Princes and princesses gathered in the upper echelons of the grand colosseum, a special tier carved from enchanted white obsidian—polished smooth and infused with calming glyphs—just a short stretch from where the Emperor's private throne stood, elevated above the rest. But the Emperor himself was conspicuously absent, and the air hung with a strange tension, as if the very walls were holding their breath.
Princess Zemira, the First Princess, sat like a painting come to life—still, graceful, and quietly radiant. Draped in flowing robes of pale blue and silver thread, her presence had a soft weight to it, like sunlight through mist. Even those who envied her found it difficult not to bow inwardly at the serenity she carried. Whispers faded near her. Respect lingered where her gaze fell.
Across from her, in the curved crescent of seats, sat Prince Balek—the eldest of the imperial sons. With one leg casually folded over the other and his hands loosely resting on his knee, he looked less like a prince and more like a predator at rest. His broad shoulders bore a quiet confidence, and though his eyes lazily scanned the crowd, there was a sharpness behind them—like a blade hidden in silk. Balek watched everything, yet said nothing. It was almost as if he already knew what was coming.
In a darker corner of the gallery, cloaked in the colosseum's lingering shadows, sat Prince Jaden, the empire's master of secrets. He leaned in beside his younger sister, Princess Jerusha, who matched his subtle energy with a gaze like twin daggers. Both were known for cunning, but where Jaden played long games, Jerusha struck like lightning. She was fire to his smoke.
Altogether, eight imperial princes and ten princesses had answered the sudden summons. The eight Empresses of the Empire, clad in full regalia, had taken their seats alongside the emperor's chosen concubines—though two of the latter still appeared pale and shaken, their bodies trembling lightly from the recent encounter with the Trickster God. The memories lingered like ghost-fire in their eyes.
And yet, of all these dignitaries, the one figure whose absence stood out the most was the legendary Great Archmage Amber Nois. Whispers of her reawakening had trickled through the empire like underground streams—rumors that she had not only returned but was quietly constructing a new bastion for the Oradonian Order. Yet none could confirm it. Most believed she had retreated into the winds of history.
"Do you know why the Emperor suddenly called for this gathering?" asked Prince Alloysius, lowering his voice as he leaned toward Jaden. His tone was smooth, even friendly, but it couldn't mask the layer of old rivalry beneath. Alloysius, the seventh prince, had once sworn to kill the black dragon, Josh Aratat, and now, despite past betrayals, he dared approach Jaden as if nothing had transpired.
Jaden's face darkened. He turned his head slowly, his cold gaze narrowing at his half-brother. Were they not born of the same imperial blood, he would have spilled it across the marble without hesitation.
Before he could speak, Jerusha snapped.
"You have some nerve," she growled, rising slightly from her seat. "Did you think I forgot the assassin you sent after me?"
Alloysius remained smiling, relaxed and composed, even as tension coiled between them. Jerusha's fingers trembled at her sides, aching to smash that smirk from his face. She had barely survived that night, saved only by a chance encounter that turned the assassin's blade away at the last instant.
She had nagged Jaden for vengeance ever since, but her brother had been maddeningly patient—too patient. And now, Alloysius had the audacity to pretend the past was dust.
The quiet rumbling of their argument drew eyes. Whispers began weaving through the rows of royalty. Even Princess Zemira looked up, her expression unreadable.
Alloysius, still calm, thought himself untouchable. After all, wasn't the Scarlet Raven, that unstoppable beast, the effortless killer and crazy mage, still indirectly under his command?
If only he knew.
If only he realized that the Scarlet Raven had already been conquered—his unruly pride drained and rewired by none other than Amber Nois, the Great Archmage, who now sat like a spider at the centre of a vast and invisible web.
Jerusha stepped in close, her nose inches from Alloysius's, fury rising like a red tide. Her fist clenched, ready to strike.
But then—like wind snuffing a candle—a calm voice cut through the storm.
"Stand down, Jerusha."
It was Jaden. His voice wasn't loud, but it was weighted—measured, firm, and final.
She froze, eyes wide, chest heaving. Her rage begged for release. But slowly, reluctantly, she stepped back. She had come to trust Jaden's instinct more than her own fire, even when it burned.
Alloysius offered a smug chuckle, but his confidence was misplaced.
From afar, Prince Balek observed the entire scene without moving a muscle. He arched one brow slightly at Alloysius's display, then turned his gaze elsewhere. To him, Alloysius was noise beneath his notice—hardly worth the scorn.
But a gentle voice from the side silenced the rising tide of murmurs that had begun to stir among the seated nobles. It wasn't harsh, nor loud—it was the kind of voice that demanded obedience not through authority, but by the sheer weight of its presence.
"Alloysius," the voice said, soft but clear, "is that true? Did you try to kill your sister?"
Heads turned toward the speaker—Princess Zemira, the first princess, seated in her silver and blue gown, the embroidery at its hem glowing faintly with runes of harmony. She was upright, poised, with her hands delicately clasped on her lap, yet there was a subtle sternness in her voice that made even the most prideful lower their gaze. Her frown was gentle, but it struck with more force than any sword.
Of all the people present, Alloysius both admired and feared Zemira. Not because she commanded armies, nor because she wielded any overwhelming power. No—Zemira had the terrifying ability to make a man see himself. Her gentle soul, unmarred by palace schemes, acted like a mirror, drawing out the guilt that festered in hidden corners. Before her, arrogance crumbled.
"I… I…" Alloysius faltered. His earlier smirk dissolved like mist in the morning sun. He looked around, suddenly aware of how exposed he was, how bare his intentions had become. His voice cracked, and a droplet of sweat rolled down his temple.
Zemira didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to.
"You don't hurt family," she said quietly, eyes locked with his. "You don't hurt good people. You're meant to protect your own and stand against evil, not become a weapon that strikes from within. Apologize to Jerusha."
Her words were not a plea—they were a judgment. But they were so gently spoken that they left Alloysius with no room to rebel, only to yield.
Alloysius, once proud and defiant, nodded slowly. Then again, faster—like a chicken pecking at rice, his head bobbing in shame and defeat.
"I'm… I'm sorry, Jerusha," he muttered, his eyes never rising to meet hers.
Jerusha watched him with folded arms and burning eyes. She wanted to spit back a hundred sharp words. But she didn't. She glanced briefly at Zemira and saw the calm firmness there. With a reluctant scoff, Jerusha turned her face away.
The silence in the colosseum deepened. Even the birds above seemed to pause their flight.
And then—Booooooom!
A deep, resonant note echoed across the arena. A horn blast—long, ancient, and regal—rolled through the air like a tide crashing into cliffs. Everyone instinctively turned their eyes toward the emperor's gate.
From the shadows beneath the high platform where the emperor's throne stood, golden flames lit up a path. The earth trembled beneath their feet. The banners of the Empire of Nazare Blade swayed in the rising wind, and the light caught upon the imperial symbol—the flaming crown and the six-winged serpent—projecting it across the dome.
The time had come.
The Emperor… had arrived