Sleep fled me long before dawn's violet ghost could press its chilled palms to the windows. I paced the length of my chamber—fifteen strides from door to balcony, fifteen back—counting heartbeats, cataloging bruises that bloomed beneath satin like half‑remembered constellations. My wrist ached where the mirror‑specter had seized me; my throat still tasted of ash from the Heart‑Eater's demise.
Nightspire, however, slumbered with feline ease. Beyond the glass doors, courtyards smoldered under a sky the color of ancient wine. Even the restless banners hung still, as though the palace had exhaled after last night's chaos.
I ought to rest. Court intrigue demanded a mind sharpened, not dulled by exhaustion. Yet every time I closed my eyes, two images warred: Ravan's glaive cleaving the siege beast's molten heart, and his fingers brushing ash from my hair with unsettling tenderness. Which gesture revealed the truer emperor?
A brisk rap cut through silence. I froze. "Enter," I called, voice steadier than my pulse.
The door opened to reveal a demon captain in charcoal armor, helm tucked beneath one arm. Eyes the color of stormlit steel regarded me with clinical respect. "His Imperial Darkness summons the empress to the Starforged Solar." He extended a gauntleted hand, offering a black leather cloak. "The halls turn cold before dawn."
I draped the cloak over my shoulders, its weight unexpectedly comforting. "Lead on."
The Starforged Solar lay high within Nightspire's tallest spire, reached by a spiral staircase whose steps glittered with embedded fragments of fallen stars—or so the captain claimed when I asked. Near the top, heat pulsed through the stone; faint golden threads veined the walls, brightening with each step until the doorway ahead radiated a soft, sunlike glow.
He rapped twice and withdrew. The doors swung inward of their own accord.
I entered a vast circular chamber whose ceiling was a glass dome. Beyond it, constellations unfamiliar to mortal maps blazed, yet here they poured liquid amber light down upon an elevated dais. There, behind a crescent desk of obsidian glass, stood Ravan El‑Saether.
Every time I saw him, he seemed subtly changed—sharper around the edges, as if emotion honed his angles. This morning he wore neither crown nor armor, only a black shirt open at the throat and trousers tucked into riding boots. The casualness felt more intimate than last night's dance.
"Leora." My name, spoken without titles, slid across the solar like a secret. He gestured to a second chair carved from night‑iron. Between us flickered a floating chessboard of cracked crystal; its pieces—dragons and towers, moons and masks—shifted positions of their own volition, playing endless permutations.
I settled opposite him, cloak pooling. "You summoned me."
"I promised we would speak of moon‑salt and courage." He reached, plucked a translucent knight from the board, examined it, set it down again. "Tell me: why did you aid me against the Heart‑Eater?"
"Because if you died, prophecy or not, that beast would have devoured everyone else—and then likely toppled into my chamber looking for dessert." My smile, thin. "Self‑interest can masquerade as heroism."
He tapped a finger, acknowledging the honesty. "And yet you threw salt refined from lunar dust—a substance lethal to illusions, yes, but also corrosive to demon blood." He extended his hand palm‑up; a faint burn scar traced his skin where ichor had splattered. "You risked harming me."
"I gambled you were resilient." I met his gaze. "Was I wrong?"
His chuckle rumbled low. "Not wrong—merely daring. Daring intrigues me."
He rose, pacing to shelves lined with maps and glass spheres swirling with galaxies. "Word arrived before dawn: the mortal king dispatches envoys bearing treaties and hush‑gold. They approach the outer gates as we speak. Our magistrate, Auron, petitions to escort you to the negotiations." His eyes—cold silver—pinned me. "I presume he already offered allegiance."
"He trades information for favor." I folded my hands. "As do most courtiers."
"True." Ravan tilted his head. "Shall I deny his request?"
"No. Permit it." The decision formed even as I voiced it. "Let the court see I broker my own alliances. And let the king glimpse that I stand beside demons of my choosing, not behind them."
A long pause. Then: "Very well." He flicked his wrist; a black crystal sigil—his crest shaped like a thorned eclipse—materialized and floated toward me. "Press this to any door. My wards will open." He studied me. "You now wield your own keys, Empress. Choose doors wisely."
I caught the sigil. Warmth pulsed—recognition magic bonding to my life thread. When I looked up, Ravan had moved closer than I'd realized, hands clasped behind his back.
"I read last night," I said quietly, "that if an imperial consort dies, the mortal bride rules Tenebris for seven cycles."
"Did you?" His tone carried no surprise.
"Do you fear that clause?"
"I fear stagnation more than death." His gaze flicked to the living chessboard. "Empires fail when rulers cling to thrones rather than destinies. But an empress unprepared for power would topple this realm faster than any prophecy." He stepped back. "That is why I summoned you—to prepare."
He directed my attention to the dome where constellations shifted into an intricate sigil—a web of points that pulsed like a heart. "That is the Vein‑Map of Tenebris—ley‑lines of magic threading through every province. Touch a star."
I reached; the glass was cool. At my fingertip, one star flared, and visions flooded my mind: a city of obsidian bridges spanning lava flows; children chasing ember‑fireflies; artisans forging swords that sang. Life, vibrant and strange.
Ravan's voice accompanied the vision. "Northforge Province. Population: one hundred thousand. Their tithe sustains the army you saw last night. Tilt the star."
I rotated my finger. The vision trembled, then ghosted with cracks, ash blanketing streets, bridges collapsing. Horror twisted my gut.
"Without proper ley‑line flow, the city perishes," he continued. "An empress must learn consequence."
I dropped my hand; the map resumed neutrality. I swallowed bile.
"Enough lessons for dawn," he said. "Attend the envoy. Take Calia and two guards of your choosing. And, Leora—" he paused at the threshold "—if bargains tempt you, remember: kings break vows faster than demons. At least demons relish the cost."
Doors whisked shut behind him, leaving me with spinning stars and the faint taste of scorched bridges on my tongue.
Calia met me outside my chambers with a bustle of nervous energy and an armful of garments. "Diplomatic attire," she explained, thrusting a tailored coat of deep cerulean trimmed in silver thread. "Mortals respect blue—it reminds them of sky and order."
I smirked. "I'm beginning to wonder how many colors offend which species."
"All of them, Majesty. Wear jewelry to distract." She clipped a moonstone pendant at my throat.
Two guards joined us—one winged, one human—both silent as myth. Together we wound through shifting halls until daylight brightened windows to a pale amber. Eventually, we emerged onto an exterior landing: a vast obsidian platform jutting over a chasm where lava rivers carved veins of hurtling light.
At the far edge waited a trio of mortals in velvet cloaks, surrounded by demon sentries. The lead envoy, a plump man with parchment‑thin skin, bowed so deeply his powdered wig nearly toppled. "Your Imperial Grace," he squeaked. "King Myron of Aurelian sends greetings and… reparations."
He motioned; attendants unlatched a chest. Gold bars glimmered. Another chest revealed scroll tubes sealed with royal wax.
I stepped nearer. "Rise, Lord Envoy, and speak plainly."
He straightened, sweat beading. "The kingdom regrets the… unfortunate handling of your trial. His Majesty offers formal pardon and requests that Tenebris refrain from, ah, devouring Aurelian's heart."
Devouring. Interesting choice.
He presented a scroll. I unsealed it. The king's handwriting—florid, self‑serving—expressed contrition and begged confidentiality regarding my survival.
Anger simmered—but colder than flame, sharper than ice. "Does His Majesty confess who forged evidence against me?" I asked.
The envoy swallowed. "Those inquiries continue."
"Unacceptable." I snapped the scroll shut. "Return with this message: truth or nothing. Until names bleed black upon parchment, Aurelian's gold buys silence only until dusk."
Gasps fluttered. Calia squeezed my elbow, as if anchoring me to moral north.
The envoy tried one last gambit. "We offer, additionally, the Tome of Saint Liora—rare miracle scripture your church lost to crusader theft. Surely its return delights Your Grace?"
That tome had been my queen's prized relic—stolen the night her court accused me. Nostalgia pricked, but I hardened. "Deliver it now as goodwill; it buys you no silence but earns one audience."
Relief flickered across the envoy's face. He nodded vigorously. "At once, Your Grace. A runner shall—"
A scream cut him off.
One of his attendants clutched her throat, eyes bulging. Black veins spider‑webbed across her skin. She collapsed. Guards drew weapons. Immediately, acrid smoke rose from the chest of gold—coins now writhed like beetles, transmuting into charred petals that floated, disintegrating.
Calia yanked me back. "Curse‑fire!"
The winged guard hurled a shield of sigils around us. Too late for the envoy team: black flames erupted from their bodies, consuming flesh without heat—an execution of alchemy. In seconds, only ashen outlines remained.
Silence, but for hiss of molten rivers below.
I stared at the smoldering gold chest—now empty.
A trap. Aurelian had offered poisoned coin and a pawn. Had the envoy known? Likely he, too, was sacrifice.
My horror settled into glacial clarity. "Calia, take note: the king chooses war."
Back inside, panic murmurs slithered through corridors. Servants scurried, bolting windows. I marched for the Starforged Solar. Guards at the entrance stepped aside, recognizing the emperor's sigil that still warmed my grip.
Ravan stood at the glass dome, studying the Vein‑Map. Without turning, he spoke: "The envoy is dead."
"Coins transmuted into curse‑fire," I replied. "An act of aggression disguised as apology."
"A clever cruelty." He pivoted, eyes gleaming. "How shall we answer?"
We. I felt the weight. "Expose the attempt publicly. Let every realm see Aurelian's treachery. But spare the common folk—strike only the throne and its conspirators."
He studied me, a predator appraising sharpness of a newly forged blade. "Merciful and strategic. Yet mercy often dulls fear."
"I would sharpen respect, not fear." I produced the charred royal scroll, ashes staining my gloves. "Grant me leave to return this—signed confession of attempted regicide demanded. If refused, unleash whichever horror you reserve for liars."
A slow smile curved his lips. "You bargain like a demon already, Empress."
"Demons taught me the stakes."
He closed the distance, gaze flicking to a smear of ash on my cheek. Before I could stop him, he brushed it away with his thumb. The gesture thawed something deep and unwelcome.
"You stand upon a precipice," he murmured, voice hushed thunder. "Look below—worlds you once knew crumble. Look above—crowns you never imagined await. Which path calls louder, Leora?"
I held his gaze. "I will walk both until they converge."
His laughter was a midnight cascade. "Then keep your sigil. Gates open, gates close. Choose doors wisely, indeed." He stepped back, formal once more. "Prepare your message. At sundown, the sky itself will carry your words to Aurelian's palace."
I inclined my head, turned to leave. At the threshold, I paused. "Ravan?"
"Mm?"
"Who summoned the Heart‑Eater?"
Silence draped the chamber. Then: "An oracle bound to the Mirror Wing. Prophets crave spectacle; they forget the price." He faced the Vein‑Map again. "One day, perhaps, you'll visit them."
A shiver slid down my spine—curiosity tinged with dread.
That evening, in a scriptorium lit by silver lanterns, I penned a letter on black parchment using ink distilled from phoenix ember. Each word etched condemnation of King Myron's treachery and ultimatum for truth. Calia sanded the script with ground moonstone, sealing its power.
At sunset, I ascended a balcony overlooking the abyss. Ravan waited, holding a single crimson lantern. He passed it to me. "Speak."
I read the letter aloud. My voice, carried by enchantment, wove into the lantern's flame, which flared violet. I released it; the lantern rose, gathering speed until it streaked across the starless sky—a comet of judgment.
When its light vanished, Ravan said, "Now the realm shall watch your play, Empress."
Wind whipped my hair; I felt the night listen.
Below, Nightspire's windows ignited, one by one, in anticipation. Above, the strange constellations re‑arranged, forming at last a new pattern—an unfamiliar crown encircled by a single luminous star.
I wondered whose head that crown intended to grace.
My story, once confined to mortal courts, now traversed demon skies. And somewhere across oceans and ruined trust, a mortal king would tremble at the comet's warning.
I inhaled, tasting ozone and destiny, and felt no fear.