Ash opened his door.
The scent hit him first—smoke, blood, and perfume. That sweet lavender oil Serana always wore still clung to the air… warping into something darker.
Outside, the corridor flickered with firelight. Shadows danced violently against marble walls.
Serana stood there like a painting half-finished—barefoot, in a torn silk gown, hair unbraided, and her sword dripping.
She didn't blink.
Didn't smile.
Didn't look at him like a brother. Just a target she needed to keep alive.
"Get behind me."
Her voice was low and fast—no room for argument.
Ash's throat went dry. "W-What's happening?"
Serana didn't answer.
Instead, she reached out, grabbed his wrist, and yanked him into the corridor. Her grip was tight. Too tight.
"Serana—"
Another soldier rounded the corner. A palace guard—red armor, eyes frantic.
He opened his mouth. Didn't get a word out.
Serana lunged.
Her blade hissed through the air. One clean strike across his throat. The sound that came next wasn't a scream. Just a wet, choking gurgle.
Ash staggered back, hitting the wall.
The man collapsed.
Blood pooled fast. Too fast.
Serana turned, breathing hard. A drop of blood slipped down her jaw.
"I said behind me."
Ash blinked. "You just—you just killed—"
"He wasn't ours," she cut in. "Check the gloves. Wrong crest."
He looked. She was right. The gloves were wrong. The fingers had black stitching. That meant—
"The High Blades."
Serana's eyes flicked toward him. "Good. You remember."
Then she turned again, blade raised, stalking forward like a viper in human form.
Ash followed. The dagger in his hands felt too light, like it was made of bone. The marble underfoot was warm with spilled blood. His feet slapped against it, barefoot. Every noise felt too loud.
"Serana…" he whispered, catching up. "Is Father…?"
She didn't stop. But she hesitated—half a breath.
"…He was in the throne room."
That was all she said.
More shouting. Somewhere above them. Glass shattered. And then—
"I saw you in my dream," Ash murmured, just loud enough.
Serana glanced back, still moving.
He continued, "You were on fire. Screaming. I think you died."
She scoffed, a bitter sound. "Well, you're too late to be a prophet. Come on."
They took the main stair—
Marble slick with blood.
Tapestries torn from the walls.
One of the statues of the First King had lost its head.
At the landing stood Thalen—crown prince, middle child, fury personified. His blade was blackened at the tip. His left sleeve burned. There was blood on his cheek.
He didn't even flinch at the sight of Serana.
"You brought him?" Thalen barked, pointing at Ash.
Serana: "He's not staying behind."
Ash: "Nice to see you too, brother."
Thalen: "We don't have time for this."
"We make time," Serana snapped. "He's one of us. If this is the end—he dies with a sword, not in a closet."
Ash's hands were still shaking. But his voice didn't tremble.
"I'm not going to die."
A beat.
Then Thalen smirked.
"Good. Then with me—"
He pointed toward the throne room doors, already cracked open like a wound.
Λ
The doors of the throne room hung like broken wings—splintered wood clawed back against bent hinges.
Ash froze.
Blood pooled on marble veins.
Bodies—familiar and foreign—were strewn like discarded cloaks.
Steel clattered somewhere far off, echoing like bells of doom.
"Don't look away," Serana muttered beside him, voice steel-thin and shaking. "They want you afraid."
He couldn't help it. His eyes scanned.
Guards who trained him. Councilors who pinched his cheek in court. Friends. Faces half-gone. Eyes glassed over.
All dead.
At the center of the carnage—King Caelan.
On his knees. Hair disheveled, crown cracked and sliding. Blood seeped from his mouth, dripping from his chin like wine.
A sword kissed his throat.
Queen Isolde sat slouched in a high-backed chair to the side—dress torn, mouth clamped shut. Eyes cold. Watching everything.
Elira and Loric were bound at the far side, bruises blooming along their skin. Loric's left eye was swelling shut. Elira didn't cry—she just stared ahead, lips trembling like she was whispering prayers only she could hear.
And then—him. Malvyn Draegor.
Leader of the High Blades.
Vermilion velvet coat. Gold filigree glinting in the torchlight.
His medals gleamed, each one a stolen triumph.
His smirk was exactly as Ash remembered it from court banquets—charming, confident, dripping venom.
He stood tall, smiling like a man who'd just tasted honey.
"Well," he said, voice smooth as melted sugar, "isn't this a beautiful mess?"
Serana stepped forward, blade raised. A soldier caught her wrist and twisted. She didn't scream. Just spat blood on his face and kicked him in the shin.
Ash lunged instinctively—another soldier caught him, wrenched his arm back. His blade fell, clattered against the floor.
Draegor walked slowly toward the king, arms behind his back, dagger still in hand. Each step echoed like a funeral drum.
"You always told me the crown would never bleed, Your Majesty," Draegor said, not looking at Caelan. "That House Virellion would never fall to blades and shadows. But look at you. Look at your legacy."
He turned, facing the royal children. His gaze swept across them with something almost like pity.
"You were never meant for war. You sat on thrones padded with silk and thought yourselves untouchable. But the world outgrew your mercy. Your quiet, cowardly peace."
"We are blades. We are guns. We are fire. And I am here to reshape what you let rot."
He raised his dagger.
Ash struggled against the soldier's grip. "You're mad."
"No, boy," Draegor said, finally turning to him. "I'm loyal. Loyal to something greater than bloodlines and bedtime stories."
A pause. His smile widened.
"But don't worry. I'm merciful too."
He crouched beside the king, so close their foreheads nearly touched.
"Let's make this simple, Caelan."
A hush fell like snow.
"Kill your son—Thalen—right now. And the rest of your family walks free."
He turned the dagger in his fingers, offering it hilt-first.
"Make the right choice. For once in your life."
μ
Caelan did not speak.
His eyes locked with Draegor's like two gods trapped in a moment older than time. Fire. Frost. Two empires of will crashing in silence.
Thalen's jaw tightened, his breathing measured. Rage danced behind his eyes, but he didn't speak either.
Serana was thrashing against her captors, snarling like a feral beast. Her lips bled from where she'd bitten one of the guards.
Elira shook quietly, terror crawling up her skin like ants under her dress.
And Queen Isolde—regal even in ruin—was twitching for the first time. She had never shown weakness. Never cried, never yelled. She barely spoke. But now she moved—slight, small, just enough to turn her gaze.
To Ash.
Her eyes met his, cold and tired and trembling beneath their usual wall of disdain.
No words passed between them. But Ash understood.
This was not just a battle. This was inheritance.
A legacy passed in silence. A crown born in carnage.
And then—
Draegor's laugh cut through it all. Smooth. Snake-like. Made of oil and silk.
"It's poetic, isn't it?"
"The old king, drowning in failure. His loyal son ready to die for honor. The blade passed to blood. A tale fit for a bard's final verse."
He walked closer to Caelan, twirling the dagger between his fingers like a silver coin of fate.
"But there's no poetry in mercy, old friend. Only in sacrifice. Kill your son, Caelan. Crown Prince Thalen. Or I paint these floors with your bloodline."
Still… Caelan did not speak.
And then—Ash did.
"No," he said quietly. "I'll do it."
The room froze.
Even Draegor's smirk twitched, caught off guard.
He turned. "You're a little monster, aren't you?"
Ash didn't flinch.
"Someone has to be."
The silence that followed was volcanic. Thick. Suspended like breath before a scream.
A guard hesitated. Then stepped forward to unbind him.
The ropes fell. Ash's wrists were bruised, red rings around pale skin. But his hands didn't tremble. Not this time.
The dagger Draegor handed him was cold—colder than the throne room. Colder than the eyes staring at him.
He walked forward.
Step.
Thalen's eyes never left his.
Step.
Elira whimpered. "Ash, please…"
Step.
Serana shook her head furiously. "You don't have to do this. We'll fight—Ash, stop!"
Ash didn't.
He raised the blade.
And whispered, "Forgive me, brother… I will not let our father kill his son."
Thalen's jaw relaxed. A single nod. A mutual understanding. A goodbye in disguise.
But—
Ash noticed something.
The rope on Thalen's wrist.
Frayed.
Loose.
His gaze flicked to Serana. Then to Elira.
And just like that—
Ash threw the dagger.
It spun through the air like it belonged there—like it was born to kill.
Straight into Draegor's eye.
The man screamed.
"Son of a— KILL THEM ALL!"
Then—
Chaos.
Steel rang like thunder. Bodies collided. Screams erupted.
Thalen was already free, sword flashing like fire in a storm. He was a prince born of war—striking faster than sight, blade kissing flesh with fury.
Ash turned—
Too slow.
A shadow loomed. A soldier's blade arced for his skull.
Ash braced—
But the pain never came.
Spatter.
Warmth.
Blood. All over his face.
Serana stood there, sword falling from her fingers, eyes wide.
Then—
She crumpled.
A blade pierced through her back, straight through her.
"Run… idiot."
She was gone before her knees hit the floor.
Ash staggered, blinking through tears and red.
To his left—
Loric. Still. Broken.
His mother—
Throat cut. Regal in death. Eyes empty.
Then—
A hand gripped his shoulder.
"Son."
Caelan's voice. Shaky. Human for once. Not a king. Not a warrior.
Just a father.
"Take Elira. Go. The tunnels."
Ash stammered. "Dad?"
The king forced a short sword into his hands. His own. Ornate. Heavy with history.
"The throne is yours now. Take it back… if you wish. But above all—"
"Survive."
ξ
Elira's hand gripped Ash's wrist—tight, trembling, desperate.
"Ash—we have to move!" she sobbed, pulling him down the northern corridor.
He staggered, feet sliding over blood-slick stone. Something wet and warm squelched beneath his heel. A body? A face?
He didn't look down.
He couldn't.
The screams behind them melted into one long sound.
Not of people.
Not of war.
But of home, dying.
The palace of Velthoria—their cradle, their cage—was collapsing behind them.
And inside, so was he.
Ash wasn't running. Not really. His body just followed the motion of Elira's drag. His mind?
Still in the throne room.
Still at Serana's feet.
Still hearing her say: "Run... idiot."
Her voice rang like a phantom bell in his skull.
Not Serana, not Loric, not Mother—
He saw all of them again in flickers, like ghosts blinking in and out of candlelight.
Every memory now drenched in red.
And he had no space left to grieve.
Just as they neared the western hall—steel flashed.
Four guards. Broad-shouldered. Red-cloaked. Swords drawn.
Blocking the tunnel.
Eyes cold and cruel.
One of them tilted his head at Ash like he was prey too small to be worth the effort.
"The last prince," he said. "I'll make it fast. Then we can take the princess."
Ash blinked.
No fear.
Just static.
His hands curled slowly.
Something ticked inside his chest. Not a heartbeat. A trigger.
And that's when it broke.
Not his mind. Not his heart.
His humanity.
He moved.
No sound left his mouth. No gasp.
Just—motion.
He became the blade. Fluid. Unstoppable.
His short sword—a royal relic passed down only minutes ago—gleamed like an oath in his grip.
Ash surged forward, not like a warrior…
But like a storm in a boy's skin.
Steel collided.
One man fell. Then another.
A third tried to scream, but Ash's blade found his throat before the sound could rise.
The fourth ran.
Elira watched, horrified. Not at the bodies.
At him.
This wasn't the brother she knew.
The fire behind them roared louder now—great curtains of heat swallowing the royal wing.
Ash stood in the silence between screams. Chest heaving. Eyes wide and blank and wet.
His sword—his father's sword—dripped blood onto the marble.
"Ash…" Elira said softly.
He turned.
Her face broke.
"Ash, your eyes…"
He didn't ask what she saw.
He knew.
This wasn't grief. It was something worse.
He looked down at his shaking hands. They weren't shaking from fear.
They were shaking from how good it had felt.
How easy it had been.
How fast it had taken him to become something else.
You're a little monster, aren't you?
Draegor's words echoed.
Maybe he was.
Maybe that's what they made him.
The tunnel gaped ahead—dark, wet, cold. The escape route planned for cowards and survivors.
He should've hesitated.
But Ash stepped in without pause.
Elira followed, her hand brushing the tunnel wall to steady herself. She turned once—just once—to look back at the palace.
Flames climbed the towers like they were reaching for heaven.
Or hell.
And then—
The palace. The crown. The cradle of his childhood.
Gone.
Ash didn't look back.
He couldn't.
Because if he did—
He'd never move again.
Ω
Water dripped from stone above. Each drop hit like a ticking clock counting down to nothing.
Behind them, the world they knew burned.
Ash kept walking. Fast. Too fast. Like if he stopped, the memories would catch him.
They caught him anyway.
He saw her again—Serana—falling like a star dying in slow motion. Blood misting the air.
"Run... idiot."
Her last words. He hadn't even said goodbye.
His legs stopped moving.
Elira turned. "Ash?"
He didn't answer.
He collapsed to his knees. Vomited.
The bile burned, but not as much as everything else. His lungs squeezed against sobs he couldn't afford. Couldn't afford to break. Couldn't afford to feel.
Not yet.
Elira knelt beside him. "Hey... hey. Look at me."
Ash did. Barely. His eyes were glass.
"She died to protect you. They died to protect us," Elira said, voice shaking. "So live, Ash."
He wanted to scream. Tear the walls down. Crawl back and undo it all. But the tunnel didn't care. The gods didn't care.
Serana was gone.
And so was their family.
Ash wiped his mouth. Wiped his eyes. The fire inside him was now a dull ember. Smoldering.
He stood. Shoulders trembling, but standing.
"Let's keep moving," he said.
Elira nodded. They pressed deeper into the dark. The walls tightened. The path narrowed.
Behind them, the past howled. Ahead—the unknown waited.
But Ascalon Virellion would walk it anyway.