Part I : Swords at the Threshold

  “Do you have your brass-bound journal and inkwell?” Mathilda asked, her voice tight in the swaying carriage.

  It was the first time eight-year-old Ethan had ever ventured beyond the suffocating, secure walls of their manor. The world outside the Imperial Palace grounds was a blur of noise and motion, entirely alien to a boy raised in gilded exile.

  Ethan offered no words. He simply pressed his small face against the carriage window, letting out a soft hum as he watched the Iron Fist sector roll by.

  By the decree of his grandfather, Emperor Julius, Catherine and her son had been effectively erased from the public eye. Yet, they were still of royal blood; they lacked no material privilege, only freedom.

  “And the papers?” Mathilda pressed, her eyes tracing the boy’s features with maternal anxiety. Though Catherine had given birth to him, it was Mathilda who had anchored him to reality during the long years of his mother's psychotic detachment.

  Ethan nodded again. Unable to help herself, Mathilda pulled his leather satchel into her lap, her fingers trembling slightly as she checked the contents for a third time.

  Ethan watched her without judgment. He recognized that frantic look; it was the same tension that tightened her jaw whenever an unfamiliar knock rattled their door, or when new guards were rotated through the manor. He was too young to understand the bloody politics of his grandfather’s court, but he possessed an uncanny ability to read the unspoken terror of the adults around him. He knew Mathilda’s devotion was absolute, and that her fear was entirely for him.

  Satisfied, she handed the satchel back. Ethan placed it carefully at his side.

  “Remember what we practiced, Ethan,” Mathilda said, her tone dropping to a fierce whisper. “Keep your head down. Be a shadow. Focus only on your studies. Do you understand?”

  “Okay,” Ethan replied, his voice painfully innocent.

  “And if you find yourself in trouble, or if anyone asks too many questions… whose name do you invoke?”

  “Professor Alice,” Ethan answered promptly.

  “Professor Alice. Correct.” Mathilda forced a brittle smile, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

  The carriage lurched to a halt. Outside, the Academy stood like a fortress of knowledge. Its imposing brick architecture mirrored the militaristic rigidity of the Iron Fist sector.

  Stepping out, Ethan was dwarfed by the sheer scale of the place. Before them stretched a grandiose wrought-iron gate, flanked by massive stone pillars. It was one of four entrances, meticulously segregated by age, granting access to a campus that rivaled the Imperial House itself in size.

  “Here we are,” the driver grunted.

  Mathilda took Ethan’s small hand, guiding him through a sea of pristine white uniforms—blue ties, gold buttons, crimson trims. It was induction day for the youngest cohort.

  Pulling him aside from the dense throng of aristocratic heirs and nervous parents, Mathilda knelt to his eye level. She brushed an invisible speck of dust from his lapel. “Don’t let them frighten you,” she murmured, trying to infuse him with a courage she didn't feel. “Just be your brave, observant self.”

  “Why aren't the gates open yet?” Ethan asked, peering at the row of uniformed guards and blue-robed professors waiting in tense silence.

  “They are waiting for your cousins to arrive,” Mathilda replied, the words slipping out before she could catch them.

  Ethan tilted his head. “My cousins?”

  Mathilda blanched, biting her lower lip. “You remember the boys you played with that day.”

  “Simon and Henry?” Ethan swayed on his heels, a rare flicker of childhood excitement crossing his face. “They’re my cousins?”

  “Yes,” Mathilda whispered urgently, gripping his shoulders. “But you must never say that out loud. To anyone.”

  “Not even to them?”

  “Especially not to them.”

  “Why?” Ethan’s brow furrowed.

  “You don't need to worry about the why today,” Mathilda replied softly, offering him a warm, steadying smile,her hands gently framing his face. “I promise it is for the best. Can you promise me you'll keep it a secret?”

  Because of his absolute trust in her, Ethan simply gave a solemn nod, absorbing the rule without another word.

  “Will Evelina come too?”

  “No. She’s too young.”

  A sudden ripple went through the crowd. The murmurs died down, replaced by the heavy, rhythmic thud of hooves. Five lavish carriages tore down the central thoroughfare, the crowd parting like the sea. The central carriage, bearing the imposing dragon sigil, halted dead center of the gates.

  Guards swarmed out, ruthlessly shoving parents and children aside to form a wide aisle.

  From the carriage stepped Lady Beatrix, wife of Prince Leonard. She wore a crimson gown woven with black lace, her posture radiating an arrogant, suffocating authority. Whispers of awe and envy rippled through the older students, while the younger ones shrank back from her predatory gaze.

  Behind her stepped two boys in the same uniform as Ethan—save for the ornate, customized short-swords strapped to their waists.

  Beatrix glided toward the gate. Simon trailed her, mimicking the haughty tilt of her chin, already practicing the sneer of a ruler. Henry, however, walked with a slight hunch, his eyes darting nervously between the staring crowd and the terrifying silhouette of his mother.

  Before Beatrix even reached the threshold, the gates swung wide. An elderly professor, his white beard trembling against his blue robes, rushed forward and bowed deeply.

  “Greetings, My Lady. The Academy is profoundly honored by your presence.”

  “I trust my messenger made our expectations clear?” Beatrix asked, her voice cutting through the courtyard like a whip.

  “Y-yes, My Lady,” the old man stammered. “‘Impartial treatment.’”

  Beatrix placed heavy hands on her sons’ shoulders, pushing them forward. “Exactly. Treat my sons like any other student. I expect no special favors.”

  “Shall we proceed inside, young Princes?” the old professor offered, gesturing weakly.

  Simon stepped forward with the confidence of an emperor. But on his third step, a shadow fell across his path.

  A young professor stepped directly in front of him. She had a petite frame, sharp features, and dark skin that contrasted sharply with her piercing, ruby-black eyes.

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  “No personal weapons allowed on the premises,”she stated, her voice flat and devoid of reverence. “Leave them at the gate, or surrender them to the guard.”

  The elderly professor gasped, his face draining of color. “Professor Alice,” he hissed in a frantic whisper.

  Alice didn’t blink. She kept her gaze locked on Simon.

  Simon froze, entirely unmoored. He stared at this young woman, baffled by her sheer audacity. He looked back at his mother for instruction, but Beatrix’s face was a mask of cold fury. Her eyes were locked in a silent, deadly duel with Alice.

  Without a word, Beatrix turned on her heel and strode back to her carriage.

  Abandoned, Simon’s mind raced. Should he assert his royal blood? Should he strike the woman for insolence? He was paralyzed by the sudden removal of his mother's shadow.

  Before he could act, Henry was already at the guard post, frantically unbuckling his belt.

  “Keep it safe for me, please!” Henry offered a bright, terribly awkward smile to the hardened soldiers.

  The guards exchanged bewildered glances, stifling nervous chuckles. “Of course, young Prince.”

  Simon stared at his brother, then back to the unflinching ruby eyes of Professor Alice. Idiot, Simon thought, his cheeks flushing with humiliation.

  With a sharp exhale, he tore his sword from his waist, shoved it into the hands of a guard without looking at him, and marched through the gates.

  As the royal carriages rolled away, the tension shattered. The crowd surged forward, swallowing Ethan into the tide of students.

  He didn't look back as he passed through the gates. Behind him, safely hidden by the dispersing crowd, Mathilda finally fell to her knees, burying her face in her hands as the first sob wracked her chest.

  Most of the faculty had already rushed inside, eager to fawn over the Princes. Only a few remained to shepherd the remaining seventy children.

  Professor Alice stood quietly by the gate, watching them all.

  Part II : Tears of the Conqueror

  The sharp clink of silver against gold plate echoed through the cavernous expanse of the Imperial dining hall. It was a cold, opulent chamber where Emperor Julius took his three daily meals, often in the company of ghosts.

  Today, however, he was joined by the living: Thaddeus Greyoak and his son, Alistair.

  After the initial, rigid formalities, the meal had descended into a heavy silence. It was the strict etiquette of the nobility to never speak with food on the palate, but the quiet in the room felt less like manners and more like a held breath.

  A lavish full-course meal had been laid before them. The centerpiece was a rare Obsidian Major Carp, its dark scales shimmering under the chandelier's light.

  “This pales in comparison to the Flying Razor-Gill Minnow. Wouldn't you agree, Thaddeus?” the Emperor suddenly spoke, his voice cutting through the silence.

  Alistair blinked, startled by the Emperor's blatant breach of dining etiquette.

  Thaddeus, ever composed, dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin. “You still remember the taste of it, Emperor? When was the last time you had the pleasure?”

  Julius leaned back, his eyes unfocusing as he sifted through decades of blood and memory. “I suppose… it was when I was taking refuge in Oakhaven, under your father’s protection. Fifty years ago, wasn't it?”

  “Refuge?” The word slipped from Alistair’s lips before he could stop it.

  Both Thaddeus and Julius turned their heavy gazes upon him.

  Alistair swallowed his mouthful of food, a sudden knot of anxiety forming in his throat. “Forgive me, my liege. I merely meant… I had no idea Oakhaven played a part in the War of Succession.”

  Julius looked back at Thaddeus as silent servants seamlessly swapped their plates. “Why, Thaddeus? Have you hidden your own family’s history from the boy? Do not tell me you have come to regret the treasonous gamble your father took back then.”

  Thaddeus’s spine stiffened. He replied in a carefully measured, formal tone. “Absolutely not, Emperor..."

  "Like my father, I regret how the era was shaped by blood.Fratricide is a sin no god has made provisions to forgive.”

  "But we both knew there was no other option"

  Julius offered a slow, sharp smile that didn't reach his eyes. “I host you for dinner, Thaddeus, and you pronounce me a sinner.”

  “That is not what I meant, Your Grace—”

  Julius stood, waving off the apology. He moved to a crystal decanter, pouring rich, blood-red wine into three glasses. “Relax, old friend,” the Emperor chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. “I am merely twisting the knife. I know where your loyalties lie.”

  He handed a glass to Thaddeus, then to Alistair. “So, the scholars are calling it a ‘War’ now, are they?”

  “It only had one true battle,” Thaddeus noted softly, accepting the glass. “But the death toll eclipsed many of the great crusades of antiquity.”

  “The Battle of Veridian Fields,” Alistair interjected, trying to find his footing in the conversation.

  “So you do know some of it.” Julius stood behind his chair, gripping the ornate wooden backing. He stared down at Alistair. “Tell me, young man. How do the historians spin the tale of how I won this crown?”

  Alistair let out a nervous, breathless laugh. “I confess, I am no scholar, my liege. I used to sleep through the history lectures. I always assumed it would be Marty’s job to handle the politics…”

  The name hung in the air, instantly suffocating the room. A profound, jagged sorrow flashed across Thaddeus’s face at the mention of his dead eldest son. Alistair immediately looked down, his own grief threatening to choke him.

  Julius, isolated in his absolute power, either failed to notice the shift or simply did not care. “Yes. But your brother is dead now,” the Emperor stated bluntly. “You must take the helm. You must learn to do what is expected of you—the good, the bad, and the unspeakable. You must know the secrets of your Empire, your family, and your King.” Julius took a slow sip of his wine. “Go on. Give me the academy’s version.”

  Alistair cleared his throat, pushing his grief down. “After the late Emperor died, you and your four brothers vied for the throne. The youngest, Quintus, was murdered by the eldest—the Tyrant, Marcus—right here in this palace. You and the remaining brothers, Lucius and Gais, fled. Gais died of illness, and Lucius’s rebellion failed.” Alistair paused, reciting the textbook lore. “You vanished for ten years. When you finally returned, you brought an army to Veridian Fields and struck the Tyrant down.”

  The weight of those ten missing years suddenly crashed down on Julius. The phantom weight of a sword, the smell of mud and magic. His knuckles whitened on the back of his chair before he slowly sank back into his seat.

  “You give me the sanitized, nursery-rhyme version,” Julius murmured, his voice laced with a strange, guilty melancholy. “I am disappointed, yet… it is not entirely untrue.” He picked up his fork, stabbing at his meat as if trying to kill the memories rising in his mind.

  Alistair, emboldened by the wine and the Emperor's vulnerability, asked, “May I ask a question, my liege?”

  Julius kept chewing, his eyes fixed on his plate. “Speak.”

  “How did you win? The histories say you were outnumbered five to one.”

  Julius pointed his silver knife toward Thaddeus. “For that, you must thank his father and grandfather. During my years of exile, I was little more than a vagabond. An adventurer, much like you were until recently. I bled alongside remarkable warriors. Some fought for coin, some for glory, and a rare few out of sheer, foolish loyalty.” Julius glanced up. “Do you remember them, old man?”

  Thaddeus picked up his own knife, bristling slightly at the moniker. “My hair may be white, Julius, but my mind is intact.” Thaddeus sliced his meat with surgical precision. “There was the Beastfolk vanguard, Badang.”

  “Ah, Badang,” Julius sighed, a genuine spark of fondness in his eyes. “A seven-foot brute to the untrained eye, but a tactical genius on the field. He broke Marcus’s left flank single-handedly.”

  “Then there were the Three Blessed,” Thaddeus continued. “Bellona the Fast, Sigrid the Cold, and Gideon the Mighty.”

  Alistair choked on his wine. “The Blessed?” He stared at the Emperor in awe. “You had warriors bearing the blessings of the Gods?”

  “Not Gods,” Julius corrected, swirling the crimson liquid in his glass. “Spirits.”

  “We did, however, have one Adept,” Thaddeus added quietly, his eyes fixed on his plate. “One who bore the power of an Angel’s blessing.”

  The moment the words left Thaddeus’s mouth, the atmosphere in the room shattered.

  The Emperor’s face crumbled. The mask of the ruthless conqueror dissolved, leaving behind only an old, broken man. Thaddeus visibly tensed, realizing he had stepped on a landmine.

  “Sybill,” Julius breathed. The name was a prayer, spoken with an agony that had fermented for half a century. Tears immediately pooled in the Emperor’s eyes. “Ah, sweet Sybill… the only woman I ever truly loved.”

  Thaddeus’s head snapped up. His eyes locked onto Alistair.

  Alistair sat paralyzed. The fork slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the gold plate.

  Sybill. A thousand memories of Faelan violently rushed through Alistair’s mind. Faelan’s rare, guarded mentions of a mother named Sybill. The bitter way Faelan spoke of the father who had abandoned them. The sad, longing smiles Faelan would give whenever Alistair joked warmly with Thaddeus. The deep, unspoken envy of a bastard who had never known his bloodline.

  The father Faelan had spent his life resenting—the father who had sired Alistair’s adventuring partner, his dearest companion, his lover—was sitting directly across the table, weeping into a cup of wine.

  Alistair’s lungs seized. A frantic urge to scream the truth clawed at his throat. He wanted to tell the Emperor that his blood lived, that Sybill had raised a son in the dirt while Julius sat on a throne of gold.

  But as Alistair opened his mouth, he met his father’s eyes.

  Thaddeus’s gaze was not soft. It was the terrifying, absolute glare of a patriarch who understood the lethal paranoia of kings. It was a silent, desperate command that screamed across the space between them.

  Don't.

  Alistair snapped his mouth shut, swallowing the explosive truth like swallowed glass. He looked down at his ruined meal, trembling in silence, allowing the Emperor of the realm to weep for a ghost.

  The dinner was far from over.