"Five minutes before the rebels could come here," Hans said, turning his blindfolded gaze toward Zeji, as though he could see him through the fabric.
"We did it."
He stepped forward slowly, his voice calm yet heavy with exhaustion.
"Mhm… we did it," Zeji mumbled back, his words ragged. His chest rose and fell as though each breath cost him, and his once-sharp eyes now dulled under the toll of the magic he had unleashed. From his left eye, not tears but blood streaked down his cheek.
"Brother!"
Both of them turned at the sudden cry. Aquila burst into the throne hall—her steps faltered, her body freezing halfway in horror. Her gaze darted across the carnage: the corpses of her brothers, the blood staining the marble, the ruin of her family line. And then—her eyes landed on the Emperor, slumped and unmoving on the throne. Grief flooded her features, followed swiftly by disgust.
"It's over now…" Zeji whispered, his voice barely more than breath. His knees wavered, and he began to topple, only for Aquila to rush forward and catch him in her trembling arms.
"It is…" Aquila's voice cracked, tears brimming as she saw her proud brother reduced to this broken, bleeding state.
For a long moment, they simply clung to each other, siblings reunited in silence after years of distance.
"You should go…" Zeji murmured, his breath weak against her shoulder.
"What about you?" Aquila's voice shook with worry.
"I'll be… fine." He forced his heavy gaze up at her. His eyes softened, fragile warmth breaking through the exhaustion. "You should go to her…"
Aquila froze, her lips parting. "…You knew?"
"How could I not? You're my dear sister," Zeji rasped with a faint laugh.
Her chest tightened painfully, tears spilling freely. Zeji reached for her hand, pressing a small folded parchment into her palm.
"Take this to the Empire of Peris. They will… help you," he whispered, his hand trembling as it rose to brush her cheek.
Aquila clutched his wrist, as if anchoring him to her, but Zeji's eyes already carried a distant sadness. "This Empire… will soon fall," he breathed.
"Will I see you again?" Aquila's voice broke completely.
Zeji's lips curled into the first gentle smile she had seen from him in years. "Yes… you will."
She closed her eyes, muffling her sobs against his chest, hugging him with all her strength. For a fleeting heartbeat, it felt as though they were children again, before politics, betrayal, and blood tore their family apart.
But then Zeji slowly pulled away, his hands gentle as he pushed her back. "Now, go."
Aquila wiped her tears, her body shaking, and nodded. She turned away, her steps heavy, each one carrying her further from the chains of the cruel empire that had suffocated them all. Zeji stood still, watching her retreating figure, a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips. His thoughts strayed, unbidden, to the Princess of Nexus.
"I hope… she'll protect my sister," he murmured, his voice fragile.
The sound of rushing footsteps echoed through the grand hall. The rebels were almost here.
Zeji turned to Hans. "It's time…" His voice wavered as he stepped closer, leaning against Hans's shoulder, his body weak but his heart strangely at peace.
"You did great… Your Highness," Hans said softly, his hand resting atop Zeji's head in quiet comfort.
A low laugh escaped Zeji's lips, tender and bittersweet. His tired eyes met Hans's, and for once, the mask of the prince fell away. "I'm glad… I met you."
Hans's lips parted, as if to respond, but the words never came. Zejidiah leaned forward, closing the distance between them. Their lips met—not with violence or desperation, but with a softness that spoke of years of unspoken promises. It was a fleeting vow, sealed too late.
Tears slipped from Zeji's eyes just as Hans's blade slipped into his stomach. His body jolted, blood spilling warm and fast, and yet—even as agony tore through him—he smiled faintly. He staggered back, collapsing to his knees.
Hans dropped down with him, cradling him as though Zeji were something fragile and precious.
"You did great…" Hans repeated, his voice breaking.
Zeji's vision blurred, his breaths shallow. "Do you think… I'll see Mother…?" His words were faint, trembling on the edge of death.
Hans gave a weak, almost bitter chuckle. "Don't be silly… we're both going to hell."
Zeji let out a ghost of a laugh, his eyes distant. Then silence claimed him. The light in the Third Prince's eyes flickered—and went out.
Hans trembled as he closed Zeji's eyes, pressing one last kiss to his lips. His voice broke as he whispered, "You… stubborn man."
When the outcome was so inevitably heart-wrecking our ending was nearing,
perhaps If the constellations hadn't been so adamant we would receive a different ending.
With slow, deliberate movements, he picked up Zeji's small knife. Without hesitation, he dragged it across his own throat, his blood spilling as he fell forward, collapsing atop the prince he had served, loved, and killed.
When the rebels stormed the throne hall, they froze in shock. The grand chamber reeked of blood and death. Dead royals, a slain emperor, and two bodies entwined in eternal rest. For a heartbeat, silence suffocated the room.
Then came the first cry of triumph—loud, raw, desperate. The sound spread like fire, until the hall erupted with cheers and laughter, the people celebrating the end of the old regime, blind to the tragedy that had birthed their victory.
The Empire of Feltogora had fallen.
But it was never over.
Across the storm-lashed sea from the Nexus Kingdom lay the Empire of Tartagalia, a land whispered of in dread by sailors and merchants. Its spires rose like blackened fangs against the sky, its banners heavy with the weight of blood-soaked conquest.
In the cavernous throne chamber of Tartagalia, torches flickered dimly, shadows crawling across walls carved with reliefs of past wars. At the heart of it all sat the young Emperor. His long crimson hair fell like a curtain of fire, and his eyes—ghastly white, faintly glowing—pierced through the dark as if he were some ancient phantom.
Before him, a thousand armored knights knelt as one, the weight of their silence pressing into the cold stone floor. The sound of their breathing echoed like a beast waiting to be unleashed.
A scarred warrior—a woman tanned by countless campaigns, her skin marred by jagged reminders of battle—stepped forward, falling to one knee before her Emperor.
"Your Imperial Majesty," her gravelly voice carried through the chamber, "the Empire of Feltogora has fallen."
The words lingered in the air like smoke.
The Emperor's lips curved into something between amusement and disdain. With a single, lazy flick of his hand—an almost careless gesture—he condemned an entire continent.
"Kill everyone across that filthy sea."
The silence shattered. The knights roared, the sound deafening, their voices thundering off the chamber walls like the crashing of waves.
The Emperor leaned forward, resting his chin upon one pale knuckle, and his tone dropped into a languid drawl. "Ready me a naval ship, Navea."
The scarred warrior bowed lower, her forehead nearly to the stone. "Yes, my lord." She rose, her armor groaning as she turned to carry out his order, leaving only the echo of her boots and the thunder of the knights' chants.
The Emperor tilted his head, fingers brushing across his left eye. A scar stretched jagged and raw across it, the flesh puckered as though it still burned with the agony of that day. His smile widened, grotesque and trembling at the edges.
"I should meet again with the girl who gave me this shitty scar…" he muttered, his voice both venomous and yearning.
His nails dug into the scar until fresh blood pricked his skin. The pain only widened his grin. He saw her in his mind—her cold blue eyes cutting through him like a blade, the defiance that had left him broken and marked forever.
His breathing grew heavy, erratic. His pale cheeks flushed red, and his twisted smile curved into something too close to hunger.
"Ah… my wonderful Princess Stella…" he whispered, almost reverently, almost as if in prayer.
But his tone carried no love—only obsession.
The torches guttered as though the very fire recoiled from his words.
The Empire of Tartagalia stirred, its armies rising, its ships being readied. Across the sea, a new storm was coming—and it hungered for blood.