The war tent flickered with the low, restless glow of hanging lanterns, their flames casting erratic shadows across the canvas walls. The heavy scent of iron and smoke clung to the air, curling through the space like an omen. Blood-specked maps lay spread across the central war table, their parchment creased and stained with old decisions. Beyond the tent's flaps, the rhythmic clang of steel on steel rang like war drums. Soldiers moved in brutal, disciplined patterns.
Within, Emperor Drayce stood before the war table, both hands braced on its edge, his weight pressed into his palms as if grounding himself in the blood-soaked lines of conquest. His head was slightly bowed, but his eyes, molten golden and unblinking scanned the map with a feral, calculating stillness. Long strands of damp black hair spilled forward over his shoulders and framed his sharp features, trailing down his back in clinging waves not yet dried from his bath. A single earring dangled from his left ear, swaying faintly with his each breath. His bare forearms, corded with tension from training, flexed subtly beneath the lanternlight, as though the table alone is restrained him from lunging forward into the next campaign.
Before him knelt General Thoren Lief, a mountain of a man encased in ash-grey armor dulled by battle and dust. A black sash crossed his chest, its surface threaded with iron pins, identifying him unmistakably as the Commander of the Western Shadow Legions.
He kept his jaw tight and spoke stiffly, his eyes fixed on the floor as though to meet his emperor's gaze might ignite something feral.
"The birds chirped to us, Your Majesty, that the Kingdom of Elarion prepares for celebration," he said.
"Their Crown Prince is to be wed in twenty days. The capital is buzzing with festivity." He paused, knowing well his liege's interest in the neighboring territory, and weighing his words as if each one might tilt the room.
"Dignitaries from the eastern courts, the southern tribes, and the coastal alliance will all attend," he continued, his voice heavy with restrained disdain.
"Security is heightened yes, but their forces are scattered. They are scattered thin for ceremonial processions, border patrols, and parades meant to dazzle foreign eyes. They're—" He searched for a word and found it, "stretched."
A slow smile tugged at the corner of Drayce's mouth, surfaced with appetite. Without a word, he reached for a dagger resting beside the map. He dragged the tip along the parchment in a deliberate arc, scoring the edge of the Elarion borders.
"Good."
Commander Thoren blinked, he was caught off guard.
"Your Majesty?" he said, confused.
"We'll attack then," Drayce said, his gaze still fixed on the scored border.
Thoren's head snapped up, disbelief etched across his battle-worn features. The faint clink of his armor broke the heavy silence as he straightened in his position.
"Your Majesty," he said again, slower this time. "Striking during the wedding would pit us against every kingdom in attendance. " He swallowed.
"It would be... unwise. Even for us."
Drayce didn't move at first. Then, with glacial deliberation, he straightened. His long black hair shifting over his shoulders in damp, inky strands. His golden eyes met Thoren's, gleaming like a blade catching sunlight.
"Then you'll teach me, Commander," he said, in voice like silk, too soft for comfort. "You will teach me what is tactical."
Thoren swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly became dry. Though his spine held firm in disciplined posture, his hands betrayed him clenching at his sides. The weight of Drayce's gaze was a pressure all its own.
Drayce stepped forward, closing the distance with predatory calm until he stood beside the kneeling man. There was no fury in his expression only the cold, unflinching weight of disappointment.
"Tactics," he murmured, his voice barely more than a breath, "are for men with something to lose."
Dracye paused and his gaze slipped past the man to the war map behind.
"And when I strike—" His golden eyes narrowed with a glint of cruel elegance in them.
"They'll be too busy watching each other bleed to notice they're all dying."
He moved back to the table. His fingers hovered for a moment above the iron piece representing Elarion, then, with a flick of calculated contempt, he knocked it off the board. It clattered to the floor and rolled beneath the table, forgotten.
"We will kill in one strike."
He straightened, turning his focus back to the map. His gaze swept over it but continued,
"Prepare more sparrows." he commanded. "Send them ahead of the ceremony. I want their temple scouted. Their towers measured to the last brick. Their guest lists intercepted before ink can dry."
He moved at last, ready to let the night take him but turned and gave a final glance over his shoulder, his golden eyes gleaming beneath the fall of his dark hair.
"And Thoren…"
The commander looked up, heart pounding like a war drum in his chest.
"Yes, Your Majesty?"
"If you doubt me again, I'll add your bones to the map."
The words coiled through the air like smoke, more chilling than any roar. Thoren bowed lower with a bead of sweat trailing down his temple.
"Y-yes, Your Majesty."
For an outsider, it might have seemed the arrogance of a young emperor, the reckless pride of youth dismissing the counsel of wiser men. But Thoren knew better. He had seen the cruelty behind those golden eyes, and the unnerving precision with which Drayce turned madness into method. The young man's audacity was not ignorance: it was intent. Time and again, he had watched his emperor chase the impossible, crafting plans so daring they bordered on lunacy… and yet, each time, they surely bent to his will. Even Thoren, hardened by decades of war, could not help but feel a shiver of awe at the sheer brilliance that often walked hand in hand with Drayce's brutality.
***
Guests had begun to arrive in the kingdom. As a mark of respect their banners were already fluttering over the palace walls. Some had come early, eager to secure their place in the spectacle; others were still days away, their retinues trailing along the kingdom's well-guarded roads. The streets buzzed with music, silks, and hollow laughter. Within the palace, the days blurred into ceremony after ceremony.
Elinessa stood beneath the domed ceiling of the House of the Gods. Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows high above and the bowed heads of noble daughters lined up like obedient dolls. Her bruises had mostly faded but one still remained, just beneath her cheekbone.
The priest's voice rose, deep and polished, echoing through the sanctum like a well-worn ritual.
"Pray, daughters of the realm," he intoned. "Ask the gods for prosperity. For peace. For blessings upon this union."
She stepped forward with the others in perfect posture, hands folded just so. The story dragged on, endless and not skippable, and she was so bored by its slow pace that she found herself willing to entertain with any mundane distraction.
"Tsk....when will they restore their damn product? " she thought.
Rituals were going on but her mind wasn't here. Out of the corner of her eyes, she caught sight of Renna trying to tug her sleeves lower. The bruises on her wrists were still there. Seeing that a hot twist pulled through her chest. Rage rose like a tide, bitter and burning.
Eli was meant to bow her head to pray, but she didn't. Instead, she lifted her chin and said clearly,
"I only wish that whoever dared to ambush us… be punished."
"That we are given strength. Strength to crush them, burn them, and leave nothing of their cowardice behind."
What she didn't say rang even louder in her mind. I want back the moment you stole from me. The kiss I waited so desperately for.
Gasps fluttered among the ladies breaking the stillness. She caught the flicker of alarm on Renna's face as Renna looked up at her. The priest froze, his hands suspended mid-blessing as though princess's words had turned him to stone.
A while later, Queen's voice cut through the hush, but gentle:
"Elinessa," she warned, "we do not speak of enemies during prayer."
Her steps echoed against the marble as she stepped closer to her, with serious eyes now, they held Eli's until she felt the heat rise to her cheeks.
"It's said…" the queen continued, voice dropping just enough that the other ladies had to lean in to hear, " that whomever you name during prayer, you tether your fate to theirs. There is power in prayers, and greater still in names spoken beneath sacred breath. Power to bless. Power to destroy. And power to drag you into the ruin you wish for another. "
The Queen's hand brushed Eli's sleeve. The contact was light, enough to still her.
"You must be more careful," she said, sternly "with both your prayers… and the names you breathe into them."
A hush fell over the sacred hall. Eli's jaw tightened until it ached.