The wind blew cold across a barren land.
Once, this place thrived.
Once, it had bloomed with laughter, life, and noble pride.
Now, it held nothing but graves.
In the heart of the Empire, hidden from maps and men, lay a forsaken lane where the past refused to rest.
Scattered across the field stood hundreds of weathered monuments—each one a silent witness to death. But at the center stood one greater than all the others.
The largest.
The cleanest.
The most revered.
It stood not just in the middle, but above them all—as though even the dead here still looked up to her.
This was the land once ruled by House Agriche—a noble family purged by the Emperor himself.
And this monument… it belonged to her.
His beloved wife.
The only woman he ever loved.
The one he killed with his own hands.
Even as an Emperor.
Even if he were to become a god.
He would never forgive himself.
This place—this hollow graveyard—was sealed from the world.
Its existence known only to a few.
Only the Emperor, his closest allies, and the silent workers who maintained it were permitted to enter.
The Emperor allowed no soldiers here. No ceremony. No politics.
Today, in the dead of winter, he stood alone—Isla, Emperor of the Eternal Empire.
A banquet of white flowers rested in his hand, trembling ever so slightly in the wind.
Snow fell in silence.
Before him, the grand monument stood like a frozen altar.
A single tear traced his cheek. But he made no sound, no sob. He stood tall, letting the wind carry his grief away before his loyal Knight Commander, Val, could see.
This was the one place where Isla allowed himself to feel.
Where the emperor could weep not as a ruler, but as a man.
Every year, he returned.
Every year, he stood at this grave for hours, never speaking.
Just listening to the silence.
And this year… It was winter once again.
The season of her death.
And the day of their anniversary.
.................................
15 Years Ago – Royal Palace, Grand Ceremonial Hall
The vaulted chamber shimmered with opulence. Gold-threaded banners of the Empire hung proudly, and crystal chandeliers bathed the room in a soft, regal glow. Trumpets sounded, marking the commencement of the royal ceremony.
This was a day to celebrate the newly branded Association Academy, an institution created to unite scholars, knights, and mages under one imperial vision. But behind the polished smiles and flowing wine, ambition and politics brewed thick in the air.
The Ten Noble Houses were called forth in turn—each family greeted with applause and custom. And then she entered:
Roselle de Agriche — the young mistress of House Agriche.
Draped in soft lavender and bearing the poise of old nobility, she was no mere ornament. Her steps were confident, her chin held high, and her eyes—sharp, unreadable. Whispers followed her path: "The flower of Agriche," some said. "Too clever for her own good," muttered others.
Nearby, Herald, recently named Chancellor of the Association, stood in his freshly pressed robes, basking in the ceremonial praise. Scholars and nobles alike offered him their admiration—deserved, measured, and courteous.
But the loudest applause, the deepest bows, and the most shameless flattery were not for him. They were for another:
Isla.
Newly appointed Crown Prince.
Nobles lined up to shake his hand, to whisper promises of loyalty, to offer marriage alliances and veiled bribes wrapped in compliments. Some were subtle. Most were not.
"My lord, should you need advisors who truly understand court politics…"
"Crown Prince Isla, may my daughter have the honor of—"
"You and the Empire are the future, your highness."
Isla endured it all with a blank expression, eyes cold. Each word of praise was a hollow chime in his ear.
They meant nothing. Not after Teslon.
Teslon, the mercenary king who had humiliated him in front of hundreds during the war not too long ago. A defeat seared into his pride like molten iron.
No noble dared mention it—but their silence spoke louder. Isla could feel the unspoken amusement in their eyes. All their praises were not of respect.
They were flattery.
And he hated it.
He clenched his jaw, breathing steady, emotion locked beneath the surface.
That was when he noticed her again—Roselle—watching him from across the room. Not approaching. Not bowing. Not praising. Just watching.
Their eyes met.
She tilted her head slightly. Not mocking. Not impressed. Simply… curious.
And then, for the briefest moment, she smiled. A real smile. Not for the Crown Prince. Not for the empire's future. Just… for him.
And somehow, that smile stung more than Teslon's blade.