The Fracture in Ashira's Empire
Rain battered the glass walls of the Dominion Archive. The city below glittered with lamps, but inside, the halls of Ashira Valen's empire were restless. Rumors flowed faster than contracts.
The Luceren Data Guild — once crippled by her precision strike — had clawed its way back into power. They undercut her prices, offered stolen secrets with smiling faces, whispered promises to merchants and nobles alike. Contracts vanished from Ashira's desk. Spies she had paid for years shifted their loyalties overnight.
It was not merely business. It was an infection spreading inside her veins.
Alone in her chamber, Ashira slammed her palm against the obsidian desk, the sound cracking like thunder. "I bled for this city," she hissed. "I carved order from rot. And now they dare—"
Her voice faltered. The silence afterward was worse. For a single breath, she felt something she had not in years: small. Breakable.
The door opened. Kaelen Veyra stepped in, his boots quiet on the marble. He carried no advice, no plans. Only a presence steady as iron.
Ashira's voice wavered, a whisper breaking through her clenched jaw. "I thought… I thought I ended them."
Kaelen said nothing. His gaze held hers — not pity, but certainty. You are still Ashira.
And in that silence, something reignited inside her. A fire not of pride, but of survival.
"No," she breathed, straightening, wiping the tremor from her hands. "Not again. Not halfway. This time, they do not rise."
Ashira's War — The Destruction of Luceren Data Guild
The campaign was silent, meticulous, and merciless.
First came reputation. Ashira released carefully crafted "leaks" into the streets: documents forged to expose the Guild's supposed ties with foreign invaders, testimonies of betrayals they had never committed, rumors that their agents sold children's names to slavers. In Dominion, reputation was gold. By the week's end, no merchant wanted to be seen drinking with a Luceren agent.
Then came sabotage. Caravans carrying their encoded ledgers were waylaid by faceless brigands. Safehouses burned mysteriously in the night. Ashira's agents — dressed in Guild colors — staged botched deals, scarring Luceren's reliability. Their clients lost coin, then faith.
Then came the severing of roots. One by one, Ashira bought out their lesser clerks and informants, offering coin, shelter, or threats whispered where only shadows heard. Each defector brought names, codes, hidden caches. With every surrender, the Guild shrank.
Kaelen watched her weave destruction not as a warrior, but as a tactician. Every move was measured, ruthless. Every kindness withheld. She left them no air, no space to breathe.
When the Guild tried to crawl back, Ashira struck again, harder.
By the final month, Luceren was a hollow shell. Its agents starved in abandoned lofts, its ledgers stolen, its safehouses rubble. The once-proud owner staggered through Dominion with nothing left but debts.
Ashira met him in the ruins of his own office, shattered glass crunching beneath her boots.
"You could rebuild," she said, her voice even. "But you won't. You'll sell me what remains — and then you'll disappear."
His lips trembled. He signed.
And with that stroke of ink, the Guild ceased to exist. Its name erased, its shadow consumed.
Kaelen stood behind her, silent, awe burning in his chest. He had seen warriors fight battles. But this was something else: annihilation dressed in elegance.
Dominion's Reaction
The city awoke to silence from Luceren's banners.
Merchants toasted Ashira's "efficiency," though their eyes flicked nervously at the shadows when her name was spoken. Rival guilds canceled expansions overnight, whispering, If she crushed Luceren, what chance do we have?
Common folk muttered half in fear, half in admiration:
"She never lets go."
"She cuts the weed at the root."
"She is Dominion."
And in the alleys, children played a new game. One child pretended to be Luceren, begging on his knees. The other, cloaked in black, spoke only once: 'Disappear.'
Serenya's Theater of Ghosts
While Ashira waged her quiet war, Serenya Veyra walked into a forgotten corner of Dominion. The old amphitheater, half-ruined, held a crowd of beggars, drunkards, and dreamers. On the cracked stage, actors brought forth a tale older than memory:
The legend of Malrik Draeven.
Serenya's breath hitched as she watched.
The stage-Malrik stood tall, his cloak sweeping like night itself, his voice a storm. His enemy knelt, begging for mercy. But Malrik gave none. With each act, he crushed not only the enemy's body but their name, their family, their memory — until the stage itself seemed to echo only his victory.
The crowd gasped, some cheering, some whispering prayers.
But Serenya… she could not move. She remembered the warmth of his touch, the danger in his smile, the way his voice could make cruelty sound like destiny. She remembered nights when she believed he would save the world — and mornings when she feared he would burn it.
The play ended. Applause rang hollow in her ears. She stumbled into the night, heart pounding with memories she had buried. His shadow walked with her, even when she closed her eyes.
"Crush your enemy totally." That was the lesson. She had loved a man who lived it. And she feared she would never escape him.
Oracle's Whispers
And across Dominion, the mist stirred. The Timeless Soul spoke, not to one, but to all.
*"I am the marrow of this city.
I was here before your names were carved,
and I will whisper long after your bones are dust.
Hear me:
Mercy is the door through which ruin returns.
Strike once, and your enemy will crawl back.
Strike twice, and they will rise in vengeance.
Strike until nothing remains —
and only then will silence be your ally."*
The words slipped into council halls, into taverns, into the ears of merchants and thieves alike. Dominion itself seemed to breathe the law.