“It’s been a while, Your Majesty.”
Seated across from Princess Bianca Lumine—headmaster of Saint Lucia Academy, wife of Duke Markus Padparadscha, and a woman who wielded influence like a blade—was Queen Celia Angemoux.
“Bianca Lumine,” Celia’s voice was calm, but the weight behind it could crush stone. “What is the aning of this?”
At nearly fifty, Celia looked as if ti had decided to bypass her entirely, her face betraying not a single year past thirty. A delicate strip of lace veiled her eyes, obscuring the emotions that might have flickered there.
Bianca rely raised her teacup. “You’re here. That ans you’ve agreed to our terms, haven’t you?”
“I’m here because you have my son,” Celia corrected, her tone clipped.
“Admirable,” Bianca mused, swirling her tea as if discussing the weather. “You left your palace and your army behind to protect your husband and personally retrieve your son. Quite the sacrifice.”
Her gaze sharpened. “Tell , do you even know who kidnapped him and the Elven Princess in the first place?”
Celia’s frown deepened, the lace doing little to mask the storm brewing underneath.
“Bianca Lumine…” she seethed. “Let see my son.”
“Oh, you will,” Bianca assured her, smiling in a way that felt more like a trap snapping shut. “Though it seems Angemoux and the King’s personal army have abandoned you already. Is this the grand result of your lifelong devotion to Rafaye?”
Celia’s patience shattered. Her hand slamd against the table, rattling porcelain.
“Where. Is. My. Son?”
“Before you see him, answer the question.” Bianca’s gaze sharpened, cutting through the room like a blade. “Do you know who kidnapped your son and the princess?”
“How would I know?!” Celia snapped, her teeth clenched. “How would I know it wasn’t you traitors?!”
Bianca only smiled. “Then tell —who killed the forr Pri Minister?”
Silence.
Celia Angemoux was a simple woman, in the way a storm was simple. Intelligence sharpened her instincts, ruthlessness shaped her rule. She was the iron fist of the palace, the woman who bent the concubines to her will, the shadow behind the throne.
And yet—what had it amounted to?
After miscarriages, assassinations, the deaths of children who never lived long enough to be called heirs—she had finally given birth to Locan. Finally, she had the First Prince. And still, it wasn’t enough?
What would ever be enough? The deaths of even the illegitimates?
She had done everything. Every brutal, cunning, and necessary thing to keep herself beside Rafaye Inkor. To protect him. To protect herself. To protect their son.
And now, after everything, it was crumbling in a single night?
“I always knew you were never loyal to Inkia,” Celia hissed, her voice edged with fury. “The Pri Minister’s faction, the Neutrals—you were traitors all along!”
CLANK!
The porcelain rattled as Bianca placed her teacup down with force.
“Are you certain you’re not the traitor?” she asked, her voice sharp, precise. “Are you certain the king you devoted your life to wasn’t the real traitor?”
Celia’s glare burned. “Rafaye is Inkia. The king is his kingdom. You—foreign princess! You instigated this war! Luminus planned this from the start, didn’t they? And Padparadscha—you bought them off, didn’t you?”
Bianca let out a small sigh, shaking her head. “I’ll admit to many things, but unfortunately for you, no. I’m not the one who set this chaos in motion.”
She closed her eyes briefly, as if lanting the absurdity of it all. And when she opened them again, she said,
“Would you believe if I told you it was the Original Saint who orchestrated all of this?”
***
Inkia fell in the span of a single breath.
Armies flooded the streets. Doors slamd shut, windows latched tight. The nobles scattered—most wasted no ti in securing their survival, swearing loyalty to the victors, the conquerors.
Whether it was Luminus or Soulnaught, the noble houses struck their bargains with the humans, while the Mythical Communities quietly withdrew the mont order was restored.
Wintersin, though…
For all their protests, for all their fury, resisting a single kingdom was one thing. Resisting an entire continent was another. In the end, they, too, retreated.
But how did it happen?
Why had Luminus and the Mythical Communities suddenly turned their backs on Inkia, delivering it straight into Soulnaught’s waiting hands?
And what had Soulnaught done to make it possible?
All while the Emperor and Empress remained tucked away in their winter retreat—long before the first frost of the season had even set in?
The dawn of fall marked the dusk of an era.
Inkia now knelt beneath the rule of the Soulnaught Empire.
The banners of Soulnaught fluttered like storm-caught ravens as Percival rode through the gates of Inkia Capital. His armor, gleaming beneath the ashen sky, reflected the fractured kingdom he now commanded.
The streets reeked of burnt parchnt and cold resignation. Nobles had already pledged allegiance, their loyalty shifting with the winds of conquest, while commoners peered through cracks in their doors, whispering prayers to God who clearly wasn’t listening.
“Lock down the rest of the strongholds,” Percival ordered, dismounting with a practiced ease. “If they surrender, we give them the luxury of living under our boot. If they resist, remind them why they should’ve surrendered.”
His knights dispersed with the precision of a well-oiled guillotine, sealing Inkia’s fate in iron and fire. rcenaries looted what was left of dignity, and informants slithered to his side like rats eager to trade secrets for survival.
Percival watched it all with the apathy of a man who had done this far too many tis before. “Find the noble houses. The ones still pretending they have a choice—remind them they don’t.” He sighed. “And for the love of the throne, soone get a proper drink.”
Then ca the ssage—swift, urgent, impossible to ignore.
A soldier bowed. “Sir Percival. The King of Luminus seeks an audience with you.”
Percival nodded.
When Lazarus Lumine extended his hand, his grip was firm but unaggressive. Percival t it with the sa asured strength—neither testing nor yielding, just the quiet acknowledgnt of n too old and too seasoned to play at posturing.
“I hear Soulnaught’s efficiency remains unmatched,” Lazarus remarked as they took their seats.
He had been puzzled when the Elves and Dwarves approached him, insisting that Inkia be pressured at a precise mont—on the Original Saint’s orders, no less.
Then, when the Mythical Communities raised their banners in unison, forcing Inkia’s hand, he realized it wasn’t just his kingdom that had been pulled into this grand orchestration.
Percival lifted his teacup with steady hands, a practiced smile in place. “Luminus seems to have a talent for knowing when to act.”
A courteous nod. A knowing smirk. The tea was poured.
Lazarus had been even more baffled when the Mythical Communities had urged him to hand Inkia over—not to so neutral party, not to themselves, but to Soulnaught.
“It’s remarkable, really,” Lazarus mused, watching the liquid swirl in his cup. “How everything fell into place so… neatly.”
What in the abyss had Soulnaught done to earn the Mythicals’ favor?
Percival traced the rim of his saucer with a gloved finger. “So might call it fate.”
“Or careful planning.”
“Or sheer luck.”
“Or… persuasion.”
Bullshit.
The soft clink of porcelain as Lazarus set his cup down. The faintest twitch of Percival’s lips—sothing between a smirk and indifference. Neither of them truly relaxed, both balancing on a wire so thin it might as well not exist at all.
The Emperor and his newly wedded Empress weren’t even at the helm this ti, and yet sothing this monuntal had happened?
Lazarus leaned back, fingers resting idly on the armrests. “I’ve always found it curious—what compels one kingdom to intervene? What forces a decision? What ensures… cooperation?”
Percival tilted his head slightly, watching him over the rim of his cup. “The right words at the right ti, perhaps.”
“A powerful voice, then.”
“Or a quiet one in the right ears.”
More bullshit.
Lazarus had co looking for confirmation—confirmation of what he already suspected. He had been watching for years, predicting the shift beneath the surface. He had whispered warnings about the abyss stirring, though with little proof.
And now, suddenly, Soulnaught—of all kingdoms, warmongering, ruthless Soulnaught—had the blessing of the Mythical Communities?
Lazarus exhaled, sothing like amusent in his tone. “And yet, not all voices are equal.”
Translation: Who the hell did you sacrifice to get the Original Saint to hand Inkia over to you?
Percival inclined his head slightly. “But all decisions have weight.”
A pause. A sip. An exchange of nothing and everything.
By the end, Lazarus set his empty cup down with a soft tap against the saucer. “I suppose history will decide whether this was the right move.”
Percival smiled, adjusting his gloves. “History is always written by those who win, Your Majesty.”
Ah. So it was a deal with the devil, Caliburn Pendragon himself.
Lazarus frowned, closing his eyes for a brief mont. Perhaps eting the Emperor’s first aide and guard knight hadn’t been the wisest decision.
Percival—this old fart—was reportedly a Five-Star Force Master, on the verge of breaking into the Sixth. Not as naturally gifted as Galahad, Landevale, or the rest of the Round Table, but he had one thing they didn’t: ti. He had been by his lord’s side the longest, since childhood.
And for all that experience, the man was vague as fuck.
Not a single word too many. Not a single crack in his expression. Nothing but polite, empty pleasantries wrapped in layers of ambiguity.
Lazarus had gained nothing.
Oh well. The truth would co out soon enough—once he t his daughter and the Original Saint.
With that, they parted. Nothing gained, nothing lost. A ga without victors.
Tap, tap, slam.
And the mont Lazarus closed the door to the room, leaving, Percival, the unshakable, long-serving knight of the Emperor, imdiately curled into a ball in the corner of the room, shivering in quiet panic.
“That guy’s scary—!”
The old warrior let out a long, trembling breath, only now realizing just how much he was sweating.
People called him one of the longest-serving and most reliable n under His Majesty Burn Pendragon. But in truth? As soone who lucked and bluffed his way to success, perhaps serving Burn was the greatest blessing and the worst curse of all.
That whole act—the calculated orders, the vague yet confident diplomacy? Performance.
The truth? He knew no shit.
The one screaming ‘bullshit’ in his head during that entire exchange?
Was him.
But hey, wasn’t it great to bullshit his way to safety?
…Yeah.
How exactly did the Mythical Communities all move at the sa ti as Padparadscha, Mossflower, and Wilderwood’s rebellion? And how did Luminus get dragged into this ss?
Well… he had so idea.
It was the Empress, wasn’t it?
Morgan Le Fay was no stranger to the Mythical Communities. That much was common knowledge. And the Emperor? He was in Inkia right now, with her.
Oh.
Wait.
Lazarus didn’t know that.
A taphorical light bulb flickered to life above Percival’s head.
So that was it.
Lazarus had no idea that the Empress—Burn’s Empress—was that Morgan Le Fay. And he certainly didn’t know that both the Emperor and Empress weren’t actually off at their winter retreat like they claid.
To be fair, the whole thing should have been obvious to anyone paying attention. Announcing a retreat before fall had even begun? Really?
Sure, the Empress was ‘ill,’ and the Emperor had just taken a sword to the chest courtesy of an Inkian spy. But anyone with half a brain would question the convenience of their so-called ‘recuperation.’
Unless, of course, there were eyewitnesses who could swear they had seen the imperial couple arrive at the villa.
And guess what?
Percival had no idea whether that had happened or not.
Because once again—
He knew no shit.
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After this chapter, the next 20 chapters are strings of my most favorite chapters I've ever written. Ever. EVER.
Get ready for more bullshit, chaos and lore.
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