Ersia: Raven Dawn

The western gate of Garvad, a city perched upon the great hill of Lusenspitze, swarmed with people. Refugees, hundreds of them—mud-streaked faces, torn cloaks, trembling hands clutching what little remained of their lives. They had fled the border skirmishes between Aramia and Varnaria—three clashes in two years—and now demanded shelter, safety, and a chance to begin again.

Their pleas fell upon the shoulders of Prince William Markovich Golovkin, eighth son of Aramian emperor, a man of twenty-two with a reputation most unusual among his kin. Born into the distinguished House of Golovkin, William descended as the sixth generation from Agno the Dragon Knight who had once laid down his life to fight two dragons at once three centuries and a half ago.

But William himself was nothing like his valorous ancestors. He was known to be compassionate—perhaps too compassionate for Aramian soil. He treated commoners as equals, often calling himself a mere citizen who happened to wield authority by accident of birth. His manner was plain, his living humbler still. With only four guards and a small residence bordering the Merchant District and the Common Quarter, William’s way of life stood in quiet defiance of his family’s splendor—his brothers and uncles who dwelled in estates sprawling over a thousand hectares.

That morning, just as dawn split the mist at six, an unexpected message arrived.

The emperor himself was at the eastern gate.

William’s heart nearly stopped. The emperor—Ethelar Aramid, the greatest sovereign of the known world—had not visited Garvad in living memory. He came not with fanfare, but only sixty of his entourage. William hastily gathered himself, mounted his horse, and rode out to greet his father.

When he saw the Emperor approaching—mounted upon a gray horse flecked with white, thin and unsteady—William dismounted and immediately knelt. His voice quivered as he bowed so low.

“My highest reverence to you, Father.”

The Emperor did not look at him.

"I am not your father for the day,” Ethelar said flatly. “I am your emperor, Mayor William.”

"M-My deepest apology, Your Majesty."

He did not dismount. He only surveyed the land, inhaling the mountain air as if tasting it, then nudged his steed forward.

"Humor me with your city," he ordered.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Rather than dine, rest, or request ceremony—as nobles often did—the Emperor demanded a tour. They rode through the city for nine unbroken hours, from market to granary, from the narrow slums to the broad courtyards of the upper hill. Not once did the Emperor speak of his purpose.

By the third hour, his horse refused to move. William, mortified, offered him the finest stallion in Garvad—a deep-chested black destrier from his personal collection. Ethelar accepted without a word.

Only when the ninth hour came did he finally halt his retinue in a broad clearing near the barracks.

“We camp here,” he said.

He summoned one of his aides—a frail, elderly woman trailed by three of what seemed to be her disciples, each burdened with four thick tomes bound in red leather.

“Deliver them to me before breakfast,” the Emperor commanded.

The woman merely bowed her head in acknowledgment, murmured her assent, and withdrew in silence.

Meanwhile, the city’s young lord remained standing a few paces away, unsure if he should approach. A dozen thoughts crowded his mind. He could not fathom what reason might compel his father to journey this far west, to a border province so removed from the capital, the very heart of his dominion.

When William finally gathered the nerve to step forward, he was stopped.

A shadow loomed before him—the figure of a massive guard, towering nearly three meters tall. His body was corded with muscle, the breadth of his chest like a fortress wall. Coarse hair covered his arms and neck; his skin, beneath the dim firelight, gleamed like the hide of a beast. Even without words, it was plain to anyone watching that this creature was not human.

In truth, he was merely one of many of Ethelar’s personal sentinels, the silent terror that had accompanied him since they met each other during the emperor's conquest of Urs. From the moment the entourage had entered Garvad, all eyes had turned toward him—children had gasped, women had crossed themselves, and even soldiers had averted their gaze.

When the colossus moved to block William’s way, the air seemed to contract. His breath reeked faintly of iron and smoke.

Then, from within the tent, came the emperor’s low, effortless command—spoken in a foreign tongue:

"Kaanak, lass ihn herein. Geh und iss, bis du satt bist."

(Kaanak, let him through. Go, and eat until you are full.)

The guard exhaled heavily, his breath rumbling like a furnace, and stepped aside. His footsteps made the earth tremble as he departed.

William swallowed. He dared not enter the emperor’s tent—such presumption would have been unforgivable. Instead, he knelt at the threshold, keeping his head low as he spoke into the heavy silence within.

“May Your Majesty rest well this evening?”

For a long moment, there was only the soft scratching of a quill across parchment. Then came the voice of Ethelar Aramid—cold, deliberate, perfectly measured.

“There are two things you would do better than wasting your breath, William, my son.”

The words cut deeper than a reprimand. William’s throat tightened.

"... Please enlighten me, Your Majesty."

“First,” said the emperor, “refill my provisions for eleven days. I shall continue my journey tomorrow at noon.”

A pause. The quill did not stop moving.

“Second, prepare yourself for tomorrow—for I am disappointed. Eat well, and rest. You will need both.”

William felt the blood drain from his face. The Emperor’s tone was neither loud nor harsh, yet it carried the full weight of judgment. The kind of disappointment that meant something was already decided, though no verdict had yet been spoken.

Ethelar did not look up once. His pen continued its relentless rhythm upon the page. The tent smelled faintly of wax and ink and the faint tang of oiled steel.

William, trembling, lowered his gaze even further. His voice was little more than a whisper.

“As you command, Your Majesty.”

He remained there a few seconds longer, head bowed to the dirt, before quietly retreating into the night—his heart hammering against his ribs, his mind already haunted by the single word that echoed louder than any threat:

disappointed.

That night, William did not sleep. His mind raced through every possible fault—his governance, his records, the city’s taxes, its population, its order. In panic, he summoned his advisors and officers. Twenty were called. Only eight arrived.

The rest offered excuses—illness, urgent matters, unforeseen duties. In truth, they were terrified. They hoped the mayor would shield them from the Emperor’s wrath. William clenched his fists, a rare anger blooming within him. He swore that he will make notes of their names.

---

When dawn broke, the bells of Garvad rang in rapid succession—sharp, relentless, urgent. It was the signal of utmost urgency—used only when an enemy was upon them, oncoming natural disaster, or when the emperor had an announcement that would reshape the land.

Citizens poured into the square.

At the center, under the pale light of morning, almost three hundred people were already chained—their wrists bound, their faces gray with terror. Soldiers lined them along a wooden platform hastily raised overnight.

A broad wooden staircase climbed the scaffold, its planks darkened by years of rain and use. Guards flanked each step, their boots thudding in grim unison.

At the summit loomed the guillotine—fourteen feet of oak and iron. Two pillars rose like giants, their grain blotched with the stains of history. The blade, wide and polished to a cruel sheen, hung suspended by a rope and pulley, waiting above the bascule: a wooden plank poised to cradle the condemned. Beneath it, a straw-lined basket stood open, patient as death itself.

The air smelled of wet wood and iron—an old scent, almost sacred in its familiarity.

Encircling the plaza, wooden barricades held back the crowd. The townsguard stood shoulder to shoulder, halberds crossed, faces set in the rigid calm of duty. Then came the drums—slow, deliberate, echoing like a heartbeat beneath the gray morning sky. The rhythm rolled through the square, steady as approaching thunder.

When the crowd fell silent, he appeared.

The emperor.

Draped in black velvet trimmed with gold, his expression was neither cruel nor merciful—only distant, as though judgment itself required no feeling. Behind him followed his retinue: law wardens, scribes, and the same old woman clutching her weathered tomes.

All around them, the city watched. From merchants and beggars to washerwomen and nobles in plain garb, thousands pressed close, their eyes fixed upon the scaffold. When the plaza could hold no more, they climbed—balconies, rooftops, lampposts—all drawn upward by the gravity of spectacle.

A cold wind swept through the square, carrying the mingled scents of straw, sweat, horse manure, and that faint metallic tang that always preceded blood. The drums ceased.

And in the hush that followed, even the thin clouds seemed to be waiting for the upcoming.

Chains clanked as the prisoners were divided into two groups. William’s eyes moved among them, and recognition struck like a blade. He saw faces he knew—bureaucrats, bankers, and merchants who had once visited Garvad with polite smiles and heavy purses. But among them were others, far smaller.

Children, their wrists bound to the same iron links.

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Some turned away; others stared, breath caught between horror and obedience.

“Good morning, my people.”

“Good morning, Your Majesty!”

Ethelar Aramid stood upon the scaffold, his cloak stirring in the wind. The morning sun struck the black velvet and gold of his attire, making him shine like an effigy of divine judgment. His face burned with fervor—a union of passion and wrath that made even his silence heavy.

“Beneath the heavens of Ersia,” he began, his voice carrying across the square like the toll of iron bells, “I—your Emperor, guardian of the throne, sustainer of prosperity, and keeper of order—summon you to witness the rebirth of Garvad.”

“For too long,” he thundered, “this soil has been poisoned by hearts of greed—by those who barter the honor of this nation for gold, who trade their oaths for deceit and cowardice! They hide their sins behind ledgers and smiles, behind names gilded with false virtue. Yet the eyes of Imperial Law never sleep! And our eyes will not be swayed!”

His hand rose, and the crowd fell silent again.

“Today, it is not anger that speaks, but justice. For law without courage is ink upon paper—and a kingdom without discipline is nothing but ruins waiting for time to claim them.”

He began to pace along the scaffold, his gaze sweeping over the condemned. The children trembled. The merchants knelt, their faces pale as parchment. The Emperor’s voice deepened.

“Verily, those who taint the waters of life with envy, who trade in the souls of men, who forge profit from the misery of others—have severed the sacred bond of trust and brotherhood upon which Aramia stands. And whosoever betrays that bond… betrays the nation itself.”

At his gesture, the guards forced the prisoners to kneel. William could hear the creak of the ropes and the wet slap of the rain-soaked planks.

“Remember this, my people,” Ethelar said, spreading his arms wide before the masses. “Mercy shown to evil is betrayal to virtue. Justice does not drip from tears—it is forged from iron, and tempered by the blood of duty.”

He turned, his voice rising, carried by the wind and the open stone.

“I, as the living manifestation of Aramia’s law, shall guard this Empire against the weakness that deceives. So long as I draw breath, my law shall stand—though the world may call it cruel. For better that a nation stands upright in the coldness of justice, than it rots in the warmth of unpunished sin!”

Hence, this day—in front the eyes of you all—let justice itself breathe anew!

Bear witness: beneath the banner of your emperor, Ethelar Aramid, no sin shall go unpunished, and no rectitude shall be in vain."

The plaza erupted.

“Gloria!” cried the Emperor.

“Imperia!” answered the crowd.

“Gloria!” he thundered again.

“Imperia!” they roared, voices rising like a storm.

And once more, Ethelar’s final cry cleaved through the heavens—

“GLORIA!”

To which the multitude responded as one:

“ARAMIA!”

The sound shook the air—fervent, feverish, terrible. A chant not of celebration, but of worship.

Ethelar Aramid lifted his hand once more, and the tide of noise fell into a reverent hush. He stepped back from the edge of the scaffold, ceding the stage to his aides. The appointed judges moved forward, robed in black, their faces pale beneath the weight of their task.

Scrolls were unrolled. Ledgers opened. Quills dipped.

Then came the reading.

Names, charges, and confessions—read in a voice as sharp and cold as the blade above. The Emperor’s advisors came forth in procession, each bearing a new document, a new proof, a new betrayal. The evidence stacked upon the table like bricks of judgment, until it seemed the condemned stood before a tomb built by their own sins.

Each accusation fell like a hammer.

Each name was a nail.

It was said that all this had been gathered in a single night—proofs, witnesses, seals, and sentences complete before dawn.

Some whispered that even the guilty had not known their crimes until this morning.

And above it all stood Ethelar Aramid, unmoving.

Not as a man, but as Law made flesh.

And beneath his gaze, even the wind dared not breathe.

One by one, the condemned were brought forth—shackled, trembling, their faces pale beneath the unforgiving morning sun. The first cry split the air like torn parchment. Then another. And another. The guillotine’s rhythm became the new heartbeat of the plaza—steady, merciless, final.

Blood coursed down the steps in dark ribbons, pooling along the cobblestones, soaking the hems of the crimson banners that hung heavy above. The scent of iron filled the air, mingling with incense and ash. By midday, the plaza had become a sea of red, a reflection of the Empire’s will—terrible, unrelenting, divine.

William now frozen in horror. His hands trembled uncontrollably; his breath came in ragged bursts. He tried to look away, but the screams would not let him. He tried to cover his ears, but the sound lived inside his skull.

Then, to make it worse, the stench of burning pitch and boiled metal clung to the wind. When the turn came for the financiers and record-keepers, William’s knees buckled. His gorge rose; he vomited where he stood, his tears mixing with the filth at his boots.

The emperor had given a specific command for their punishment.

For the bankers who had manipulated coin and ledger beyond the limits of his decree, Ethelar ordered molten lead to be poured down their throats—“Let their greed be sealed in the very metal they worship,” he had said. Others were made to kneel beside cauldrons of molten silver; their heads were plunged beneath the surface until the flesh blackened and the skulls gleamed, half-metal, half-man. When the corpses were lifted, the heavy sheen of cooled silver pulled them downward, thudding upon the stone like trophies of justified vengeance.

None knew why the emperor harbored such wrath toward those men of coin—whether they had merely stolen from his coffers, or betrayed something far deeper. But all knew what became of those who overstepped the boundaries he alone defined.

---

When the first group had been dealt with, the emperor wasted no time.

He raised his hand—a mere flick of the wrist—and the executioners dragged forth the second.

This time, there were more women.

And among them—children.

Their cries pierced even the fanatical roar of the crowd. Mothers clutched their sons, trembling; little girls clung to the hems of torn skirts, faces streaked with soot and tears.

From the pavilion beside the scaffold, William—pale and shaking—watched the slaughter unfold. His father, the Emperor, sat beneath the imperial canopy, reading through a handful of sealed letters, unbothered by the chaos beyond the steps.

William could bear no more. He rushed to him, stumbled onto the dais—and instead of kneeling, he prostrated himself fully.

“Father! Father, I beg you—please, restrain yourself! I implore your mercy!”

Ethelar did not look up from the parchment.

“Why should I? Have you not given them enough?”

“Father, please! Stop this! Did you not once proclaim we had entered an age of peace? Let me—let me decide their punishment!”

For a long moment, the Emperor said nothing. Then he folded the letter, set it aside, and spoke softly:

“...Rise, William.”

William lifted his head as the Emperor stood. With a gesture, he bade his son follow. Together they descended the pavilion steps, walking toward the line of the condemned. The sea of citizens—drunk on zeal and terror—swelled around them.

The noise grated upon Ethelar’s senses. He pressed his fingers against his temples, grimacing, and at once his bodyguard, Kaanak, understood.

Kaanak slammed his axe against his shield—once, twice—the sound cracking through the air like thunder. Then he let loose a roar, primal and piercing, loud enough to make eardrums ache and the nearest lanterns tremble.

The plaza fell silent. Thousands watched as the Emperor and his son stood before the prisoners.

Ethelar’s voice rolled like steel across stone:

“Your kind-hearted mayor wishes to spare the guilty.”

He turned toward the masses, his eyes solemn and phlegmatic.

“And because I am in such generous spirits today—seeing the vigor of my people—I shall grant you, the public, the honor of judgment. You shall decide whether those he chooses deserve to live.”

He pivoted to face his son once more.

“Now—”

But before he could continue, a beautiful woman among the prisoners cried out:

“My Lord! Save me, please! I swear upon the gods I am innocent! I will do anything—anything for you!”

The plea barely left her lips when Kaanak moved.

He struck her across the jaw with the flat of his gauntlet—the crack audible even through the crowd. Her mandible broke loose, hanging grotesquely. Before she could fall, Kaanak seized her by the hair, pried open her mouth, and tore her tongue free by the root.

Blood erupted in a crimson fountain. The woman writhed in silence, her screams stolen, until she collapsed lifeless upon the stone.

A stunned stillness gripped the square. Even the children stopped breathing.

Ethelar turned to his son, lips curling faintly.

“Well. Fortunate for you, William—the choices grow fewer, and simpler.”

William sank to his knees, his whole body trembling. Never in his life had he witnessed such cruelty. Until this day, his father had been a distant myth—a name in books, a rumor in the whispers of courtiers. Even his mother, the emperor’s royal concubine, had never spoken of him save in fragments and caution.

Now that myth stood before him, clothed in flesh, and it was terrible.

“Now,” said the Emperor, his tone almost casual, “of the twenty-nine remaining, I grant you the right to name ten. The ten whose punishments I shall delay—so that they may stand trial here, before us all.”

William, still reeling, forced himself upright. He dared not hesitate. He pointed shakily toward a young boy—no older than fifteen—among the prisoners. The guards dragged the child forward.

At that moment, the old woman who carried the imperial ledgers approached William and handed him a parchment list.

As the names were called and they stepped forward one by one, the fourteen-year-old boy suddenly grew pale with fear.

He knew them — and they knew him.

He fell to his knees, begging for mercy in a fit of hysteria.

“Mercy, please! I beg you—I didn’t mean to! I didn’t—”

Ethelar turned his head toward one of the men who walked forward from the crowd—an old farmer, gaunt and trembling with rage.

“Speak, brother. Tell us—what crime has this child committed?” said the Emperor.

“Your Majesty, that beast and his ilk raped my daughter! They tore her apart and left her in the fields to die!”

The man pointed, his hand quivering.

"I could find no justice, for his family wields too much power. Their wealth flows like the River Naine, filling the pockets of those who hold the hammers. For ten long months I have borne a heart torn and shattered, while the goddess Dolla shows me my child’s face in every dream."

Ethelar’s gaze sharpened.

"And where are the hammer-bearers who denied you justice?”

The farmer raised his arm, pointing toward a corpse among the silver-poured dead.

“There, Your Majesty. They have met your law.”

The Emperor nodded slowly.

“Then tell me, brother—would you seek justice from the next hammer-bearers in this city, or will you take mine?”

“By all gods above and below,” the farmer cried, “if your justice cleanses the world of filth such as this—I could never ask for anything other, Your Majesty.”

Ethelar gave the faintest nod. The executioner obeyed.

The boy was laid beneath the guillotine; the blade fell like judgment itself.

And so it went. Again, and again.

Each of the ten chosen met the same fate—every name William called was already damned.

For long before the emperor’s arrival in Garvad, Ethelar Aramid had already gathered their crimes through countless secret investigations. His presence here was not to seek justice—

It was to perform it.

Every gesture, every word, every death—had been scripted long before the dawn broke.

After the tenth condemned put under the blade, ready to meet the same grim end as all before him, Emperor Ethelar Aramid finally turned to his son.

“Come here, William,” he commanded, his voice carrying effortlessly across the blood-slick square. “End this useless dithering with accountability. End this tainted life with your own hands.”

He had summoned his son to pull the lever.

But William did not move.

Instead, he stepped back—just one trembling pace, but enough for the watching crowd to gasp. Droplets of blood clung to the massive blade above, a forty-kilogram wedge of polished death suspended from a height of nearly fourteen feet. Each drop fell with obscene clarity, like the ticking of a clock counting down his courage.

His heart hammered in his chest.

His breath hitched.

And Ethelar saw all of it—his fear, his hesitation, his shame.

The emperor’s jaw tightened.

“I will give you five counts,” he said, voice turning cold and sharp as the steel overhead. “If you do not stand beside me by then, I will sever your head myself.”

Gasps rippled outward.

People whispered behind cupped hands—wondering, with growing terror, whether a prince would die today.

The emperor began to count.

“One.”

A shiver passed through the front rows.

“Two.”

William’s eyes darted—father, blade, crowd, sky—like a trapped animal searching for a door that did not exist.

“Three.”

Some women covered their mouths; a child began to cry. Even the drummers faltered.

“Four—”

William stumbled forward at last, forcing his legs to obey, and reached his father’s side. His face was a battlefield of emotions—shame heated his cheeks, fear tightened his throat, pity wavered in his eyes. Sweat ran down his temples in quick, nervous rivers. He knew—everyone knew—that before this vast sea of witnesses, today would mark the first life he ever took.

“Do it,” the Emperor commanded.

William’s heartbeat roared like stormwater in his ears.

The condemned beneath the blade—a little girl, half his age—screamed for mercy. Her voice cracked, raw and piercing, the kind of desperate cry that burrowed into the bones. She kicked and writhed, begging heaven, earth, and anything between.

William froze.

The square held its breath.

Time stretched unbearably thin.

Ethelar’s patience snapped.

He exhaled sharply, an irritated, controlled hiss. Then he extended a hand toward one of his aides.

“Bring me a sword.”

He meant every word—if William refused again, he would execute his own son before the entire city.

The aide rushed to place a sheathed blade in Ethelar’s palm.

And William—driven by instinct, terror, or the last ember of survival—finally pulled the lever.

The world dropped with it.

The blade thundered down.

The girl’s head separated cleanly, landing at William’s feet with a dull, final thud. Her eyes—wide, glassy, accusing—stared straight at him. Her mouth twitched, nerves still firing, as if trying to speak even in death.

William could not even draw breath.

Because Ethelar seized his collar.

The Emperor spun him around with iron force, slapped him twice across the face—each strike echoing like a crack of lightning—then gripped his throat with a fury that stole air from William’s lungs. One of his teeth flew loose, skittering across the wooden boards.

Then, with a violent push, he thrown William off the execution platform like a garbage.

The prince toppled, crashing into the pool of blood below. Crimson water surged around him, soaking his clothes, streaking his face, baptizing him in the horror he had helped unleash.

From the scaffold above, Ethelar Aramid looked down upon his son.

The crowd—once roaring, once electric with bloodlust—fell into a suffocating silence. Even the horses stamped uneasily; even the halberds of the townsguard twitched, as though recoiling from their emperor’s wrath.

Then Ethelar spoke—his voice cutting through the air like a verdict.

“Know this,” he declared, every syllable crisp and merciless, “there are but two things I despise above all: cowardice and incompetence.”

William did not look up. Blood dripped steadily from his hair onto the stones.

“You have failed to govern this city,” Ethelar continued. “Your policies are permissive—exploited by your opportunistic fellows. Your mercy is not virtue. It is weakness.”

He paced the edge of the scaffold, his velvet cloak brushing against the posts still warm from execution.

“You reject my slavery system, yet you offer nothing of your own. Refugees foul your rivers out of envy for the walls you let them approach. Horses fall ill, harvests shrink—because you lacked the spine to impose order. You are neither pragmatist nor idealist. You are a prisoner of your own image. You want to be seen as humane, as humble, as beloved… while all you know how to do is beg for loyalty instead of commanding respect through authority.”

Murmurs stirred through the crowd—but none dared speak above a whisper.

“You fear pressure,” Ethelar said, voice rising, “and so you run in circles, trying to please everyone, accomplishing nothing.”

“I refuse to be deceived by numbers. The economic and trade growth you flaunted before me? Lies. Falsehoods crafted by the rats you call allies. They forged a picture of prosperity so I would not notice the truth—your foundations are feebler than a three-legged old donkey.”

His voice thundered across the blood-stained square.

“Bankers—greedy pigs—keeping double books and charging interest as high as the moon. Soulgar runners prowling your alleys while you sleep. Underlings fattening themselves on cheap gifts and honeyed flattery. Your war-master smuggling arms for personal profit, preaching peace as a veil. Your youth—lazy, waiting for handouts instead of honing a craft. And most laughable of all: children without values, because their fathers gamble away their futures in parlors owned by your sanctimonious patrons.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd; some tried to hide their faces behind scarves and hoods.

Ethelar’s tone softened—not with mercy, but disappointment sharpened into a blade.

“It is a pity. Truly. You are intelligent. The brightest graduate your academy has seen in twenty years. I know that you know how to build a strong system. But you lack the guts to face the price. I gave you three years—and you failed me. You wasted my time… and you wasted yourself.”

He stepped forward until his shadow fell directly over William.

“You are weak, William Markovich Golovkin. And were it not for the dignity of this empire and the love of your mother, I would strip you bare and parade you through these streets—let the people stone you until death takes you from your shame.”

By now, William no longer responded. He curled in on himself, using his blood-soaked clothes to cover his face. Not from pain—but from humiliation so deep it hollowed him out.

When the last of the condemned had been executed and the plaza had turned red as a rose garden in bloom, the emperor signaled to one of his aides.

The man stepped forward, trembling, and raised his voice with all the strength he could muster.

“From this day onward, interim governance shall fall under the authority of Marchioness Fontessa. In the name of His Imperial Majesty, Ethelar Aramid, we implore all citizens to uphold order and strive for the prosperity of our Empire. Gloria Aramia!”

A weary echo rose from the crowd:

“Gloria Aramia…”

And with that final decree, the crowds turned to their daily lives, sweeping through the blood-damp air, waiting for their city to be reborn after such terror.

---

Night had settled over the outskirts of Garvad—clear, cold, and mercilessly quiet.

At the edge of the imperial encampment, the torches burned low, their flames swaying in the night summer wind like weary sentinels.

It was the ninth hour when Emperor Ethelar Aramid finished composing a final stack of letters, each sealed with the black-gold wax of his house. Imperial ravens waited on their perches, restless and sharp-eyed, ready to disappear into the night with his commands.

When the last scroll was tied to feather and claw, Ethelar stepped outside for air.

He requested a cup of warm milk from an aide and took it with him to the hill just beyond the tents. From there, the world unfolded like a painted dome—an ocean of stars stretching from the dark silhouettes of the Lusenspitze hills to the northern horizon, where the taiga forests loomed like sleeping giants.

A thick cotton mattress had already been laid for him. He reclined upon it, letting the cold kiss his face, while several maidservants kneaded his shoulders and arms with practiced skill. Another fed him spoonfuls of his favorite dish—sturgeon-trout porridge—while he rested his head on the bosom of one of the girls.

For a rare moment, everything aligned into a perfect night.

Until a coil of black mist unfurled beside him.

The maids froze.

The air itself seemed to tighten.

From the swirling darkness stepped a woman clad entirely in black—hooded, veiled, and silent as a falling shadow. Her veil was thin enough to catch the faint glimmer of moonlight, revealing the suggestion of a pale jawline beneath.

Ethelar did not even open his eyes.

“Is that you, Mirabelle?”

“Yes, Master,” she answered—her voice soft, low, and obedient.

“If the whispers you carry are grim,” he murmured, savoring another spoonful of porridge, “keep them sealed until dawn. I wish for a quiet evening.”

“This is rare,” Mirabelle said. “Was William truly that disappointing?”

“Six wives. Fourteen sons. Sixteen daughters.” Ethelar exhaled. “Yet only a handful come close to half my expectations.”

"I think it's unwise to set yourself as the standard, master."

An amused breath left him.

“Believe it or not, I have never prayed to anything,” Ethelar said. “But if I could pray—knowing it would be answered—I would wish that you and Nicholas were my own blood.”

For the first time, Mirabelle’s composure cracked. Her eyes blinked rapidly in disbelief.

For Ethelar Aramid to say such a thing—especially in front of maids—was an omen in itself.

“No, thank you,” she said quietly. “I cherished my late parents. They did not see me as a tool.”

The emperor laughed—a rare, unguarded sound—and gestured for her to join him. The maids, timid and confused, continued their work as the emperor and his spymistress drank and shared a small plate of sweetened nuts. Under the tapestry of stars, they spoke of mundane things, of trivialities—something Ethelar hardly ever allowed himself.

Even the servants could not hide their astonishment; they had never seen their emperor this relaxed, not even with his wives, children, or grandchildren.

At length, Ethelar sighed.

“Very well. Tell me why you’ve come.”

Mirabelle bowed her head slightly and began her report from Ludus Magnorum—the great fighting arena. She detailed the unseen political currents: shifting alliances, transfers of illicit wealth, under-the-table negotiations, gambling yields, who prospered most—and, finally, the results of the semifinal duels, as the emperor had promised an entire island as the champion’s prize.

“The two finalists,” Mirabelle concluded, “are Mister Sunday—a sellsword—and Haerang Seoryun, top disciple of the Haneunghak school of Yeon.”

“Hm. Interesting. Care for a wager?”

“No. I believe the victor is already apparent. There is… something off about Mister Sunday.”

The emperor arched a brow. “Is he hiding his true strength?”

“I suspect it is more than that. To be frank… he seems unstable.”

Ethelar laughed again—a deeper one this time. “Good. Good. Every great man is insane.”

“Ironically,” Mirabelle replied, “I have no choice but to agree, having served you this long.”

The maids stiffened again; they could not fathom anyone speaking to the emperor in this tone—and living.

“Very well,” Ethelar said at last. “Ensure you pass all this to Turgay.”

“There is one more matter, Master. I saved it for last because I believe it will interest you.”

“You still have a surprise?”

“There are reports concerning the man you’ve been searching for. The old man with green and crimson eyes.”

Ethelar raised a hand.

At once, the maids withdrew, vanishing into the tents like frightened birds.

Now only Mirabelle remained with him—alone with arguably the most powerful man in whole Ersia.

“He is eccentric,” she said softly. “And his command of magic surpasses human limits. I suspect he allowed us to see him. But as for his conversation—especially with the Queen of Rosmayne—we could discern nothing.”

“Does he still wander around with that absurd oversized pillow?”

“Yes, Master. Just like you and this absurd oversized mattress.”

Ethelar chuckled. “Great minds have great taste, it seems.”

“And he has a student, Master.”

“A student?”

He sat up, the air shifting.

“Who is this person?”

“We are still investigating.”

Ethelar’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. Argenis was a tricky man who drifted through the world like a rumor—appearing and vanishing as he pleased. If he now took on a student, then there was at last a point of contact. A proxy. A thread leading to the elusive old sage.

“Invite this student to my palace,” Ethelar ordered, “with or without his master. Tell him I will grant such wealth that he and his next seven generations may live in luxury without ever needing to work even a day of their lives.”

But Ethelar kept his finger raised.

Mirabelle remained kneeling, waiting.

“However,” he continued, “if he refuses… simply inform him that I know about The Wall. And that I have discovered things which—even his master—will find surprising.”

“… Am I allowed a question, Master?” Mirabelle said carefully.

“No. Not now.”

“As you will, Master.”

Mirabelle bowed deeply, her veil brushing the earth. Then, she vanishes into thin air.