The snow falling over the capital of the Tri-Union Empire was not white. It was a bruised, heavy grey, thick with the soot of the Iron Principalities' factories and the necrotic dust of the Southern Sun Sands. It did not flutter; it fell like lead, coating the world in a shroud of industrial filth.
Kazimir von Ra stood outside the massive obsidian doors of the Grand Celestial Hall, shivering.
It was not the cold that made him tremble, though the temperature was thirty degrees below freezing a standard evening for the Frost Tzardom's territory. It was the pain inside his own veins. It felt as if someone had replaced his blood with crushed glass.
He looked down at his hands. They were pale, almost translucent, the blue veins stark against the skin. Faint, jagged scars ran up his wrists markings not of battle, but of medical extraction.
Just a little more, he told himself, clutching the lapels of his coat.
The coat was a relic of a better time. It was a heavy, military-style trench coat of midnight blue wool, embroidered with the golden threads of the Ra lineage and lined with the silver wolf fur of the Von family. But the gold was tarnished, the fur moth-eaten, and the wool threadbare at the elbows. It was a garment for a prince, worn by a beggar.
Tonight changes everything.
Kazimir forced himself to stand straighter, ignoring the spasm of agony in his chest. His mana channels—the spiritual arteries that allowed a noble to wield magic—were "knotted." That was the polite medical term. In reality, they were a war zone. The aggressive, orderly Steel mana of his father fought the chaotic, wild Frost mana of his mother, while the ancient, burning Sun mana of his grandfather tried to scorch them both.
He was a biological glitch. A "Mongrel."
But Elara had promised.
"Your blood is special, Kaz," she had whispered three years ago, her fingers tracing his jawline. "It's dense. Potent. If you let me borrow just a little... I can become strong enough for the both of us. And when I am a High Mage, I will heal you. I will elevate you."
He had given her everything. Week after week, he had let her siphon his life force, his latent mana, leaving him bedridden and vomiting black bile while she grew radiant. She had risen from a minor Baron's daughter to a candidate for the Court Mages.
Tonight was the Winter Solstice Ball. The night she would be officially recognized. The night she had promised to announce their engagement to the Empire.
The massive steam-pistons flanking the cathedral-like doors hissed, releasing a cloud of white vapor that smelled of ozone and myrrh. The gears ground together with a sound like dying thunder, and the doors began to open.
Music spilled out. It was a heavy, rhythmic waltz, played by an orchestra of automatons and necromancers.
Kazimir took a breath of the freezing, sooty air. He checked his reflection in the polished black steel of the doorframe. His angular face was gaunt, his amber eyes sunken, his jaw shadowed by exhaustion. He looked like a ghost haunting his own life.
She will fix this, he thought, stepping over the threshold. She loves me.
The heat inside the Grand Celestial Hall was a physical blow. It smelled of roasted boar, expensive flowery perfumes, and the copper tang of active magic.
The hall was a architectural monstrosity of the three cultures, terrifying and beautiful. The ceiling was a holographic projection of the Egyptian night sky, with stars that actually burned. The pillars were columns of German black steel, engraved with defensive runes that hummed with a low bass note. The floor was Russian crystal, so clear it looked like walking on a frozen lake, with enchanted koi fish swimming beneath the nobles' feet.
Kazimir's boots, worn and leaking melted snow, squeaked on the crystal floor.
The sound seemed to cut through the music.
Heads turned.
The nobility of the Tri-Union were not subtle creatures. To his left, a Duke from the Iron Principalities stood seven feet tall, his left arm replaced by a steam-powered hydraulic claw, sipping wine from a goblet made of a skull. To his right, a Duchess from the Frost lands wore a gown made of living ice that misted around her feet, flanked by two chained snow-leopards.
When they saw Kazimir, the conversation didn't stop—it changed frequency.
"Is that him?" a whisper floated through the air, sharp as a dagger.
"The Von Ra failure."
"Look at him. He looks like a corpse that forgot to lay down."
"Why is a Mongrel allowed at the Solstice?"
"I heard he has no affinity. Three bloodlines, and he can't even light a candle."
Kazimir kept his eyes forward, fixing his gaze on the far end of the hall where the Imperial Throne sat empty. He had learned long ago to become deaf to the word Mongrel. It was the favorite slur of the Purebloods. In the Tri-Union, purity was power. Mixing the bloodlines diluted the connection to the ancestral gods—or so the church claimed. Kazimir was living proof of their doctrine: a man with three heritages and zero power.
He navigated the crowd, moving like a shadow avoiding the light. He bumped into the shoulder of a young Knight clad in polished solar-plate armor.
"Watch it, trash," the Knight snapped, shoving Kazimir back.
Kazimir stumbled, his weak legs barely holding him up. He muttered an apology, head bowed, and hurried past. He couldn't make a scene. Not tonight.
Then, he saw her.
The crowd near the dais parted like the Red Sea. Standing beneath the golden light of a floating chandelier was Lady Elara.
Kazimir's breath hitched. She was breathtaking.
She wore a gown of woven sunlight—literal photon-threads harvested from the Sun Sands. It clung to her curves like liquid gold, radiating a gentle warmth that he could feel from twenty meters away. Her hair, a cascade of honey-blonde curls, was adorned with a tiara of stardust diamonds.
She looked like a goddess. She looked like his goddess.
But she wasn't looking for him.
She was laughing, her hand resting delicately on the bicep of a man standing next to her.
Kazimir froze.
The man was tall, broad-shouldered, and exuded an aura of suffocating arrogance. He wore the charcoal-grey military dress uniform of the Iron Principalities, but his epaulets were solid platinum. His eyes were the color of gunmetal, cold and hard.
Crown Prince Viktor von Eisenberg. The strongest Steel User of his generation. A Pureblood supremacist who had publicly advocated for the sterilization of mixed-breeds.
Why is she with him? Kazimir's mind raced, panic fluttering in his chest like a trapped bird. It must be protocol. She is a top mage candidate now. She has to court the favor of the royals.
As if sensing his gaze, Elara turned.
Her eyes, bright blue and glowing with mana, met Kazimir's amber ones.
For a second, Kazimir smiled, a weak, hopeful expression that cracked his pale face. He took a half-step forward, ready to go to her side.
Elara didn't smile back.
She looked at him with the same expression one might have when spotting a cockroach on a wedding cake. Mild annoyance. Disgust. And... boredom.
She leaned up and whispered something into Prince Viktor's ear.
The Prince looked at Kazimir. A cruel grin slowly spread across his face, sharp enough to cut glass. He nodded to the conductor.
The music stopped abruptly. The silence that followed was heavy, pressing down on the hall like a physical weight.
"Lords and Ladies of the Tri-Union," Elara's voice rang out. She didn't need to shout; a Wind-rune pinned to her dress amplified her voice, carrying it to every corner of the vast hall.
Kazimir's heart hammered against his ribs. This is it. She's going to call me up. She's going to explain everything.
"Tonight is a celebration of purity," Elara continued, her voice melodious and sweet. "A celebration of strength. As many of you know, I have recently advanced to the rank of Sun-Caller. My mana capacity has tripled."
Polite applause rippled through the room. Kazimir clapped the hardest, his hands trembling.
"However," Elara's face grew solemn, a mask of practiced tragedy. "Progress requires shedding dead weight. For the past three years, I have been burdened by a regrettable charitable endeavor."
Kazimir's hands stopped clapping. Charitable endeavor?
"I was young and naive," Elara sighed, walking to the edge of the dais. She looked directly at Kazimir. "I believed that even the most tainted, broken things could be fixed. I entered an engagement with Kazimir von Ra out of pity. I thought his mixed blood could be purified."
The room went deathly silent. Every eye turned to Kazimir. He felt stripped naked, exposed to the freezing scrutiny of a thousand predators.
"Elara?" he whispered, though no one heard him.
"But I was wrong," Elara declared, her voice hardening. "Science and magic agree. A Mongrel is a genetic dead end. Dirty blood cannot be cleaned. It can only be discarded."
She reached into the bodice of her dress and pulled out a scroll—their engagement contract. It was bound in red ribbon.
With a flick of her wrist, she ignited a small flame on her fingertip. The Sun-fire was bright and pure. She touched it to the paper.
"I, Lady Elara of House Solis, hereby annul my engagement to the Mongrel, Kazimir."
As the paper curled into ash, something inside Kazimir snapped. It wasn't just his heart; it was the fragile delusion that had kept him alive for three years of sickness and pain.
"No," Kazimir choked out.
The crowd began to titter. Soft laughter, hidden behind fans and goblets.
"Furthermore," Elara smiled, and this time, it was a smile of pure malice. "I am pleased to announce that my compatibility with true greatness has been confirmed. Tonight, I pledge myself to His Highness, Crown Prince Viktor."
The applause was thunderous. The Prince stepped forward, wrapping a heavy arm around Elara's waist, staking his claim.
Kazimir didn't think. He didn't calculate. For the first time in his life, the rage burned hotter than the pain in his veins.
He lurched forward, his boots slipping on the crystal floor. "You... you can't!"
His voice was hoarse, cracking under the strain. He pushed past a startled Duke, stumbling toward the dais.
"Elara!" he screamed, the sound raw and ugly. "I gave you everything! My blood! My life! You said... you said I was your savior!"
The crowd gasped. A Mongrel screaming at a future Princess? It was heresy.
Elara looked down at him from the raised platform. She didn't look angry. She looked amused.
"Savior?" she laughed, the sound tinkling like broken glass. "Oh, Kazimir. You weren't a savior. You were a battery."
She stepped closer to the edge, looking down at him with genuine pity. "Your mongrel blood is chaotic. It's useless for casting spells, but it's wonderfully dense with raw energy. I didn't love you, darling. I was simply drinking you dry. And now? You're empty. You're a husk."
She waved her hand dismissively. "Take out the trash."
Kazimir reached the bottom of the stairs, his hand outstretched, fingers hooked like claws. He wanted to tear that smile off her face.
"You witch—"
BOOM.
The air in front of him exploded.
A boot clad in heavy steel slammed into Kazimir's chest with the force of a hydraulic press.
There was a sickening crunch of bone. Kazimir was lifted off his feet, flying backward through the air. He crashed onto the crystal floor, sliding ten meters, leaving a smear of dark, unhealthy blood on the pristine surface.
He tried to inhale, but his lungs were filled with fluid. He coughed, and red spray coated his chin.
Crown Prince Viktor stood over him, lowering his leg. The Prince's steel boots were glowing with a faint grey aura—Impact Reinforcement.
"You dare approach her?" Viktor's voice was a low growl, vibrating with mana. "You dare speak to my betrothed with that filth-stained mouth?"
Kazimir tried to push himself up. His arms shook uncontrollably. His vision was swimming in black spots. "She... she is a liar..."
Viktor walked over, his heavy footsteps echoing like doom. He stopped right next to Kazimir's head.
"She is a Pureblood," Viktor said simply. "And you are a mistake."
Viktor raised his hand. The mana in the room surged, gravitating toward him. The steel decorative swords hanging on the nearby pillars began to rattle.
"Please," Kazimir wheezed. Not begging for his life, but for the truth. He looked at Elara past Viktor's legs. She was checking her fingernails, bored.
That apathy hurt more than the broken ribs.
"This creature has insulted the Royal Family," Viktor announced to the room. "And his very existence is an insult to the purity of our Empire."
Viktor grabbed the collar of Kazimir's coat—the coat with the family crests. With a effortless rip, he tore the embroidery away. The golden thread of Ra, the silver fur of Von—shredded.
"I strip you of your names," Viktor spat. "You are no longer Von. You are no longer Ra. You are nothing."
He kicked Kazimir again, this time in the stomach. Kazimir curled into a ball, retching.
"Guards!" Viktor barked.
Two hulking automatons, gears grinding, stomped forward. They were disposal units, smelling of grease and old rust. They grabbed Kazimir by his arms, dragging him across the floor. His legs trailed uselessly behind him.
"Where shall we dispose of the waste, Your Highness?" one of the automatons droned in a mechanical monotone.
Viktor smiled. "The Winter Solstice is a time for cleaning, isn't it? Throw him in the Rift beneath the foundation. Let the horrors have him."
The crowd gasped. The Rift beneath the castle—the "Dungeon of the Discarded"—was a natural tear in reality that the capital was built over to suppress. It was where they threw failed magical experiments, cursed artifacts, and political prisoners who needed to vanish. No one had ever returned.
Elara finally looked up. She met Kazimir's dying gaze one last time. She blew him a kiss.
"Goodbye, little battery."
The journey to the bowels of the castle was a blur of pain and darkness. Kazimir drifted in and out of consciousness, feeling the cold metal of the automatons' grip and the descent of a rattling service elevator.
Finally, the movement stopped. The air here was stale, thick with the smell of sulfur and rot.
"Disposal sequence initiated," the machine chirped.
Kazimir was hauled to the edge of a precipice. Below him was infinite darkness. A void that seemed to breathe.
He didn't struggle. He couldn't. His body was broken. His mana channels were burned out. His heart... his heart was just a lump of cold coal.
Is this it? he thought, staring into the abyss. Born a mongrel. Used as a tool. Died as trash.
Hatred, cold and sharp, pierced through his despair. He didn't want to rest. He didn't want peace. He wanted to watch their world burn. He wanted to wrap his hands around Viktor's throat. He wanted to see fear in Elara's eyes.
I curse you, he thought, screaming it inside his mind. I curse you all to the stillness of the grave.
The automatons released him.
Kazimir fell.
The wind roared in his ears. The darkness swallowed him whole. He fell for seconds, or maybe hours. The sensation of gravity vanished, replaced by a suffocating pressure.
CRACK.
He hit the ground.
It wasn't stone. It cushioned his fall, snapping beneath him.
Kazimir groaned, his body screaming in protest. He opened his eyes. It was pitch black, but he could feel what he was lying on.
Bones. Thousands of them. Ribcages of beasts, skulls of men, femurs of giants. A mountain of calcium and death.
He coughed, spitting out a tooth. He tried to move his legs, but he couldn't feel them. His spine was likely shattered.
So this is how I die, he thought, staring up at the nothingness. Alone in the dark.
"You are loud."
The voice didn't come from the air. It vibrated directly into his skull. It sounded like the grinding of tectonic plates, ancient and impossibly heavy.
Kazimir froze. He wasn't alone.
"Your soul," the voice continued, echoing with a strange, metallic distortion. "It is screeching. It smells of... betrayal."
A sound echoed in the cavernous dark. Click. Clack. Click. Clack.
Metal steps.
Kazimir strained his neck, forcing his head to turn.
Thirty meters away, a light flickered into existence. It wasn't a torch or a spell. It was a pair of eyes.
They were glowing with a terrifying, crimson luminosity. Vertical slits, like a dragon or a viper.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim red light emanating from the figure, Kazimir saw her.
She was sitting on a throne made of black obsidian and skulls, encased in a barrier of translucent amber that looked like it had been there for a thousand years.
She was massive. Even seated, she loomed. She wore armor of jagged, blackened steel that seemed fused to her skin, etched with glowing red runes that hurt to look at. Her skin was the color of dark bronze, flawless and hard as stone. Her hair was a cascading river of liquid silver that floated around her head as if underwater.
But it was her presence that terrified him. The air around her twisted and warped. Reality itself seemed to glitch near her throne.
The woman in the amber prison leaned forward, her chin resting on a gauntleted fist. She looked at Kazimir—the broken, bleeding boy on the pile of bones.
She didn't look at him like Elara had—like he was a bug.
She looked at him like a predator looking at a curious piece of meat.
"Tell me, little mongrel," she said, and the pile of bones beneath Kazimir rattled from the force of her voice. "Do you desire death? Or do you desire to kill them?"
Kazimir coughed, blood bubbling on his lips. He looked at the monster in the dark. He should be afraid. He should be praying to the gods.
But the gods had abandoned him.
Kazimir bared his bloody teeth in a rictus grin.
"I want..." Kazimir rasped, his voice barely a whisper, yet echoing in the silence. "I want... to kill them all."
The woman in the throne smiled. It was a terrifying expression, revealing teeth that were too sharp to be human.
The amber barrier cracked.
"Good answer."