The palace bled silence.
High in the frostbitten mountains of the Shadowed Empire, the imperial stronghold loomed like a godless cathedral—an obsidian monolith rising from stone and sorrow. Its black spires pierced the heavens, veiled in coils of ancient mist. The moon, full and pitiless, cast its pale judgment across the courtyard, making every surface shimmer like a field of knives.
The air was dense—thick with the incense of burnt myrrh, crushed rose petals, and something deeper, older… decay masked beneath perfume.
Elara Vale slipped through the labyrinthine corridors, barefoot and cloaked in midnight. Her shadow danced across polished floors, swallowed and reborn with every step. She didn't breathe too deeply. Even the air here felt cursed—etched with centuries of suffering. Every flickering torch hissed like it recognized her, like it could scream.
Her hand gripped the dagger hidden beneath her cloak. The sacred blade pulsed against her palm, warm and alive with borrowed light. Forged from celestial silver, blessed in the dying breath of a sun priest, it thrummed with the promise of ending a reign stitched in horror. A weapon for one purpose.
To kill the Emperor of Night.
The halls twisted tighter as she drew nearer. Doors lined with blacksteel. Tapestries depicting old wars and darker rituals. She passed imperial guards frozen mid-step—held in place by blood-binding enchantments, their eyes rolled back into their skulls. They wouldn't remember her. Wouldn't remember anything. A price she had paid in gold and in guilt.
Her heart was racing now. The closer she drew to him, the more her blood screamed.
This was what she'd been raised for.
This was what she was willing to die for.
She reached the final corridor. Cold kissed her skin. The kind of cold that had nothing to do with climate—it came from him. His presence warped the world, even in sleep. Elara pressed herself flat against the shadowed wall, drawing a shaky breath. Before her stood the doors to his inner sanctum—two monolithic slabs of shadowwood carved with runes no priest dared translate. The door handles were claws. The hinges groaned softly, as if warning her away.
Her breath misted before her lips as she reached forward.
The doors opened with a sound like bones grinding.
And then she stepped inside.
The Emperor's chamber swallowed her whole.
It was cavernous, like stepping into the belly of a beast. Red stained crystal domed the ceiling, casting a blood-tinted hue across every surface. Velvet drapes hung like hanging corpses, swaying though no wind stirred. Shadows clung to the corners like creatures waiting to pounce. The flames in the sconces flickered blue.
At the center of it all—laid the monster.
Lucien.
The Emperor of Night.
He reclined on a throne disguised as a bed, wrapped in a cascade of black silk, as though he were both death and the seducer of it. His robe hung loose at the chest, revealing skin too smooth to be real, too cold to be alive. His dark hair fanned around him like a halo of ink. Even asleep, he radiated power. Dark, old power.
Elara's breath caught. Her stomach twisted.
He was beautiful.
In the same way an eclipse was beautiful—terrifying, rare, and never meant to be stared at for long.
Her hand trembled as she took a step.
Then another.
The dagger in her grip pulsed harder, like it knew the moment had come. Her other hand pressed to her chest, calming her hammering heart. She thought of her sister's screams. Her mother's grave. Her father's execution.
She forced her fear away.
This was justice.
Five steps.
Three.
One.
She stood over him, blade raised.
A prayer whispered from her lips. "For the ones you burned. For the sun you buried."
And she struck.
The dagger sank into his chest with a sickening crunch.
Blood exploded across the sheets. Thick. Black-red. It coated her hand. Splashed onto her cloak. Steam rose from the wound.
His eyes flew open—glowing, unnatural, crimson like twin stars burning at the end of the world.
A choked gasp tore from his lips.
Then he smiled.
It wasn't possible.
But he smiled.
"You think," he rasped, dark blood gurgling from his mouth, "this is enough to kill me?"
Elara's world tilted.
His fingers shot up, clamping around her wrist with monstrous strength. Bones cracked. The dagger trembled in her grip, resisting being pulled free.
"You dare," he whispered, voice low and drenched in amusement. "Of all the rats in the shadows… they sent you."
His eyes narrowed. "Clever little Elara. I always wondered what became of you."
Panic surged. She tried to pull away.
Too late.
Lucien's free hand lashed out and closed around her throat.
The room shifted violently as he sat up, blood cascading from the open wound in his chest—but healing. Skin stitched itself back with slow, molten pulses. The dagger remained lodged in his body, useless now. The magic was dying.
She choked, kicked, clawed—her nails raked down his arm—but he didn't flinch.
"I'll admit," he said coldly, tilting his head, "you came closer than any before you. Brave. Stupid."
Her lungs burned. The world grew smaller.
Lucien drew her close, their faces inches apart. His blood smeared across her lips.
"Do you feel that?" he murmured. "That's your soul tearing away."
Elara's eyes brimmed with tears.
Not from pain.
From failure.
Her vision blurred. Her legs went numb. Her heart fluttered once, twice, then slowed.
Lucien leaned in.
"I'll see you again," he whispered, brushing her ear with his bloodied lips. "You won't even know it… but I will."
Her body gave out.
Her last thought was of sunlight.
And then—nothing.
She crumpled in his grasp, eyes wide, breath gone.
Dead.
Lucien held her a moment longer.
Then he dropped her like broken glass onto the stone floor. Her head struck the marble with a sharp crack.
He looked down at her with an expression void of emotion. A curiosity tinged with something unreadable.
The sacred dagger in his chest gave one final flicker.
Then it shattered.
Its silver light bled into the darkness like stardust fading.
Lucien exhaled slowly, and with a grimace of effort, rose fully to his feet. He pressed a palm to the gaping wound, now sealing inch by inch with a grotesque elegance.
The silence returned.
Thicker. Heavier.
A wind howled through the open window, tugging at Elara's cloak.
Outside, the heavens cracked with thunder.
The shadows curled closer to the Emperor's feet.
And somewhere, beneath that ancient roof, fate began again.