The Pale Citadel did not welcome visitors.
It tolerated them.
A fortress of bleached stone and bone-white marble, its walls curved inward like ribs, its towers spiraling upward like the vertebrae of a long-dead titan. Even the moonlight seemed afraid to touch it too long.
But tonight, it opened its gates.
Not for diplomats.
Not for kings.
Not even for war.
It opened because something older than both kingdoms and gods demanded entry.
A dead star.
And the Maskbearer.
I. The Queen Who Refused Her Fate
Queen Saelune waited on the citadel's highest balcony, her silhouette framed by banners embroidered with silver moons. Her hair—white as fresh snowfall—fell in straight curtains to her waist, stirred by winds that had not yet reached the ground.
Her eyes were the color of winter sunlight: pale, sharp, merciless.
She watched the Bloodthorn Envoys approach below and whispered,
"Announced— Three hundred years of peace unravel in a single night.
Just as they warned me."
Beside her, her Hand—Grand Seer Merathion—bowed his head. His blindfold glimmered with runes that flexed like trapped insects.
"Murmured— Your Majesty… the prophecy does not simply warn.
It corrects itself. It adjusts as you resist it."
Saelune's jaw tightened.
"I will not be written."
Below, the gates thundered open.
II. The Dead Star's Curse
The courtyard filled with pale light as the star—still chained—was carried inside. Stone cracked beneath its weight. The runes carved into its surface flickered like dying fireflies.
Every step the envoys took released a faint ringing sound, as though distant bells were warning the sky.
The Maskbearer followed silently.
Some soldiers tried to look at him.
None managed for more than a breath.
He wasn't invisible—just unacceptable to their mortal minds. A contradiction walking on two legs.
Inside the citadel, the star pulsed once more.
THUMP.
Veins of darkness spiderwebbed across the courtyard walls.
THUMP.
The fountain water turned black.
THUMP.
The queen flinched as she felt the pulse echo inside her chest—
—like a fist knocking against her ribs.
Merathion whispered,
"Hissed— It recognizes the blood of the ruling line."
Saelune steadied herself.
"Ignore it."
But the star pulsed again—
—and this time, the pulse spoke:
"THE FIRST BLOOD SHALL BETRAY."
Gasps echoed through the court.
Saelune's eyes sharpened.
"Questioned— Whose blood?
Mine? My ancestors? My heirs?"
The star did not answer.
It simply died again, going cold as stone.
III. The Envoys Present Their Warning
Envoy-Marshal Iskarel kneels.
Crimson vines kneel with him.
He places a gauntleted fist to the marble tiles.
Bloodthorn never bows, but they kneel to no one—they kneel to necessity.
"Announced— Your Majesty, the Bloodthorn Kingdom sends its warning.
Our dead star bears witness."
He gestures to the cracked relic.
"The Pale Herald is moving.
It hunts the royal lines.
It means to erase the Primordial Concepts themselves."
Murmurs ripple through the courtiers.
Saelune lifts a hand; silence falls instantly.
"Replied— You expect me to trust you? Bloodthorn has tried to bleed my people more times than the sky has shed rain."
Iskarel's helm shifts slightly.
"Explained— Then consider our presence a debt repaid.
And a plea for survival."
Saelune almost smiles.
"Bloodthorn begging for aid. The stars truly are dying."
IV. The Maskbearer Speaks the Unforgivable
For the first time since entering the citadel, the Maskbearer raises his head toward the queen.
The crack across his mask pulses faintly.
Everyone in the courtyard holds their breath.
He murmurs,
"Answered— She will not help you, Iskarel.
Because she already knows the truth."
Saelune stiffens.
The crowd freezes.
"Questioned— And what truth is that, Maskbearer?"
He takes one step forward.
The air flinches around him.
"Replied— Your bloodline is the one that betrays the first kingdom.
The dead star revealed the traitor."
Gasps.
Cries.
A few guards instinctively draw blades before remembering who—what—they face.
Saelune's voice drops into ice.
"You dare."
The Maskbearer tilts his head.
"Explained— I do not dare. I simply observe.
Your ancestor bargained with the Pale Herald long ago.
Tonight, the debt matures."
The queen's hand trembles.
Only once.
Merathion, the Seer, whispers urgently,
"Muttered— Majesty, he speaks in riddles. Do not let him unmake your resolve."
But the queen's gaze never leaves the Maskbearer.
"Snarled— You claim my house summoned the end of empires?"
"Replied— Not summoned.
Invited."
V. The Citadel Reacts
The runes along the citadel's ribs flare to life, summoning light from deep within the stone. The entire fortress shudders like an awakened beast.
The Maskbearer steps back.
Not from fear—
—but because the citadel itself is trying to rewrite him out.
Merathion chants under his breath.
Iskarel raises a defensive arm.
Soldiers recoil as the dead star begins vibrating violently.
Then—
CRACK.
A fissure splits down the star's center, releasing a thread of black radiance that spirals upward and carves a hole through the roof.
A voice—cold, distant, familiar only in nightmares—whispers into every skull:
"THE FIRST KINGDOM FALLS
WHEN THE QUEEN REFUSES HER NAME."
Saelune drops to one knee.
Her name—her true celestial name—burns on her tongue like molten silver. She clutches her throat.
Merathion screams,
"Cried— Do not speak it! If you accept your script, you belong to them!"
Iskarel lunges forward.
Guards rush toward their queen.
The Maskbearer moves last—
—but fastest.
He catches Saelune before she collapses entirely, steadying her with one gloved hand.
His voice is quieter now:
"Murmured— Do not kneel to prophecy.
Stand. Rewrite it."
Her breath shudders.
But she stands.
Barely.
VI. The First Crack in the Alliance
Saelune forces her voice to steady.
"Announced— Bloodthorn, Maskbearer, hear me.
I will not bow to fate—nor to you.
But I will walk beside those who refuse to be written."
Iskarel bows his head.
The Maskbearer nods—once.
The queen steps toward the dead star, now an empty husk.
She touches it.
The surface sizzles under her fingers.
"Vowed— Let the sky hear this.
If a kingdom must fall first…
it will not be mine."
The citadel lights dim.
The prophecy fades.
But the crack in the sky remains—
—a thin, trembling wound that leaks starlight like blood.
And from somewhere beyond it, something vast begins to turn its attention toward the mortal world.
Toward the first kingdom.
Toward the Maskbearer.
Toward the queen who refuses her fate.
And the fall begins.