Silence—at last.
The council’s whispers had long since died, leaving only the faint clatter of displaced scrolls and the low, steady hum of torchfire.
I stood alone at the center of the chamber, heels striking marble with the finality of a verdict no one had dared contest.
Only a handful of loyal guards remained at their posts, stationed discreetly at the corners of the war room.
Their heads were bowed—not in fear, but in understanding. They did not need instruction. They granted me privacy without question.
I exhaled slowly and turned my attention to the desk.
Ink had been spilled earlier.
Careless.
General Derek’s doing.
An impulsive man. Always had been.
My fingers traced idle, deliberate patterns across the polished wood. The pristine white of my gloves was stained black with ink—ichor-dark, clinging stubbornly, like guilt that refused to be scrubbed away.
Emotions make creatures reckless.
And manipulating emotions requires discipline. Precision. An intimate understanding of the mind’s weakest seams.
I possess all three.
Removing my left glove, I set it aside and reached for the document waiting patiently at the center of the desk.
The Decree of Treason.
Treason against me.
Against my empire.
Against my people.
Against my children.
The last word lingered longer than intended.
I straightened at once, dismissing the thought as I always did. Sentiment had no place here. Sentiment was a luxury afforded only to the powerless.
There was work to be done.
I sat and unfurled the parchment, reading each line with meticulous care despite already knowing its contents by heart.
At the lower corner awaited my mark—an imprint of flesh, binding law to blood.
I pressed my thumb to the parchment.
Sealed.
The scroll was rolled with practiced efficiency and placed into the drawer beneath the desk, locked away alongside every other necessary sin.
I rested my elbows against the table, chin settling into my hands.
Ruslan’s name echoed faintly through the hollow chamber—though the man himself was already gone.
Exiled.
Perfect.
They would believe he had betrayed me. Or worse—that I had been too weak to stop him.
How pitiful.
How ignorant.
How beautifully naïve.
They never see the board. Only the pieces already sacrificed.
Atarae is bright.
Reckless.
Gifted beyond reason.
And therefore vulnerable.
A perfect target.
No daughter of mine will ever be hunted. Not while I still draw breath.
She is dangerous if left unguarded—too visible, too luminous. Sending her away was the only viable option, even if she learned to despise me for it.
The Mortalis realm is vast. Loud. Crowded.
A place where divinity is drowned in humanity.
Far enough to hide her. Safe enough to preserve her. Ignorant enough to let her remain a child.
A pawn, yes.
But a pawn with the potential to become something far greater.
One I cannot afford to lose.
Zaeran…
My warrior.
My blade.
Obedient. Loyal. Ruthless in the quiet, disciplined way that matters.
She will endure the hatred. The whispers. The judgment of lesser minds.
I shaped her to withstand it.
She was not coddled. Not adored. Not protected by softness.
I made her earn everything I should have given freely.
Even love.
She will not break.
Better she carry the crown than the girl too naïve to survive the war already unfolding.
A thin smile touched my lips.
Let them believe what they wish.
Let Seraphyne think she has won.
Let her stew in her petty ambitions, convinced I am wounded—grieving—distracted.
She underestimates me.
She always has.
And that will be her undoing.
I removed my gloves slowly and placed them on the desk with deliberate care. My hands were pale. Steady. Untouched by the chaos I had orchestrated.
Ink-stained fingers—cruel not in motion, but in intent.
They will see composure and mistake it for weakness.
How amusing.
I closed the drawer.
A lie, forged into law. Designed to protect the wise and ensnare the foolish.
Everyone will read it.
Everyone will believe it.
Every whisper of treason, every sidelong glance of doubt—precisely measured.
Patience. Always patience.
The council believes I am grieving.
Seraphyne believes she has a plan.
Atarae is safe—for now.
And Zaeran?
She will rule.
She will sharpen herself against the storm I am preparing.
I turned toward the window. The gardens below glowed in soft sunlight, their innocence almost mocking.
Let them believe the world is simple.
Let them believe they understand it.
They do not.
They never will.
And when the truth finally reveals itself—when the board is bare and the pieces lie broken—there will be no one left to challenge me.
My smile was thin.
Cold.
Let the world tremble. Let fools panic.
Every game has a victor.
And I always win.
I turned from the window and strode from the chamber, heels striking marble with controlled precision. Every step measured. Every breath deliberate.
Because power is never given.
It is taken.
And I take everything.
A knock echoed against the double doors.
I lifted my gaze.
Zaeran.
A faint smile curved my lips—just enough to appear casual.
“Ah,” I said smoothly, gesturing toward the seat across from me. “I was waiting for you.”
She raised a brow, irritation barely masked.
“Oh?” she replied. “Were you?”
I exhaled softly.
Yes.
This would be a long conversation.
ns216.73.216.147da2
and then Add to home screen.