Six years. Six long, cold years had passed since Naithan Verralt walked away from the blood-soaked ruin of his family home, leaving behind the bodies of those he had killed for a lie. Six years since the last, searing pain of his heart tearing itself apart, only to reform into something else entirely—something hard, unyielding, and utterly devoted to vengeance. He had walked out of the Penal Blade, leaving its mud and iron behind, a phantom of the boy he once was, consumed by a singular, chilling purpose: to make the Empress pay.
These six years were not spent in mindless combat. They were spent in the meticulous, chilling cultivation of a storm. Naithan moved through the hidden corners of the Empire, a specter of retribution. He sought out others like him—the disgraced, the discarded, the forgotten, each with a bitter grievance against the crown, each a potential ember for his coming conflagration. He spoke little, but observed everything. With Seraphina Stonehide, his silent, unwavering companion, his network expanded, weaving through the underbelly of society. He became a master of whispers, of hidden passages, of the Empire's own damning secrets.
He meticulously studied the grand capital, Verralt, now seen not as his lost home, but as a vast, complex machine to be dismantled. He learned its every vein: its ancient aqueducts, its vast, vulnerable granaries, its arcane power conduits, its vital sewer systems. He memorized the rhythms of the Imperial Guard, the blind spots of the Holy Order, the fragile points of its infrastructure. He planted seeds of destruction—bribed engineers rerouting essential water flows, discontented merchants subtly poisoning cisterns, rebellious laborers installing arcane dampeners beneath key strongholds, setting up concealed caches of alchemist's fire in strategic locations. He manipulated rivalries, whispered rumors, ignited small, seemingly unrelated incidents across the Empire, drawing forces away, stretching its defenses thin, all leading to this one, final night. This was his masterpiece, forged in the depths of his humiliation and the unending agony of his past. The fire that now began to erupt across the capital was not random chaos; it was a symphony of destruction, precisely tuned, strategically devastating.
The air tasted of distant smoke, acrid and promising. Beneath a sky that bled twilight, the first controlled explosions ripped through the city's underbelly, followed by geysers of flame that reached for the heavens. Naithan looked at the unfolding inferno with cold satisfaction. He left Seraphina at the main gates of the Imperial Palace, her formidable silhouette a sentinel against any who might try to intervene, her cat-like eyes reflecting the growing conflagration.
Naithan's path was a straight, unyielding line to the heart of the palace. He found the Queen in the chaotic war council chambers, surrounded by a handful of terrified, defiant loyalists. Her face, though pale with soot and fear, still held the regal arrogance he remembered. Her eyes locked on his, the same eyes that had once looked down on him, spitting the word "traitor."
"Verralt," she spat, her voice surprisingly steady despite the encroaching roar of the city's demise. "You are a monster."
Naithan's longsword cleared its sheath, a whisper of steel in the echoing chamber. Her loyalists, knights in polished armor, lunged. They were skilled, but they were not forged in hell. He was the "Killer Killer," a blur of merciless precision. Steel sang, blood sprayed, and bodies crumpled. In moments, only the Queen remained, a single, ornate rapier clutched in her trembling hand.
Their battle was a dance of desperate defense against absolute intent. She was faster than he remembered, her rapier a silver flicker, but Naithan was a force of nature, every movement infused with six years of unadulterated hatred and the cold power of an Ember Blade. He didn't just fight; he hunted. He moved with a brutal elegance, the weight of a thousand Penal Blade duels in every parry, every thrust. The rapier clattered to the floor as his blade severed her sword arm. She screamed, a raw sound of pain and fear. Naithan grabbed her by the throat, lifting her effortlessly, her feet dangling above the blood-slick floor.
"Do you regret what you called me?" Naithan growled, his voice a low, chilling rumble.
The Queen looked into his empty blue eyes, and a ghost of her old, defiant smile touched her lips, mingled with blood. "No."
Naithan's grip tightened, crushing her windpipe. Her eyes glazed over, her body convulsing once, and then she went limp. He dropped her, a lifeless heap on the blood-soaked marble, and stepped over her body, leaving her to the advancing flames.
The Empress awaited him in her private chambers, a smaller, more intimate room deep within the palace's most fortified wing. She was seated on a simple, elegant chair, not her throne, a faint, almost serene smile on her lips, as if she'd been expecting him. Her personal guards lay dead around her, bodies crumpled in the ornate décor, dispatched by Seraphina or Naithan himself in his blind, focused ascent through the palace.
"Naithan," she said, her voice calm, melodic even amidst the distant roar of the burning city. "I confess, I didn't think you would reach me this quickly. Or at all."
Naithan drew his longsword, the blade catching the flickering light from outside, reflecting the inferno that consumed her kingdom. His face was a mask of cold fury. "You destroyed everything. My family. My life."
The Empress chuckled, a soft, dry sound that grated on Naithan's raw nerves. "Did I? Or did I merely provide the impetus for you to find your true potential?" She looked at him, her eyes ancient, calculating, devoid of warmth. "The letters you read in the beginning... the ones that condemned your father, that spoke of your Elyra with your brother... they were indeed fake, Naithan."
The words hit him. But unlike before, there was no shattering. He was already broken beyond repair. This was merely confirmation of the depth of the abyss, the meticulous cruelty of her game.
"Your family, young Naithan," the Empress continued, her voice gaining a cruel edge, a hint of satisfaction. "They never betrayed you. They genuinely mourned your loss. Your father wrote to you, sought your release. Your dear bakery girl, Elyra, remained loyal to your memory." She paused, letting the full horror of his actions, driven by her lies, wash over him. "I needed a weapon. A truly ruthless, broken weapon. I knew your innate talent, your idealism. I knew that if I took everything from you, if I twisted your heart with the most painful betrayal, you would become exactly what I needed. A weapon that could burn down an empire, starting with its heart."
She pushed herself up, a surprising strength in her movements, meeting his gaze with unyielding defiance. "I knew there was a chance such a weapon might one day turn on me. I created you to be unstoppable. I knew it was going to stab me in the back. But I didn't expect it to be so soon. So swift. And no," she added, her eyes burning into his, a defiant fire meeting his cold rage, "I don't regret it."
Her words were the final hammer blow, solidifying the void within Naithan. The truth was not freedom, but a heavier chain. He had killed the innocent for lies, and the architect of those lies felt no remorse, only a chilling pride in her monstrous creation. The Empress, a grand manipulator to the last, accepted her fate with chilling defiance.
Naithan moved. There was no hesitation, no emotion in the strike. His blade found its mark, a clean, swift end. The Empress gasped, a single, sharp intake of breath, and then slumped forward, lifeless. Her eyes, still wide and unregretting, stared into the endless darkness, reflecting the distant, consuming flames.
Naithan stood over her, his sword dripping onto the ornate rug. The roar of the burning city was his only witness. He had achieved his revenge. The kingdom lay in ashes. His enemies were dead. But the taste of victory was as bitter and empty as the ashes outside. There was no triumph, only the cold, hard understanding of what he had become, and the chilling emptiness of a purpose fulfilled through the most devastating of means.