The Emperor’s fingers curled against the armrest. “From this empire?” His jaw tightened. “Are you telling me someone within my own borders plotted my death?”

The Emperor’s eyes shifted to a vibrant purple color. Within those violet depths, the Soul Sigil stirred—an ancient power, passed down through the Imperial line, one that lay dormant until awakened by coronation.

It was a power that peeled back the veils of the heart, revealing the skein of souls: bonds of fealty, threads of treachery, and the hidden whispers of secret intent. In the presence of deceit, the Sigil would manifest as a searing mark—an eye etched upon the betrayer’s flesh, a brand of internal fire.

This is Emperor Iskareth Alexander, the Dusk-Eyed Sovereign.

In the early days of his reign, even his own people whispered behind closed doors: too young, too unreadable, too distant to rule. But it was that very unreadable calm that unsettled them most. Where other monarchs waged war with swords and proclamations, Iskareth ruled with foresight. He saw betrayal before it ever bloomed. He uncovered hidden agendas and exposed deception not through courtly trials, but through truths laid bare by the soul itself.

And over time, the empire learned a sobering fact: one does not lie to the Dusk-Eyed Sovereign and walk away unscathed.

Despite his reputation, Iskareth is not known for cruelty. He is measured, composed, and terrifyingly intelligent.

Soriel did not flinch under those eyes and spoke truthfully, “Yes, Your Majesty. Their identities remain unknown for now.”

A cold silence settled. The Emperor’s voice dropped to a dangerous hush, “So the knife was not thrown from across the sea… but from behind my back.”

“That is what I can provide you for now, your Majesty,” Soriel replied calmly.

The Emperor leaned forward, “Then find them. I don’t care if they wear crowns, command armies, or serve wine at court. I want names. And once you have them, I want their houses marked and their bloodlines traced. Treason hides in families.”

“I will not rest until I have them, Your Majesty,” she said, bowing again, before she disappeared in front of him.

Iskareth sighed, the sound heavy with weariness. The thought of assailants lurking in the shadows was hardly new. That the Sun Empire might one day turn its blade against Aestheris was no surprise. Tense peace was fragile, and ambition knew no borders. If anything, he had always suspected Lucien, that silver-tongued fox of an emperor, would one day bare his fangs. But what puzzled him was the revelation that some of the attackers were from within his own empire.

Had he failed them? Had his own people turned against him?

He had fought—not just wars and rivals, but expectations. He had fought to become an emperor who could be both ruler and protector. And yet now, there were blades in the dark aimed at his throat, and some were held by hands he thought he protected.

‘Had I looked too far outward... and neglected what festered within?’ he thought grimly.

What also broke him was the realization that the empire his friend, Magnus, had so fiercely protected, had also betrayed him. If Magnus were here, he would have scoffed at the notion of danger and laughed off the threat,

‘As if they could kill me.’

That was the kind of thing he'd say, half-joking, half-challenging the universe. And somehow, it always turned out to be true.

But not this time.

Iskareth clenched his jaw. The assassins may have come for him—but what if Magnus had also been their true target?

Magnus had been powerful—immensely so. He was both feared and admired by those stronger than him. It made no sense.

How could anyone kill Magnus? How?!

Then, a memory came to him—his last moments with Magnus.

“Magnus, leave! The knights will be here—”

Magnus only grinned. “Hey, you wound me, Iskareth. I can protect you just fine, you know?”

“This isn’t the time to joke around!” Iskareth snapped. “Where’s Ludolf?!”

“Hiding somewhere!” Magnus shouted back, just as he drove a fist into an approaching assailant and followed up with a blast of searing red magic. The beam—bright as a shard of the sun—tore through their attacker and lit the stone walls behind them in flames.

The resulting explosion made the floor tremble. Iskareth shielded his face from the heat, coughing through the smoke.

“You neglected your child?! Are you completely insane?!”

“Don’t worry,” Magnus laughed. “He’s going to be okay!”

Those were the last words Magnus ever spoke to him.

Moments later, he was gone.

Iskareth ran a trembling hand down his face.

He groaned. Then, softer still—“I’m so sorry, Magnus. I swear I’ll find them. Every last one.”

He looked up to the stained-glass dome above—where twilight hues of purple bled across ancient marble. He had never been one for prayer, but tonight he closed his eyes and offered one—not to the gods, but to whatever force would listen.

‘Let me find the truth. Let him rest. Let justice be done.’

A possible path forward flickered in his mind: a seer. They were reclusive creatures, veiled in mystery, scattered across the world like stars you could never quite reach. They didn’t work for coin or crown. Offer them gold, and they’d laugh. Threaten them, and they’d vanish. They answered only to the will of whatever strange force guided them—and if they chose not to speak, no one could make them.

Rare, stubborn, maddening. 

And right now, Iskareth needed one more than ever.

“Klaus,” Iskareth called out.

As if conjured from the very shadows, a figure materialized beside him. This was Klaus Rigel, the Imperial Secretary, a man in his early thirties whose dark hair was meticulously swept back from a sharp, intelligent face. His build, lean and athletic, spoke of rigorous training, a knight's physique beneath the refined robes of a courtier. He moved with a silent grace, a small, leather-bound notebook and a slender pen already in hand.

“You called, Your Majesty?” Klaus asked calmly, adjusting the wire-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose, his dark, sharp eyes meeting the Emperor’s.

“Have you delivered the news to the Saintess?” Iskareth asked.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Klaus replied. “The silverwing should have reached her by now.”

(A silverwing is a trained dove used for delivering secret messages.)

“Good,”“Good,” Iskareth acknowledged, a flicker of relief—or perhaps just grim satisfaction—crossing his features. “I take it the battle in the west is over?”

“Indeed, Your Majesty. The Aetheris Empire claimed victory. Captain Louis reported their final push succeeded with the help of Saintess Liviana. Casualties were minimal compared to expectations.” 

“A triumph,” Iskareth mused, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. “One that will do little to alleviate the people's hearts, not with the shadow of Magnus's death hanging over them. The news of his passing will eclipse any victory.” He paused. “Then, I have a new task for you, Klaus. One of utmost urgency.”

“At your command, Your Majesty.”

“Find me a seer,” Iskareth demanded.

Klaus blinked, once, and twice. Of all things, he hadn't expected that.

“I couldn’t care less if they are hidden in the deepest valleys of the Shadowlands or across the vast, uncharted deserts beyond our borders. Find one. Bring them to me.”

“Understood,” Klaus said, bowing his head. “Though… it may take time, Your Majesty. Seers aren’t known for being easy to find. Nor are they fond of imperial summons.”

“I know,” the Emperor muttered. “But if there's even one willing to speak… even one willing to help me, then I must find them. Assign one unit of the Silent Wing to aid in the search. Inform the Archivists of the Forbidden Library. If they’ve ever recorded a Seer’s trace.”

The Silent Wing is the Emperor’s most secretive and elite order of agents designed for infiltration, surveillance, assassination, and the neutralization of internal and external threats. Their operations are invisible to the public eye and unknown even to most of the Imperial Court.

Klaus gave a deep bow. “It shall be done, Your Majesty.”

As he turned to leave, Iskareth called out once more, quieter this time. “Klaus.”

“Yes, sire?”

“…Thank you.”

Klaus gave the faintest of smiles, the kind only shared between men who had survived too much together. “Always, Your Majesty.”

And then he vanished into the halls, leaving the Emperor once again alone in the throne room.

In the quiet solitude of the tower, within the soft-lit confines of Ludolf’s chamber, Genev stood near the window, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in thought. The wind outside whispered against the stone walls, but his mind was louder.

He turned to Ludolf, who sat on the edge of his bed.

“So let me get this straight,” Genev said, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Right after the attack in the banquet hall, you bolted out, ran blindly into a random room, found a statue of some forgotten goddess, prayed to it—and then suddenly you have powers now?”

“Yes,” Ludolf replied calmly.

He left out the most important part—that the goddess actually appeared before him, that he'd felt her ethereal touch, her voice a symphony in his mind. That shared moment was too sacred. Besides, who knew what Genev's reaction would be? He'd surely think Ludolf had lost his mind—a ten-year-old boy unhinged by trauma.

Long ago, gods and goddesses walked openly among mortals. They would appear in moments of great need or divine purpose, blessing chosen individuals with a fragment of their power. Those who received such sacred gifts were revered—saints and saintesses. But over time, their presences began to wane. Their manifestations grew rare, then ceased altogether. Without warning, the gods withdrew, leaving behind only silence and unanswered prayers. No one truly knew why. The temple offered no explanation, only reassurances that humanity was still being watched—that the gods’ eyes remained upon the world, even if their feet no longer touched its soil.

The only remnants of divine will came through scattered prophecies—cryptic messages whispered to the temple order, and signs glimpsed in scrolls or dreams.

Ludolf was one of the rare few. To speak to a goddess… to be heard by one… to be blessed with their power.

It was a blessing beyond mortal comprehension.

Genev blinked at him, deadpan. “You do hear how insane that sounds, right?”

“I do.”

“And you expect me to just accept this?”

“No,” Ludolf admitted, voice quiet. “But it’s the truth.”

Genev let out a long breath, “So… does that make you a saint now? The temples say saints are chosen by the gods. Isn’t that what just happened?”

Ludolf hesitated, his gaze dropping to his hands. Faint traces of divine power still shimmered across his fingertips.

“I don’t think so,” he finally said. “The power the goddess granted me… it feels different.”

“Different, huh? That’s terrifyingly vague,” Genev muttered, studying him for a long moment. He then ran hand through his hair, continuing, “Okay... If this goddess did choose you, then I should train you how to use your powers.”

“Thank you, Genev.”

Genev ruffled Ludolf’s hair with a soft, half-exasperated smile. He didn’t understand any of it—none of it made sense. Ludolf praying to a statue of a goddess, and then having his power suddenly manifest? It sounded absurd, especially in this age. Gods and goddesses only ever chose mortals to become saints or saintesses capable of housing immense divine power. Ludolf hadn’t been born with innate power, yet the divine power now coursing through him was undeniable—real and powerful.

It was unlike anything Genev had ever encountered. Traditionally, those blessed by divine beings bore powers of healing or purification. But Ludolf’s power was none of that. 

More than just power, it felt like a manifestation of Ludolf himself—his essence, his will, his truth. As if the power he now held was not merely given to him, but awakened from something buried deep within, something only a god could have seen.

“Things are starting to get interesting, Magnus. It’s a shame you’re not here to see your son rise to greatness.”

Two days later, the castle doors slammed open with such force that the echo thundered through the throne room. Startled, Klaus and Emperor Iskareth, who had been deep in hushed discussion, turned toward the source of the disturbance.

Standing at the entrance were Saintess Liviana, Captain Louis, and the Vice Commander of the Holy Order, Thoren Valen.

Liviana strode forward, her boots clicking sharply against the marble floor. Her white cloak fluttered behind her like a banner of judgment. She raised a hand, a crumpled letter clutched between trembling fingers.

“Your Majesty,” she began, voice tight, “would you care to explain this?” She flung the letter to the ground at Iskareth’s feet; the paper skittered across the polished stone.

Behind her, Thoren muttered under his breath, “Saintess… mind your tone. You’re addressing the Emperor.”

But Liviana didn’t acknowledge him.

“You expect me to believe my master was killed—murdered—not in a battle, not in a confrontation with a warlord, but by an assassin?” she hissed.

Klaus stepped forward, “Please, Saintess Liviana, I urge you to remain calm.”

“I wasn’t speaking to you,” Liviana snapped, without looking at him. Her eyes were on Iskareth. “I asked His Majesty.”

Iskareth met her gaze squarely, though his expression bore no anger, only weariness. He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with two fingers. There were few in the empire who could speak to him in such a way without consequence—and Liviana was one of them.

She wasn’t just the Saintess of Aetheris. She was practically family to Magnus. And more than that—she wielded divine power that, in sheer destructive force, eclipsed even his imperial authority. The only reason she still showed him deference was because he had once stood by her side when no one else did—and because he was her master’s friend.

“You have every right to be angry,” Iskareth said quietly. “I don’t fault you for it. Magnus was dear to all of us. But especially to you.”

Liviana’s jaw clenched.

“There was a banquet held two nights ago,” the Emperor continued. “A celebration of unity between the high houses. Magnus was in attendance. We expected... nothing out of the ordinary. But a group of assassins infiltrated the palace. They struck quickly and without hesitation.”

“Don’t tell me what I already know from that letter,” Liviana interrupted, voice shaking now. “Tell me what you’re not saying. Who sent them?”

“We have a suspect,” Iskareth admitted. “But we cannot make formal accusations without proof. Not yet.”

“Then give the name,” Liviana demanded. “I’ll get you your proof.”