The march toward Verdant Vale of Lutharn began not with the clash of steel, but with the calculated hush of a stage being set. The Crimson Dominion's legions advanced like a tide of red banners, their armor catching the morning sun in glimmers of blood-light. Behind them, the deceptive mages prepared their illusions—phantoms of shattered barriers, echoes of crumbling wards—crafted to convince the world that brute strength had accomplished what, in truth, was never attempted.
The true weapon was silence. The true weapon was Scarlet Bind.
The banners of Verdant Vale snapped against the high winds of its floating islands. Emerald light shimmered across the great barrier — an unbroken dome of wards carved over centuries, infused with the bloodlines of the Vale's archmages. To all who dwelt within, the barrier was not a defense, but a promise: eternal, unshaken, untouchable.
Within the sanctum of Lutharn, King Thalorien stood upon the marble dais of his high court. His silver-green robes shimmered faintly, embroidered with sigils that once proclaimed his dominion as eternal. His voice carried the weight of pride that had been forged over centuries of unbroken sovereignty.
His crown glimmered like living silver, his robes woven with runes older than empires. Upon the dais of the central hall, he raised his staff, his voice booming across marble pillars and enchanted galleries.
"Let the dogs bark," he declared, a proud smile etched upon his lips. "The Vale does not bow. The Vale does not bleed. The Vale does not break."
"No blade can sever the roots of Lutharn. No sorcery can reach the heart of our vale. The very sky shields us, the barrier bends not for mortal kings. Let the Crimson wave batter itself against the walls of heaven—I shall not bow."
---
When the time came, the mages of Verdant Vale did not resist.
They did not question.
They simply obeyed.
Hands raised not to reinforce the wards, but to part them.
Mouths chanted not the oaths of the Vale, but the Dominion's incantations.
The impenetrable barrier that had been their pride folded open like the gates of a temple.
And the Crimson Dominion marched inside.
---
He spoke not only to reassure his court but to reassure himself. His words were his armor, and pride his last bastion.
His council nodded nervously, but outside — on the walls, among the garrisons, within the hearts of the mages themselves — another voice already whispered louder than his.
Yet beneath the polished columns, among the kneeling courtiers and silent guards, the undercurrent of obedience flowed not toward him, but toward another. Princess Seliora, her presence subtle yet commanding, stood with eyes like veiled embers. Every mage, every sentinel, every robed priest instinctively leaned toward her stillness, awaiting the flick of her hand, the murmur of her voice. Thalorien, in his grandeur, did not notice. Or perhaps he refused to.
The deception unfolded seamlessly. The barrier did not fall—it opened. Not shattered by force, but willingly unsealed at Seliora's quiet command. The illusionary blaze of broken wards was cast into the sky by the Dominion's conjurers, a play for history's eye, a tale to be told in songs and scrolls. To the world beyond, Lutharn seemed conquered. In truth, it had already surrendered without knowing.
Scarlet Bind had already spread. Its encircled design crept unseen beneath the soil, through the air, between the breaths of men. The parasite thrummed like a second heartbeat beneath every stone of the vale, weaving its subtle chains into the very marrow of the kingdom.
King Thalorien, baffled yet unyielding, gripped his scepter as if it were still a symbol of command. His voice rose again:
"I am Thalorien of the Hanging Isles. Even if all around me falters, my will does not break. You may wear my crown in dreams, but you will never hold it in truth."
Seliora's gaze lingered upon him—not with pity, not with anger, but with disinterest. A proud man content to drown in his own reflection was no obstacle worth her dialogue. She turned, her command sharp as a blade drawn in shadow:
"End this."
From the corner of the hall, where the light dared not touch, the Masked Assassin stepped forth. She alone could breach the barrier's sanctum, her bloodline a key no sorcery could deny. Her presence was a whisper, her blade a hush across air itself.
And in that hush, King Thalorien's pride was sealed. No grand battle, no heroic struggle. Only silence, and the echo of words that had once burned like fire now extinguished mid-breath.
As the court bent—not to their fallen king, but to Seliora—the masked assassin lingered in shadow, her heart twisting. The echoes of Thalorien's proud declarations reverberated within her, cutting deeper than any order she had carried before. She, too, knew of pride. She, too, knew of defiance. And in those stolen words, she felt the shattering of something fragile within herself.
From the shadows, the Masked Assassin emerged—her steps soundless, her presence as inevitable as fate itself. Her blade glinted, a sliver of moonlight sharpened into finality.
King Thalorien's eyes burned with the last embers of his defiance. His lips parted to utter one final declaration—yet it never came.
The assassin's hand rose. The command was absolute. Her body obeyed.
And yet—just before steel met flesh—her wrist quivered. A tremor, so small it vanished in the breath between heartbeats, but real enough to carve anguish into her bones. His words—"You may wear my crown in dreams, but you will never hold it in truth"—rang within her, not as defiance to her mission, but as a wound to her spirit.
The blade struck true. The order was fulfilled. The hall fell silent.
But in the shadow of her mask, unseen by all, the assassin's eyes wavered with grief that could never be spoken. Her hand had stilled for but a moment—yet in that hesitation lived her truest worth, her hidden sorrow, and the first fracture in chains she could not break.
Her grief was voiceless, yet it swelled, a tide that broke only within. Obedience bound her hand, but memory bound her soul.
The world would record that Lutharn had fallen. But she would remember that it had not fallen at all—it had been hollowed from within, betrayed by obedience, and silenced by the weight of pride.
The blade descended, and King Thalorien's proud defiance ended in silence. His body slumped upon the throne that had been his pride, his crown rolling across the stone floor with a hollow clang.
No cheer, no resistance, only the eerie stillness of a kingdom undone.
The Masked Assassin lowered her blade. To those watching, she was a perfect instrument, an extension of command. Yet in the private silence of her body, her hand trembled. A quiver. A betrayal. One no one else saw.
She vanished into shadow, as though swallowed by her own grief.
And then—reality split.
The world of men dissolved into a void. Chains rattled, heavy and cruel, binding a figure lost in darkness. Azeriel.
From the endless black came a voice: sweet as silk, venomous as rot.
"Oh, dearest… why do you weep in silence? Isn't this your fate? The sharpest weapon, the perfect pawn—wasn't that always what you were meant to be?"
The chains tightened. Azeriel's head lifted, eyes dulled yet alive with a faint ache.
"You were the reason she fell. Every chain she wears is born of you. And yet you cling to the delusion… that she was your daughter. Five years—five fragile years twisted your heart. How laughable."
The voice shifted, growing rich with cruel delight.
"I love her. That is why she must suffer. The deeper my love, the deeper the torment. And you—my sweet, broken child—you will watch her drown. Again, and again, and again."
The void trembled with laughter, chains rattling like mocking applause.
"The plot does not change. The game obeys its master. And you? Why are you the only one who changed my story? Why... just a mere character ... you think you are worth of something?You will suffer until you finally remember who writes it."
Azeriel's chains burned red, and the darkness swallowed her scream.