Iron-Grip Fortress, Northern Border of the Ourem Empire.
The northern wind brought more than just snow; it carried the rancid stench of death. Prince Harold de Croul gripped the hilt of his rusted sword, his eyes—as black as the night—staring at the rows of creatures crawling at the foot of the hills. They had once been human—perhaps farmers or war-torn remnants—but now their bodies were bloated, their skin a bruised blue, with bones jutting out of their backs like failed wings.
"Hold the line!" Harold roared. His voice was hoarse, eroded by the freezing air that crystallized in his lungs.
Beside him, a young soldier trembled violently. His hand clutched a small vial containing a golden liquid sealed with the insignia of the Sainticous Church. "General... the priests said this 'Holy Blood' would grant us the strength of angels. We will die if we don't drink it!"
Harold snatched the vial from the soldier's hand and smashed it against a rock. The liquid spilled, hissing, and within seconds, the hard stone beneath them began to corrode into a black hole.
"That is no blessing, lad," Harold hissed, his eyes flashing with fury. "It is a poison that will turn you into one of those things down there. If you must die, die as a man, not as a monster belonging to the Pope."
Suddenly, a piercing shriek split the storm. The creatures charged. Harold lunged forward, his blade slashing the throat of the first mutant. Instead of red blood, a thick black fluid sprayed across his dull silver armor. Harold felt a surge of overwhelming nausea; every strike felt as though he were butchering the remnants of a humanity betrayed by its own throne.
Ourem Capital, House of Duke Vain.
Three hundred miles from the bloodshed, Lady Anne Marie Vain sat before her mahogany desk, buried under stacks of ledgers and logistics reports. The candlelight danced in her eyes—the color of liquid gold—reflecting a deadly composure.
In her hand, a secret report revealed a horrifying truth: ten thousand tons of grain meant for the Northern Border had "disappeared" into warehouses belonging to Baron families loyal to William. In their place, crates of 'Holy Blood' had been shipped in massive quantities.
"They are intentionally starving Harold so he is forced to use the concoction," Anne murmured. Her slender fingers turned her silver pocket watch. Tick. Tock. Tick. A servant entered, face pale. "My Lady... a message from the palace. Prince William has signed the decree. Your engagement will be annulled tomorrow morning before the council of nobles. The reason given is... your inability to provide 'spiritual warmth' for the throne."
Anne was not surprised. She didn't even look up. "Spiritual warmth? William only wants a doll he can flaunt at the altar, not a woman who knows exactly how much gold he has stolen from the bellies of his people."
Anne took a thin strip of parchment. With black ink, she wrote a code understood only by her embryonic Silent Choir network.
The eagle must fly tonight. Provide the coordinates of the 4th underground warehouse to the Wolf in the North. Tell him this marriage is no longer about love, but about how we avoid dying at the hands of our own kin.
She stared out the window at the Grand Cathedral, its spires clawing at the sky like the talons of a predator.
"You want the Saintess of the prophecy, William?" Anne whispered into the darkness. "Take her. But you will realize that the crown you dream of is forged from the bones of the very people you betrayed."
The Village at the Forest's Edge.
In a small cottage hidden by ancient oak trees, a girl woke up gasping for air. Rainnes Juoi touched her neck. The wooden rosary she had worn since infancy felt blistering hot.
She walked to the fogged window, wiping it slightly to peer outside. There, under the pale moonlight, thousands of small red-eyed rats marched across the snow, all facing south. Toward the Capital.
Rainnes shuddered. She did not yet know that her name had just been whispered by a power-hungry Prince, and that her fate had been sealed by a woman hungry for bloody justice.