned in, voice turning icy.
"One of the bodies was Grand Duke Bayron."
A gasp rippled through the room.
**"Yes," Daemon chuckled. "That Bayron. Lord of the Northkeep. Master of Six Armies. The Iron Butcher of the Eastern March. Him. Impaled like a street thief. Why?"
He let the question linger.
"Because he 'accidentally' taxed the villages to starvation. Took their food. Took their daughters. Turned their prayers into ashes. The Archduke warned him once. Bayron laughed. So the Archduke sent nothing-no messengers, no armies. Just silence."
Daemon tapped his goblet against the table.
"And then the mountain did the talking."
He looked around.
"You think the throne in the capital holds power. You think the court whispers matter. But outside these walls, on the roads Aisha walked, there's only one law now: The law of the Archduke."
Daemon returned to his seat, sighing as though bored by their sheltered ignorance.
"And so she reached the gates of the capital."
He chuckled softly.
"And there… her true trials began."
The gates of the capital had swallowed her whole.
Aisha's boots clicked softly against the slick stone road as the fog curled like ghosts around her feet. She had shown her identification to the guards — a simple parchment marked with the sigil of the Royal Guard — and they had let her pass without a word. Yet as she stepped through, she felt a pressure in the air. Like something had noticed her. Like she had crossed a threshold she couldn't return from.
Then he appeared.
Black armor, silent as nightfall. No crest. No words.
"Cadet Aisha," the figure said, voice low and distant, almost mechanical beneath the helm.
"Yes…" Her voice came out smaller than she wanted.
"Follow."
No explanation. No name.
She obeyed.
They moved through the city like shadows. Past markets lit with dull lanterns. Past men who hushed their songs when they saw the knight. Past noble houses with black-draped windows. No one stopped them. No one dared.
It was a different city than she'd heard in stories.
Not golden. Not gleaming. This was a city built atop secrets.
Eventually, they came to a gate with no sigil, no name. It wasn't made of wood or stone, but something darker. Older. Iron laced with veins of obsidian, etched with symbols she couldn't read. The gate hissed as it opened. The knight stepped inside.
She followed.
There were no banners here. No torches. Only a pale blue flame flickered along the walls without warmth.
The training grounds.
Except they weren't training.
They were waiting.
And then she saw him.
He stood alone, still as a statue, eyes like burnished silver beneath a hooded gaze. Cloaked in a sleeveless surcoat of midnight black, his chest bare beneath crisscrossed chains. Scars danced like lightning across his skin. He did not move. He did not blink.
But he saw her.
"I am Thomas," he said, as though the words themselves echoed from beneath the earth. "And you, Cadet Aisha, are not here to become a soldier."
She stood still, throat dry.
"You are here to vanish."
The knight walked in slow circles around her, voice like a distant storm. "You have been chosen. Not to be a sword. Not to be a shield. But a shadow."
Aisha opened her mouth — but no words came.
"You've heard whispers of him, haven't you?" Thomas murmured, drawing closer. "The one who walks beneath the black banners. The one whose name they do not say unless they wish to summon misfortune."
She did not nod.
She didn't have to.
Thomas gestured to the dagger lying on the stone before her — she hadn't seen it there moments ago. A weapon? A test? A warning?
"Pick it up."
She did. The metal was cold… too cold.
Thomas's eyes glittered faintly. "Good. Your path begins tonight."
He handed her a small object. A silver clasp, shaped like an eagle's talon, old and worn. Something about it felt sacred — and dangerous.
"You will go to the upper keep. You will dine. You will not speak unless spoken to. You will not ask questions. If they press, show them this."
She looked at the clasp.
"Who… who am I to dine with?"
Thomas gave the faintest smile. It wasn't warm. It wasn't even human.
"You are to dine with the man they call the Quiet Tempest."
Aisha's breath caught.
No name.
Only a title.
"Is that his name?"
Thomas looked at her for a long time, then turned.
"No one alive knows his true name."
"Don't be arrogant," Thomas said sharply, his voice a blade that cut through the thick silence. "Whatever he asks of you, whatever he says — do it. No hesitation. No questions. Do you understand?"
Aisha nodded, her mouth dry. "Yes."
"Good." His eyes lingered on her for a moment longer, gauging not just obedience, but fear — the right kind of fear.
"Now then," he turned, his cape swirling behind him like smoke. "Follow me."
She obeyed without a word, boots echoing behind his heavier steps as they descended into the lower levels of the fortress. They passed silent corridors where torchlight flickered unnaturally, too slow, like the fire was listening. Eventually, they reached a modest iron door. When it opened, she found herself in a chamber lined with racks of armor, fabrics, and garb unlike any she'd seen.
"Pick whatever you're comfortable with," Thomas said, standing just outside. "Then come out."
The door closed with a soft click.
Alone now, Aisha moved carefully among the displayed outfits. They were all shades of darkness — obsidian silks, dusk-grey cloaks, tailored garments made not for battle but for presence. There was no royal purple here. No bright crimson. Just silence, and choices.
Her hand paused over a set of sleek black leather armor. Lightweight. Flexible. Reinforced subtly beneath the surface. It called to her, and she didn't know why.
She dressed.
When she stepped back out, Thomas looked her up and down — then, slowly, nodded once. Approval. Wordless, but understood.
"Come."
This time, she was led outside.
A black carriage waited, lacquered wood carved with spiral sigils that twisted the longer she looked. The horses were silent, their eyes like polished obsidian, breath misting in the cold. No coachman in sight — and yet, the door opened.
She climbed in.
Thomas joined her, sitting opposite. He spoke nothing as the carriage rolled forward, the city slowly giving way to wilder terrain. Trees, tall and ancient, formed a tunnel of shadows as they passed under a moonless sky. Aisha had lost all sense of time. Minutes felt like hours. Or seconds. She could not tell.
Then she saw it.
The castle.
Rising from the cliffs like something unearthed from a forgotten age, its spires reached upward like the jagged hands of a buried god. The walls weren't built — they were carved. Hewn directly from the mountain stone. The windows flickered with pale golden light, and the air grew still as they approached the gates.
The carriage stopped.
Thomas stepped out first. Aisha followed.
The guards at the entrance did not move. Their armor was black and silver, helms featureless. Statues? Or soldiers who had forgotten how to breathe?
Inside, the castle was silent.
No chatter.
No footsteps.
No warmth.
Only the low hum of unseen power — like the stone itself remembered things.
They moved through halls filled with ancient tapestries depicting wars she'd never studied. In one, dragons bowed their heads before a kneeling figure. In another, a single man stood atop a mountain of broken blades, crowned in light, his eyes burning red and gold.
Then — the doors.
Massive obsidian double doors, carved with an eagle devouring the sun.
They opened.
And Aisha stepped into the dining room of the unknown.
It wasn't grand like the palaces she'd imagined. It was quiet. Elegant. A long black table stretched across the chamber, and at its far end — seated as if he had always been there — was the man.
She stopped.
He didn't move. Not yet.
He wore a tailored suit of black and gold, sharp at the shoulders, rich with subtle embroidery in the shape of flames and roses intertwined. His hair was slicked back, ink-black, not a strand out of place. His skin was pale — unnaturally so. And his eyes…
She had never seen eyes like that.
One gold.
One red.
Burning with knowing.
He looked at her as if he already knew everything about her. As if her very soul had been catalogued long before her birth.
"Cadet Aisha," he said, voice velvet and steel. It wasn't a greeting. It was a statement.
She swallowed. "Yes, my lord."
He smiled faintly. No warmth. Just precision. "Sit."
She walked to the chair opposite him, each step measured, her breath quiet.
The table was set. Food she couldn't name. Drinks that shimmered faintly with pale green light. But she didn't touch anything.
"I have read your file," he said, fingers steepled before him. "Top of your class. Exceptional with the blade. Focused. Loyal. And yet…"
He leaned forward slightly.
"You have no fear of monsters."
She blinked. "No, my lord."
He studied her. "You should."
There was silence. The air tightened.
He gestured lightly. "Eat."
She picked up the silverware. It was heavier than it looked.
As she took her first bite, the man leaned back, watching her with eyes that seemed older than time.
"I am not your master," he said, "nor your commander. You were chosen because you are disposable… and possibly invaluable. Time will tell which."
She nodded slowly, unsure of what to say.
"Thomas told you you'd be my shadow," he said, sipping something blood-red from a crystal glass.
"Yes, my lord."
"Good. Shadows are quiet. But they see everything."
He stood.
And for a moment—a—heartbeat the flames behind him flickered, and for a second she saw something else in his silhouette. Wings. Horns. A crown of bone and fire. A trick of the light? Or a truth glimpsed too soon?
He turned to the great window behind him.
A heavy knock sounded against the thick iron door. A black-clad knight stepped forward, voice low but firm, "His Holiness is coming."
The vast dining hall fell into a hush. The doors creaked open slowly, admitting a procession. Cardinals in deep crimson robes entered first, their faces grave beneath their heavy hoods. Following them, the Holy Knights entered, their armor gleaming coldly, footsteps echoing ominously against stone walls.
And last, the Pope—Pontifex Aurelius IX—strode in, robes pure white and gold, his presence commanding reverence even from the most hardened courtiers. His sharp eyes quickly found Arthur, resting a calm yet scrutinizing gaze upon the Archduke.
"Arthur," the Pope greeted with a faint, almost unexpected warmth in his voice as he closed the distance between them. "How are you?"
Without hesitation, Arthur rose and met him halfway. Without formality, the two men embraced—a brief, measured hug that spoke volumes of their tangled past, respect, and unspoken rivalry.
"Better now that you've graced us with your presence, Your Holiness," Arthur said smoothly, stepping back with a subtle smile.
The Pope's lips twitched in a ghost of a smile. "I am well, though I fear our paths often cross under darker skies than I'd prefer."
They moved together to the long dining table where rich platters of roasted game and spiced wine awaited. Servants bowed silently as the two men took their seats opposite one another, the weight of unspoken power hanging heavy between them.
The Pope's gaze sharpened. "Arthur… I have heard troubling reports. You are dealing with the demihumans again. You know this goes against the teachings of the Church. Against God's will."
Arthur's eyes narrowed, the flicker of a dangerous fire igniting deep within them. "The Church's teachings have long failed those who suffer under cruelty and neglect. I do what your prayers cannot. I protect the innocent—even if they are not human."
The Pope leaned back, his voice cool but edged with warning. "You risk heresy. The divine order must be maintained. You threaten the soul of this Empire."
Arthur's lips curled in a half-smile, disdain barely concealed. "The soul of the Empire thrives not in empty sermons but in strength. In survival."
The tension in the room grew taut until the Pope's gaze flicked sideways, landing on a figure standing quietly in the corner.
"And who is she?" the Pope asked, voice soft but laced with curiosity and something darker.
Arthur's smile was thin but proud. "My new shadow."
The Pope's eyes gleamed with a predatory glint, and then a cruel amusement twisted his words. "Why don't you lend her to me for the night?"
Arthur's expression hardened.
Aisha's heart stuttered in her chest as the weight of those words crashed over her like a cold wave.
To "lend her for the night" was no innocent phrase. It meant the Pope claimed her—her body, her loyalty, her very will—for his dark desires. To be taken, used, and discarded by a man whose power was absolute.
She looked at Arthur, pleading silently, searching for denial or protection.
Instead, Arthur's voice came low and chilling. "Why not?"
Her breath caught. Slowly, almost as if in a trance, she stepped forward.
The Pope's eyes shone with wicked delight as she approached. "She is mine, for the night."
Suddenly, Arthur's voice rang out, commanding and cold as steel. "Is that so?"
The room froze.
The room fell into a frozen silence, each breath a tremble in the air. The Pope's words—casual, disgusting—still lingered like smoke. "Why don't you lend her to me for the night?" His voice, oily and unrepentant, dared to challenge the Archduke's shadow.
Arthur's gaze, already like drawn steel, turned glacial.
"Is that so?" he murmured.
The Pope, unaware of the crack forming beneath his feet, raised a brow. "What do you mean?"
Arthur didn't blink. "Aisha," he said, without turning his head, "kill the Pope."
The command struck like lightning.
The entire room went rigid.
Aisha stood frozen, her heartbeat thundering against her ribs. Did she hear that right?
The Holy Knights—six of them—reacted first, their hands flying to their hilts.
But they never made it.
Black-cloaked shadows fell from the walls like vultures. In perfect, inhuman synchrony, the Black Knights moved.
Steel flashed in the firelight. One by one, the Holy Knights dropped—blood spurting, throats slit cleanly, their weapons clattering to the stone floor before they even realized they were dead.
The Pope stood now, eyes wide in fury and disbelief. "What are you doing? This is heresy! You imbecile! You dare raise a blade against God's voice?!"
Arthur turned his gaze toward Aisha, who still hadn't moved. His voice, low and calm, sliced deeper than any sword.
"Did you not hear me, girl? I do not enjoy repeating myself. Kill the Pope."
Aisha's hands trembled.
She looked into the Pope's face, red with indignation, now retreating behind his surviving cardinals. The,n at Arthur—towering, terrifying, absolute.
She couldn't move. Her blade felt heavy. Her breath caught in her throat. This wasn't training. This was murder. This was a declaration of war against the very Church.
But before she could act—
Arthur moved.
He pushed Aisha aside like a leaf in the wind.
In a single stride, he was in front of the Pope.
"No—no! Wait—"
Too late.
The blade arced, cold and swift.
A thin red line appeared across the Pope's throat. He gasped, choked, then fell to his knees.
Blood poured out in thick rivulets. His mouth opened and closed like a fish struggling for air. His gold-lined robe was soaked red. A final breath rattled from his lips as his life fled.
Arthur leaned down, gripping the dying Pope's blood-slick hair, yanking his head up to meet his fading gaze.
"She is mine," Arthur said coldly. "And I decide what is done with her—not you, you decaying lecherous coward."
He let the Pope's body fall like refuse to the floor.
Silence.
The cardinals stood paralyzed, some trembling visibly.
Blood pooled across the marble, staining the sacred dining hall.
Arthur slowly turned his eyes toward Aisha. She stood stunned, staring down at the body, at what she'd failed to do.
His voice came low, like the growl of a storm.
"Next time you hesitate, I will slice your throat first."
Her breath caught. She nodded slowly, swallowing the fear as if it were lead.
A single cardinal dropped to his knees. "Archduke… please—mercy…"
"Cardinal Hugo," Arthur said, stepping forward, flicking the blood from his blade. "I suppose you, unlike that parasite, understand the stakes?"
"Yes, Archduke," Hugo said quickly. I do."
Arthur's lips curled.
"Good. Then I suppose you shall have no issue with your promotion."
"...Promotion?"
"You are the new Pope."
Hugo's eyes widened in horror. "What?"
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Would you rather join your predecessor at the feet of God tonight?"
"No, no, no—I—I accept. I accept, Your Grace."
"Excellent," Arthur said, clapping a heavy hand on the cardinal's shoulder. "Then let us begin again."
He looked around the blood-soaked chamber, at the horrified faces, the corpses of knights, the still-warm body of the once untouchable Pontifex.
"Let it be known," he said, raising his voice so that all in the hall could hear, "that in this Empire, law is not written in scripture. It is written in will. And mine is supreme."
He turned and walked back toward his seat at the head of the table. As he passed Aisha, he did not stop. But his words came like a blade pressed to her back:
"Welcome to the capital, shadow."
And the silence that followed was not peace. It was obedience.
The kind that follows fear.
The kind that lasts.
Daemon's voice dropped to a near whisper, the firelight flickering in his hollow eyes as he leaned closer, speaking as though the memory itself still haunted the air.
"…and that," he said, the words heavy with finality, "is how she met my ancestor for the first time."
The wind howled outside the crumbling stone temple where Daemon sat, cloaked in silence and shadow.
Far from the capital, across the northern highlands where black rivers cut through stone and the winds carried the scent of ash and snow, there stood a fortress carved into the spine of the mountains—the Dragon's Keep. Once, it had been the seat of the first flame-wielders. Now, it was a tomb with heartbeat.
But that heartbeat had begun to quicken.
In the nearby town of Arkhelt, nestled at the foot of the mountain, a tavern stood crooked and half-buried in frost. Its wooden beams groaned under the weight of time and snow. Inside, laughter died quickly whenever the wind blew too hard.
And tonight, the wind screamed.
The tavern was nearly empty.
A few candles flickered lazily against the thick, rain-smeared windows. Outside, the storm whispered across the cobblestones like a lullaby for the dead. Inside, the only sounds were the soft clinks of cutlery being cleaned behind the bar… and the faint, slow sip of wine from the backmost corner.
He sat alone at a table built for four, but only one chair was ever used. His coat, long and worn black, lay draped across the back like a shadow peeling off his shoulders. The flickering flame on the table cast faint gold across his face—but it was his eyes that caught the light like mirrors dipped in blood.
Golden-red. Not hazel. Not amber. Golden. Red. As if the sun had drowned in crimson and never truly died.
He wasn't doing anything—just drinking. Quietly. Slowly. The way someone does when they have nowhere to be and nothing to prove. The cup in his hand wasn't fancy, just plain iron. His fingers, gloved in black leather, moved with a stillness that made the tavern feel colder.
No one sat near him.
Even the old dog sleeping by the hearth had curled up tighter when the man came in, as if sensing something it couldn't name.
The barkeep had asked no questions when he ordered. Just nodded and poured. Something about the man—the way he stood when he entered, or maybe how he didn't look at anyone, not even once—made it clear: this wasn't someone you talked to unless spoken to first.
He didn't look like royalty, but he didn't look like a mercenary either. He didn't belong anywhere, yet sat like he owned the silence.
And those eyes…
They were the kind of eyes people didn't forget. Eyes that hinted at something ancient. Maybe monstrous. Maybe worse.
Some said he looked exactly like the old portraits of the Archduke—the infamous one. Arthur von Hurellious. The butcher of the south. The shadow of emperors. But that man had died a century ago.
Or so they said.
In the dim silence, the golden-red eyes shifted slightly toward the window as lightning flashed far off in the hills.
And he smiled—just barely.
As if remembering something the world had forgotten.