For three nights the Empire did not sleep. From marble courts to gutter alleys, the tale spread like plaguefire: the Crownless Prince defied the Heir before the Emperor's own throne—and lived. Bards turned whispers into music. Priests turned it into warning. No one knew whether to kneel or hide.
In a shuttered manor on the edge of the capital's Inner Ring, Lucian Ardelion watched the city's fever through a cracked window. Lanterns flickered in the fog, and each flame seemed to shiver with breath, like the city itself murmured his name. He had been offered a crown and spat upon it. Now the crown wanted to bite back.
He set down his goblet; the wine inside was dark as ink, untouched. His reflection rippled—a ghost wearing his own face. Behind him, the air hummed faintly. A dozen sealing sigils pulsed on the walls—protection, misdirection, concealment. The wards itched against his skin like insects sensing his heartbeat. He had written each one himself.
A soft knock. "Enter," he said. The door opened just enough for a shadow to slip through. Selwyn, his courier, bowed low. "Letters, my lord. None carry a crest. One smells of grave dust."
Lucian's lips twitched. "Then the Church has decided to be punctual." He took the parchment; its wax seal bore no emblem—only the faint impression of wings. The Apostolic Order rarely wrote; they preferred sermons or assassins. He broke the seal.
'The heretic wolf must not rise. The threads that bind the Empire have frayed once before. They cannot fray again.'
No signature. Only a streak of dried crimson. Lucian folded the letter carefully. "They fear me," he murmured. "Good."
Selwyn hesitated. "And the others, my lord?""Leave them." Lucian turned toward the window again. "Let the world speak. I'll listen."
Outside, the church bells began to toll—slow, heavy, accusatory. Somewhere in the distance, people cheered instead. The Empire couldn't decide what to believe.
By the fourth day, Lucian stepped outside. He walked unguarded through the morning mist, cloak drawn low, blending among merchants and beggars. Every few steps, he caught the sound of his name tangled in gossip.
"They say he bent the prince's aura.""No, he broke it.""A demon reborn in noble blood—""Hush! The crows are listening!"
Lucian almost smiled. Truth had died the moment he'd refused the prince's hand. In its place, myth had bloomed—and myths obeyed no crown.
Near the plaza, a preacher stood atop the fountain steps. His voice cracked as he shouted to a small crowd. "Beware the one who returns without blessing! The Crownless rises from ashes to steal the sun!"
Lucian watched quietly until the preacher's eyes met his own. The man faltered mid-sentence, paling as if he'd seen a ghost. Lucian lifted a finger to his lips. The preacher went silent. The crowd's murmur turned into a shiver. Then Lucian walked away.
Night bled across the city like spilled ink. Lucian returned to the manor, and a raven waited on his desk—its feathers blacker than shadow, eyes like molten silver. A note was tied to its leg with a thread of hair, not string. He loosened it carefully.
To the Crownless: your defiance has reached the old blood. They remember what you are. If you seek answers, follow the scent of ashes beyond the western catacombs. Midnight. Come alone.
The signature was only a sigil—a stylized eye crossed by a blade. Centuries old, thought extinct: the Eye of Veyra, symbol of the rebellion crushed before the Empire's first coronation.
"History never stays buried," he whispered.
Selwyn entered quietly. "Another trap, my lord?""Undoubtedly.""Then why—?""Because traps are where the truth hides."
He donned his black coat, the one stitched with faint runes under the lining, and fastened his gloves. The manor's wards dimmed as he stepped beyond them. Outside, the fog thickened, tasting faintly of salt and smoke. Somewhere beneath the cobblestones, the old catacombs sighed.
The tunnels beneath the western wall were ancient, carved long before the Empire. Torches sputtered weakly, fighting the damp air. Bones lay stacked like books upon the shelves of the dead. Lucian moved without sound, guided by the faint rhythm of dripping water—and by the raven's echoing caw ahead.
At last, he reached a chamber lit by a single brazier. A figure waited beside it: cloaked, face hidden by a silver mask etched with veins of crimson. "You came," the stranger said. "Not many walk willingly into their grave."
Lucian studied him. "You sent the letter.""I delivered a warning.""You awakened an empire."
The masked head tilted. "Good. Then it remembers fear."
Lucian stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "Who are you?"The stranger raised a hand, revealing the same sigil—Eye of Veyra—burned into the palm. "Someone who remembers the world before crowns."
For a heartbeat, the air trembled—mana pulsing like a heartbeat through stone. Lucian felt something ancient stir behind the words, something that recognized him.
"You know me," he said quietly."I know what you are," the stranger replied. "And what the Empire buried when it killed your line."
The brazier flared suddenly, throwing their shadows long across the walls—two figures, mirror-shaped.
"Tell me," Lucian demanded. "Why do they call me heretic? What truth do they fear?""Because once, before the throne existed, there was another crown. Not forged by kings—but by fire and memory. And it remembers its bearer."
Lucian's pulse stuttered. "A crown of memory…""The same power that dragged you back from death," the stranger whispered. "The same that will awaken others. The world does not birth miracles—it resurrects debts."
The raven shrieked, beating its wings. The brazier died. When Lucian's sight returned, the chamber was empty. Only the smell of ashes remained—and a single feather of molten silver drifting to the floor.
He knelt, picked it up. The feather burned cold in his palm, searing a faint sigil into his skin: a crown split in two.
At dawn, Lucian stood atop the manor roof. The sun broke through the fog, turning the city's towers into spears of gold. He clenched his marked hand. The burn still glowed faintly beneath the skin, a heartbeat of light.
Selwyn appeared behind him. "Another war begins, doesn't it?"Lucian didn't answer. He watched the light crawl over the horizon, touching the imperial palace far in the distance. "Let them whisper," he said at last. "Whispers are seeds. And seeds become storms."
The bells began again—twelve tolls for the Emperor's morning prayer. But this time, their echo carried something else beneath the metal: a low, rising chant from the streets.
"Crownless... Crownless... Crownless..."
Lucian closed his eyes. The sound trembled through the air, through his bones, through the mark still burning on his palm. For the first time since his rebirth, the Empire wasn't just watching him. It was listening.
And somewhere far below, in the catacombs he'd left behind, the brazier reignited on its own—burning brighter than before, whispering his name in a tongue older than the world.