The tunnels under the capital had never known silence. Even before the fall, they pulsed with the muffled rhythm of the streets above—merchants shouting, carriages rattling, the hum of a city that believed itself eternal. Now all that noise had turned to ash. Only the slow drip of water and the shuffle of rats remained.Lucien walked with a torch held low, the flame tracing the outlines of carved arches older than any living dynasty. Every turn carried him farther from the world he once ruled. The smoke from the burning city seeped through cracks overhead, curling into shapes that reminded him of faces—councilmen, generals, lovers—all lost to the fire.He reached a cavern where the ceiling had collapsed years ago. Broken statues jutted from the rubble: headless emperors, wings chipped from angels. In the center stood an iron gate, rusted but solid. Beyond it lay the forgotten reservoir that had supplied the royal baths centuries ago.Lucien pried the gate open with the tip of his swor

The moon hung low and pale, veiled behind clouds that looked like the bruises of heaven. The forest slept in silence, broken only by the rhythmic clink of steel and the whisper of blades slicing through air. In the heart of that silence, the fallen emperor stood — no longer a sovereign draped in silk and gold, but a man reborn in shadow and grit.Days had blurred into nights since the flight from Valenfort. The ruins of the capital had faded behind them, replaced by damp soil, hard roots, and the quiet breath of exile. The emperor had stripped himself of titles, shedding the name that once commanded legions and fear. To the few that followed him, he was no longer “Your Majesty.” He was simply the Commander.A flicker of torchlight revealed rows of soldiers training among the trees — men and women who had lost everything, their hands bloodied but unbroken. They struck at dummies made from bark and straw, fought with crude spears and half-shattered swords. And through every strike, ever

Lira could not sleep.Even as the silk sheets tangled around her legs, and the firelight danced against the chamber walls, the weight of her choices pressed against her chest like invisible chains. Outside, the capital—what was left of it—groaned beneath its own misery. The Crescent banners fluttered from every tower, gold and silver against a sky that had long forgotten the color of peace.She rose from the bed, barefoot, her gown whispering against the marble floor. The mirror before her was cracked from the siege—one jagged fracture running across her reflection like a scar that refused to heal.Her crown—thin and delicate, forged from the spoils of her betrayal—sat untouched on the table beside her.Lira stared at it for a long time.They called her The Queen of Cinders, and perhaps that name was fair. The throne she had won was built upon ashes, and every breath she took reeked of smoke and guilt. She had done what she thought was necessary—what she had to do.At least, that’s wh

Snow fell like ash over the valley. The air was sharp enough to cut, the wind howling through the broken spires of what had once been a fortress—now a ruin claimed by frost and ghosts.Avelon stood at the heart of it, his black armor glistening faintly under the pale moon. His mask hid everything—his face, his fear, his fury—and that made him untouchable in the eyes of his men.Around him, the Shadow Legion prepared for the siege.Every movement was quiet, deliberate. Blades were oiled. Arrows fletched. Boiling pitch simmered over fire pits dug into the ice. There was no shouting, no drunken laughter, none of the arrogance that marked the Crescent armies. Only resolve.The fortress—an old imperial outpost known as Harrow Keep—had been abandoned for decades, left to rot after the first civil war. But in the hands of Avelon, decay became a weapon.“Rhys,” Avelon said without turning. His second-in-command appeared from the fog like a phantom.“The traps are set,” Rhys reported. “Oil ben

Rain poured from a bruised sky, turning the broken streets of the empire’s capital into rivers of filth and forgotten glory. The city that once shone like a jewel was now nothing but an open wound — a carcass picked clean by crows and conquerors. Yet, deep within its shattered heart, beneath the foundations of ruin, something ancient stirred.Kael stood within the catacombs, bare-armed, his cloak discarded. Around him, the flicker of torchlight revealed symbols carved into the stone — not of royalty or religion, but of resistance. Each mark carried meaning, a memory of betrayal, and a promise of vengeance. He moved with deliberate focus, drawing a blade across his palm, letting the blood drip onto the floor.“The empire may have fallen,” he whispered, voice hoarse from sleepless nights, “but its will endures in those who refuse to kneel.”Mira stood a few paces behind him, her hood drawn low, watching the ritual unfold. Her expression was unreadable, but her mind burned with unease. S