? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  As if before the start of a grand prayer, the entire city falls silent. Dogs go into hiding, cats vanish from the rooftops, even the pigeons abandon the square as if something massive and invisible is already looming over them. Doors close—not with a bang, but with a swift, quiet click. Windows are covered with rags. The air suddenly thickens, becoming sticky, and it isn’t the heat. It is fear.

  In the square, near the central tower, the Inquisitors—both senior and junior—stand in formation. Beside them are the city guards. All of them are silent, like children who have just seen a bloodied belt on their father's hip. Agent Oculus, Reaper Vane, speaks without emotion, with the dryness of one who has seen more than he ever wished to:

  “His Highness… arrives in person.”

  The guard commander’s jaw tightens. One of his men swallows so loudly it seems to be the only sound on the entire street. In the background, someone crosses themselves and whispers:

  “His eyes see everything…”

  A young guard begins to tremble. An older comrade clips him on the back of the head—not out of malice, but to knock him back into his body, back into control. The commander rests a hand on his sword. But everyone knows: it’s not for a fight. It’s so he has a way out… just in case.

  A hum. Low, viscous. They are the first to emerge through the main gates—his elite guard, whom the common folk have long called the Executioners. Their armor is black, lacquered, devoid of crests. Their helmets are faceless. All of them are tall, silent, and synchronous. They do not walk. They glide, like the shadows of death itself. With every step comes a metallic chime, dull and heavy—like a funeral knell for the living.

  Behind them, like a mourning procession, rolls the carriage—black, gilded, encrusted with burning seals. The fire of the seals does not smoke. They simply burn, like something from another world. The carriage comes to a halt.

  And he steps out.

  Tall. Stately. His hair is light, nearly white—flowing like radiance caught in water. His eyes are blue, cold, and deep as lakes where cities go to drown. His smile is warm, sincere. Too warm. And his voice is melodic, seductive, pleasant... to the point of revulsion. Every movement is calculated. Every fold of his clothing is perfect.

  For the first few seconds, his presence is hypnotic. Something in the brain whispers: Submit. But in the silence, a fracture appears. It is too perfect. Too soulless. It is as if he were manufactured, not born. As if a machine had replaced God—and given the people this Prince.

  ? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  The residents gather in the square. No one shouts; no one calls out. They are simply led. Someone stumbles—an immediate cry follows, and an Executioner hauls the person up by the shoulder like a stray cat.

  His Highness stands upon the dais. Behind him, the banners of the Empire sway slowly in the wind, like the wings of a bird of prey. He does not shout. He does not threaten. He merely watches—and that is enough to make the city tremble.

  “A delay in information…” he says, almost musically, smiling. “…comes at a high cost.”

  He raises a hand and traces a finger through the air, as if touching an invisible menu. His face glows with the pleasure of the process.

  “Let us begin with ten.”

  His fingers stop, and he points. Randomly. Indifferently. Like choosing a sauce for meat. Among those selected: a child clutching a doll, a soldier who, just yesterday, saved the guard commander’s life, a blacksmith’s wife, a beggar.

  The commander starts to speak. His mouth opens. But he only exhales—because it is already too late. The Executioners are already seizing the chosen. They are led away in silence. A woman screams, trying to break free—in vain. She falls, dragged across the cobblestones. An Executioner lifts her like a piece of cordwood.

  “A breach of protocol is a waste of time,” he says softly, addressing no one and everyone. “And my time… is blood.”

  ? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  While Agent Vane reports on local matters, His Highness begins to move.

  Not abruptly. Slowly, like the dance of a ritualistic avenger. His posture is straight as an arrow. His steps are synchronized, as if dancing to music only he can hear. His knees do not fully bend. His feet do not shuffle. He glides, as if carried by strings from behind the stage.

  His eyes are empty, like the sky before a gale. But his body speaks. And his body says: You are no longer human; you are an object.

  He stops. His shadow falls over a simple woman. A wrinkled face, a stained dress, calloused hands. She stands like a rabbit before a serpent. Her heart beats louder than the entire crowd combined.

  He leans toward her. Slowly, precisely, as if sniffing a fine wine.

  “You are beautiful,” he whispers. His voice is too soft, too warm. Wrong.

  His fingers touch her cheek. The pads of his fingers probe her cheekbone, as if assessing the quality of a fruit. Then, a slow movement along the line of her lips. He inhales through his nostrils. His eyes roll back, like a gourmet savoring a delicacy.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “Beautiful skin. Soft…” A moment more of silence. His smile appears the way a weapon appears in an executioner’s hand. Symmetrical, sharp, technical. Calculated.

  The woman tries to step back. She cannot. Her leg muscles have betrayed her.

  He tilts his head slightly to the side, analyzing her like a hide at a market.

  “But not the one I seek.”

  A movement—a turn of the body, like a fickle child who has lost interest in a toy.

  “Burn her.”

  The words leave his lips as casually as "pass the salt."

  The woman doesn't have time to scream before she is dragged into the square. The fire is faster. The silence is faster still. Smoke rises, yet His Highness walks on. His cloak remains untainted by the smell of burning flesh.

  ? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  His Highness strides through the city as if through a dollhouse. The streets are covered in blood, but his shoes remain clean. His clothes do not get wet. The wind does not touch the hem of his cloak. Blood and filth, it seems, recoil from him of their own accord.

  Disaster is everywhere. But he is beyond reality. Like the embodiment of a perfect set of instructions.

  Execution. Burning. Hanging. The removal of faces. Not a single emotion. No shouting. No threats. Only a calm, dispassionate voice.

  “These,” he stops. Before him stand a few elderly people, a couple of teenagers. They stand apart, hands tucked in sleeves, eyes cast down.

  “They remained silent for too long.”

  “But they… they’ve done nothing!” one of the guards tries to protest. The words escape reflexively, without hope for mercy.

  The Prince’s gaze slides over him like the beam of a scalpel.

  “That is precisely why they are valuable. They chose silence. That means—they thought. And thought is potential.”

  He makes a gesture with his fingers—not a command, but a classification.

  “Study them. Later—utilize them.”

  They are taken away. Without screams. Without resistance. Without tears. Those who remain are afraid even to remember the faces of the detained.

  Some later whisper that they were sent to alchemical laboratories in the north. Some say to the stone quarries in the mountains. Others—that their bodies are preserved in ice, to study the effects of fear on the anatomy.

  But the truth is worse—they are still alive.

  ? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  “She has something… real within her. Pure blood… or primal? It doesn't matter. She will bear gods for me.”

  This was spoken with the same intonation a gourmet uses to select an exotic dish from a menu. The voice was cold, but laced with pleasure. A smile slowly crept across his face—slow, soft, slippery, like a trap snapping shut.

  “You!” he exclaimed, without turning.

  Susie Felsoiri responded immediately. Her legs carried her forward like a marionette—fear and loyalty pulling the strings together.

  “Y-yes, Your Highness! Susie Felsoiri at your service!”

  He looked at her as an anatomist looks at an exhibit. He touched her chin, tilting her face upward. Susie felt her heart stop in her chest. Her body betrayed her—it smiled as it had been taught, as it had been programmed. But a single tear, silent and salt-bitter, rolled down.

  He could kiss me—and I wouldn't dare pull away. He could flay me—and I would thank him. Something in his voice erases my 'self.'

  “Bring her to me. A-li-ve,” he drawled, savoring every syllable as if feasting on the words. Even Agent Oculus—callous and emotionless—shuddered. This was not an order. It was a sentence.

  Susie faltered, pulling a metal token from her bodice—the lead she had found at the Adventurers' Guild. She cautiously held it out to him.

  He took the token as if holding a heart in his fingers. He gently wiped her tear away and then said:

  “Well done. You may go now.”

  She nodded. Without another word, she practically fled.

  I am not afraid of death. But I am afraid of him. Because death from him is not the end. It is a continuation. And I am not sure I could bear what I would become under his hand.

  ? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  It had to happen. And it did.

  No one believed in salvation anymore. No one expected heroes. People stopped hiding their faces. Someone had to start.

  A dwarf stared at the black scorch mark where the woman had been. His fingers gripped the hilt of an old sword. Fear had burned away along with her. He stepped out into the street. In his hand was a sword—old, worn, with orange spots of rust. Like himself—battered, but still capable of a strike.

  His eyes were pools of dried tears.

  “Death to the Empire!” he roared.

  Silence at first. But not for long.

  And the crowd answered. No—not a crowd. A people. People who had been awakened. Who could no longer stay silent, for silence was cracking their souls.

  “Enough of this!”

  “Kill the bastard!”

  Men with weathered hands and eyes smoldering with contempt shouted. Women with infants in their arms shouted. Even children, who didn't understand what they were yelling but felt the truth in their blood.

  The Prince appeared on the balcony. White light fell on his face—as if on a stage.

  “Finally!” he exclaimed with a smile. “At least someone speaks honestly.”

  His voice was soft, enveloping, but behind it lay an abyss.

  “A wave of destruction is not a punishment. It is a mercy. So that you no longer live in a lie.”

  And then the slaughter began.

  Not a fight. Not a battle. But bookkeeping. Cold, mechanical. The Imperial Executioners descended into the streets like messengers from some geometrically perfect hell. Their movements were precise as an equation.

  No one asked if they were guilty. All were slated for "write-off."

  From the youngest to the oldest. Everyone was just a digit. Just lines in a consolidated death ledger.

  Blood flowed not in rivers, but in waterfalls. The earth swallowed it without resistance. The stones turned red. The voices died out. And the Imperial warriors prayed. For order. For silence. For everything to become controlled once more.

  ? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  The world didn't end. It just became empty.

  The streets are dead, like a stage after a play. Only instead of props, there are scorched ruins, smoldering beams, the black skeletons of houses. The air is thick as soup, the smell of burnt flesh stinging the nostrils. In the ash lie the footprints of bare feet that no longer lead anywhere.

  Somewhere in a courtyard, an ember hisses quietly. And that is all. No tears. No screams. Only the sound of ash settling upon the earth.

  The Imperial legionnaires stand in formation. Straight. Motionless. Like marble statues. Their faces are empty. Their souls were archived long ago under the label “Not to be Restored.”

  The Crown Prince stands nearby.

  “She was not found?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

  One of the guards silently shook his head. The Prince said nothing. He only closed his eyes for a moment.

  ? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  Inside the carriage, it is soft and dark. Outside the window—a dead city. The Crown Prince sits, elbow resting on the armrest. His fingers drum against it in a rhythmic cadence.

  Disappointment is like a stone in his stomach. He feels nauseous. Not from the loss, but from the denied pleasure.

  Then he remembered the token. He slowly pulled it from his inner pocket like a relic. The crystal within it played with all the colors of the rainbow. Mesmerizing. It shimmered like living mercury.

  On it was a name: “Vi”

  “Vi…” he whispered, as if tasting the name.

  And then he smiled.

  Not humanly. Not sincerely. Not naturally. The smile stretched all the way to his ears. His lips pulled back like meat from a skull. In the corners was a tremor, like a death spasm. His eyes glinted like a wolf that had caught the scent of prey.

  This was the Prince's true smile. Only a few had ever seen it. And always—just before they died.