Since the departure of Ash and Nia, the Solace Kingdom had rotted from the inside faster than any invading army ever could. Five days was all it took for pride to curdle into panic, for golden banners to hang limp with shame.
King Caelum stood alone in the royal bedchamber that still smelled of jasmine and betrayal, veins bulging at his temples like molten cracks in marble. The silk sheets remained twisted exactly as Lyssandra had left them the last night.... he thought he owned her, but now the air was thick with her perfume now turned mocking and sour.
On the floor glittered the shattered remains of the delicate silver wrist-collar he had locked around her throat himself, its broken links scattered like dead stars. Beneath one jagged shard lay a scrap of black cloth, the crimson ink still wet enough to gleam.
'Dear Bastard.
Wash Your Neck, Cause I'm Back
Love… or more like hate to love
Sandra~'
Golden flames erupted from Caelum's palms without warning, devouring cloth and words in a single furious heartbeat until only grey ash drifted across the marble like snow made of rage.
"This bitch!" he roared, the sound cracking crystal chandeliers and sending servants scurrying in the halls beyond. Boots struck the floor hard enough to spiderweb stone as he stormed out, leaving the ruined room to choke on its own ghosts.
----
Meanwhile, in a kingdom that had forgotten the sun's face, a lone figure drifted through streets bathed in bruised violet twilight. Ebonreach existed beneath a sky of perpetual storm, black clouds so low they scraped the spires, threaded with slow veins of violet lightning that never quite struck the ground. Polished obsidian pavement reflected the sickly green witch-fire that hissed in iron braziers instead of honest torches, every flame cold and hungry.
Buildings rose like broken blades of night glass and bone-white stone, windows glowing emerald with light that hurt to look at directly. Bridges of dark metal arched over rivers of liquid shadow that whispered secrets older than the kingdom itself, and the air tasted of cold iron, old blood, and the promise of screams yet to come.
Citizens moved in total silence, cloaks of raven feathers and midnight wool brushing the ground, eyes fixed on nothing, because looking up too long invited questions no one survived answering. Above everything clawed the palace, one colossal shard of obsidian carved into a fortress, its spires shaped like desperate fingers trying to tear the storm open.
A hooded man, six-foot-two, neck-length black hair framing golden eyes that caught the witch-light like coins at the bottom of a well, slipped through the crowd as if the shadows themselves parted for him. At the inner gates, towering slabs of black steel etched with screaming faces that seemed to move when no one stared directly, the guards dropped to their knees the instant he lowered his hood a fraction.
Recognition was a blade sharper than any order.
He continued into corridors where banners of deep crimson and black hung like flayed skins.
Waiting at the war-council threshold stood a woman in charcoal silk robes embroidered with silver runes that crawled when read too long. Long white hair braided tight against her skull, smoked-glass spectacles, blood-red lips, thin iron circlet marking her Royal Archivist.
In gloved hands she cradled a tablet of polished bone etched with glowing violet script.
"Is everyone gathered?" the man asked, already reaching for the ebony doors.
"Yes, my liege," she answered, voice crisp as frost on steel. "The Twelve are seated. We have been ready to march since the day Ebonreach was born."
He paused, pinched her cheek with lazy affection. "Oh, Mia, you know better than to call me that. The King is the King. I'm just a mere advisor."
Then he pushed the doors wide and stepped inside, cloak sliding from his shoulders to pool on the floor like spilled shadow. Twelve figures turned as one. At the far end, on a throne of black iron laced with the bones of dead monarchs, sat a mountain in spiked armor, beard braided with rings torn from conquered kings.
"Advisor Aster," the King rumbled, voice grinding stone against stone. "You're mightily late."
"My apologies," Aster replied, golden eyes gleaming as he took his place at the King's right hand, the faint smile on his lips the exact curve of a serpent tasting air. "I got a bit held up in matters regarding the Kingdom."
The King leaned forward, knuckles cracking against the armrest. "For seven years we have waited, bled, and sharpened our blades in the dark. Now the world of Elaris will learn what true power sleeps beneath these clouds. We march north, straight through the soft belly of the land, and we do not stop until every crown kneels or burns."
Aster listened, head tilted, mental notes stacking like cards in a deck only he could see. North meant Solace first, then the trade cities, then the Voss Dominion itself.
Predictable and Sloppy
"That's not advisable," Aster spoke up, soft as silk sliding over steel.
Every head snapped toward him. The King's brow furrowed like storm clouds colliding.
"If we continue on that path, we will bump into the Voss Kingdom," Aster continued, voice calm, almost bored. "It will be inevitable."
"So what?" a scarred general snarled, slamming a fist on the table. "Ebonreach is not afraid of those bastards."
Aster shook his head, the smile never touching his eyes.
'I truly hate dense idiots.' He thought before speaking
"For quite some time now, I've had an eye on the Voss Kingdom, or more specifically, Kale Voss. The first SSS-rank talent in recorded history. Because of that, I followed his movements, his trail… and it's weird. Too weird."
He let the silence stretch just long enough for discomfort to settle.
"Three kingdoms in six months. Not through war, not through siege, not through wagers of strength. It's as if he walks in and the crowns change hands before sunset. Not only that... Kings visit the Voss palace days, sometimes weeks, before their own thrones are emptied." He spoke.
'Tsk, even that lousy father of mine went.' He thought as the room fell so quiet the witch-fire outside the windows sounded like screaming.
"Your insight has yet to fail us," the puppet King finally grunted, leaning back. "You're important to my regime for a reason. I trust your word."
Aster inclined his head, the picture of humble gratitude.
Inside the mirrored palace of his mind, the snake smiled wide enough to swallow the world.
'Ahh, once the final pieces align… I will be the winner of it all~'