The war tent flickered with the low, restless glow of hanging lanterns, their flames casting erratic shadows across the canvas walls. The heavy scent of iron and smoke clung to the air, curling through the space like an omen. Blood-specked maps lay spread across the central war table, their parchment creased and stained with old decisions. Beyond the tent’s flaps, the rhythmic clang of steel on steel rang like war drums. Soldiers moved in brutal, disciplined patterns.

Within, Emperor Drayce stood before the war table, both hands braced on its edge, his weight pressed into his palms as if grounding himself in the blood-soaked lines of conquest. His head was slightly bowed, but his eyes, molten gold and unblinking scanned the map with a feral, calculating stillness. Long strands of damp black hair spilled forward over his shoulders and framed his sharp features, trailing down his back in clinging waves, not yet dried from his bath. A single earring dangled from his left ear, swaying faintly with each breath. His bare forearms, corded with tension from training, flexed subtly beneath the lanternlight, as though the table alone restrained him from lunging forward into the next campaign.

Before him knelt General Thoren Lief, a towering figure encased in ash-grey armor dulled by battle and dust. A black sash crossed his chest, its surface threaded with iron pins,  identifying him unmistakably as the Commander of the Eastern Shadow Legions.

He spoke stiffly, eyes fixed on the floor as though to meet his emperor’s gaze would invite fire.

"The Kingdom of Elarion prepares for celebration, Your Majesty” he said. “Their Crown Prince is to be wed in twenty days. The capital is buzzing with festivity.”

He paused.

“Dignitaries from the eastern courts, the southern tribes, and the coastal alliance will all attend,” he continued, his voice heavy with restrained disdain. “Security is heightened yes, but their forces are scattered. They are sretched thin for ceremonial processions, border patrols, and parades meant to dazzle foreign eyes.” 

A slow smile tugged at the corner of Drayce’s mouth, surfaced with appetite. Without a word, he reached for a dagger resting beside the map. He dragged the tip along the parchment in a deliberate arc, scoring the edge of the Elarion borders.

“Good.”

Commander Thoren blinked, caught off guard. “Your Majesty?”

“We’ll attack then,” Drayce said, his gaze still fixed on the scored border.

Thoren’s head snapped up, disbelief etched across his battle-worn features. The faint clink of his armor broke the heavy silence as he straightened.

“Your Majesty,” he said again, slower this time. “Striking during the wedding would pit us against every kingdom in attendance. It would be... unwise. Even for us.” 

Drayce didn’t move at first. Then, with glacial deliberation, he turned. His long black hair shifting over his shoulders in damp, inky strands. His golden eyes met Thoren’s, gleaming like a blade catching sunlight.

“Then you’ll teach me, Commander,” he said, in voice like silk, too soft for comfort. “You will teach me what is tactical.” 

Thoren swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. Though his spine held firm in disciplined posture, his hands betrayed him clenching at his sides. The weight of Drayce’s gaze was a pressure all its own. Drayce stepped forward, closing the distance with predatory calm. There was no fury in his expression. Only cold, unflinching disappointment.

“Tactics,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a breath, “are for men with something to lose.”

He paused beside the commander, gaze slipping past him to the war map behind.

“And when I strike—” His golden eyes narrowed with a glint of cruel elegance in them.

“They’ll be too busy watching each other bleed to notice they’re dying.”

His fingers hovered for a moment above the iron piece representing Elarion, then, with a flick of calculated contempt, he knocked it off the board. It clattered to the floor and rolled beneath the table, forgotten.

“We will kill in one strike.”

He straightened, turning his focus back to the map. His gaze swept over it but continued,

“Prepare the ravens." he commanded. “Send my shadow agents ahead of the ceremony. I want their temple scouted. Their towers measured to the last brick. Their guest lists intercepted before ink can dry.”

He turned and gave a final glance over his shoulder, golden eyes gleaming beneath the fall of dark hair.

“And Thoren…”

The commander looked up, heart pounding like a war drum in his chest.

“If you doubt me again, I’ll add your bones to the map.” 

The words coiled through the air like smoke, more chilling than any roar. Thoren bowed lower with a bead of sweat trailing down his temple.

“Y-yes, Your Majesty.”

                                                              *************************************

Guests had begun to arrive in the kingdom, their banners already fluttering over the palace walls. Some had come early, eager to secure their place in the spectacle; others were still days away, their retinues trailing along the empire’s well-guarded roads. The streets buzzed with music, silks, and hollow laughter. Within the palace, the days blurred into ceremony after ceremony.

I stood beneath the domed ceiling of the House of the Gods. Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows high above and the bowed heads of noble daughters lined up like obedient dolls. My bruises had mostly faded but one still remained, just beneath my cheekbone.

The priest’s voice rose, deep and polished, echoing through the sanctum like a well-worn ritual.

“Pray, daughters of the realm,” he intoned. “Ask the gods for prosperity. For peace. For blessings upon this union.”

I stepped forward with the others, posture perfect, hands folded just so. But my mind wasn’t here. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Renna trying to tug her sleeves lower. The bruises on her wrists were still there. Seeing that a hot twist pulled through my chest. Rage rose like a tide, bitter and burning. 

I was meant to bow my head to pray, but I didn't. Instead, I lifted my chin and said clearly, 

“I only wish that whoever dared to ambush us… be punished.”