CHAPTER 13
Ever since that night-when the stars whispered her name, when the truth clawed its way back into her soul, Sorayael spent most of her days in quiet strength.
She trained with Krios in the mornings, the winds and flames bending to their will, their laughter echoing through the forests of Aethenroth. And in the afternoons, she sparred with Zarethian, who still carried shadows in his eyes but wore a gentler smile whenever she was near.
Though their wounds were healing, something heavier lingered in the air, an omen perhaps.
A council had been called.
Emperor Lysander sat on his throne of shadows, eyes gleaming with cruelty and desire. His sword rested beside him, humming with the thirst of conquest. The court held its breath.
Murmurs broke out.
"Crazy bastard. The Silverstein didn't do anything."
"How come Silverstein was targeted by our dear emperor?"
One of the councilors stood, his voice trembling but resolute.
The room went silent. None dared to speak again.
The decree was set. War preparations began.
The message arrived by hawk, sealed with the sigil of the Aethelgard throne.
The Emperor of Silverstein-a man old enough to know the cost of war, and wise enough to weigh it, stood before his gathered officials.
A stunned silence followed. Then, slowly, one by one, heads bowed in acceptance.
An emissary was dispatched to Aethelgard. And under the ancient laws of empires, an Oath of Submission was sworn.
The announcement was not a request. It was a decree. A test. A threat.
The Grand Duke received the summons with narrowed eyes. He stood on the balcony, the letter clutched tightly in his gloved hand, wind brushing his silver hair.
In the training yard below, Sorayael spun with her dual blades, sparring with Krios. Zarethian, now stronger, was calmly instructing from the side, though his arm was still wrapped. They laughed and teased one another, momentarily untouched by the darkness of courtly games.
But all of it would change.
Zarethian was confused but still went with his father.
Inside the Grand Duke's study, the flickering of enchanted lamps cast golden light over old scrolls and newly sealed letters.
Zarethian stood before Zerathiel, the Grand Duke, posture poised but uncertain. He had grown, taller now, but the steel in his eyes had only deepened since that dark night three years ago.
Zarethian's breath caught. He had known this day would come. Still, hearing it aloud made his chest tighten.
The Grand Duke nodded. "You will represent my bloodline as the rightful heir to the Imperium's legacy."
Behind him, footsteps approached lightly. Sorayael entered, draped in midnight-blue robes trimmed with silver threads. Regal. Poised. Almost too calm.
Sorayael's gaze flickered toward Zarethian, but she nodded.
.............
Later that day, in the quiet courtyard,
Krios stood with furrowed brows, holding Sorayael's traveling cloak as she fastened her boots. The wind carried the scent of smoke and pine, and somewhere above, a hawk cried across the sky.
Sorayael knelt and cupped his cheek, soft but firm.
Krios looked up, sensing the lie, but he said nothing.
She pressed her forehead against his, a fragile closeness only they understood.
But the truth shimmered beneath her calmness.
She wasn't leaving him to guard the manor. She was leaving to keep him away from the eyes of emperors, away from courts that devoured the innocent. She was leaving to ensure he remained free-untouched by the burden she and Zarethian would bear.
And so, the journey began.
Two heirs, each with the blood of stars and blades, would now walk into the lion's den of politics and power. One by name, the other by secret right.
And far behind, a brother watched the gates close-his small hand clenched tightly over the edge of his coat, whispering:
.........
The capital of the Aethelgard Imperium had transformed in three years.
Where once stood rigid castles and gray towers of cold stone, now rose spires laced with magical runes and shimmering glass domes powered by Solarian-infused technology.
Hovering guards rode arcane-forged beasts, and glowing sigils danced in the sky above the central plaza-echoes of a merged culture, albeit tense and volatile.
Banners of obsidian and gold fluttered on every post, bearing the imperial crest: a sword piercing a sun.
And at the heart of this dazzling grandeur stood the Citadel of Crowns, a massive fortress that now served as the seat of Emperor Lysander's power.
Zarethian and Sorayael entered the inner hall behind the Grand Duke, their boots tapping against smooth obsidian floors. They were led past armored guards whose eyes betrayed nothing, and into the Hall of Ascension, where gilded thrones towered above a long ring of stone tables.
Nobles and heirs from the different Houses were already seated. Some with curiosity, others with concealed disdain.
A hush fell over the hall. Eyes turned.
Zarethian walked tall, his expression unreadable. Sorayael walked beside him with grace, head slightly bowed, as rehearsed. But behind her calm was a quiet storm.
She could feel the weight of the stares, the whispers, and the hidden malice.
Then, the Emperor entered.
Seated high upon his blackstone throne was Emperor Lysander, eyes sharp as blades, silver hair tied back like a soldier prepared for battle. His lips curled upward, not warmly.
Zarethian bowed. "At your command, Your Imperial Majesty."
The Emperor's gaze shifted to Sorayael.
Zerathiel stepped forward. "My late cousin's daughter. She's been under my care. I trust her with my name."
The Emperor hummed, studying her.
Sorayael met his gaze, just briefly before she bowed her head again.
Then the hall darkened as the council began.
Emperor Lysander stood.
His voice was filled with venom and ambition.
Some lords cheered. Others remained silent.
Sorayael's hands clenched. Zarethian noticed it and glanced at her.
They both knew-
This empire was sick with hunger.
And they were now inside its belly.
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