The stars were dimmer tonight. Or maybe it was the smoke blotting them out.
Eliot stood at the ruined tower, the highest point above the city. Below, the Syndicate's eastern stronghold bled shadows across the rooftops. Slums surrounded it—layers of broken tiles and rotting chimneys—silent, unaware of the war beneath their feet.
He raised one hand.
A golden thread unspooled from his fingertips. It pulsed once, then shot outward—splitting in five directions. His agents, waiting in the corners of the city, received it instantly.
Signal given.
The raid had begun.
Eliot turned his eyes downward.
The Black Hand's base lay hidden beneath an abandoned bathhouse—decayed tiles, boarded windows, illusion wards barely holding together. On the surface, it looked like nothing. But Eliot saw the sigils beneath the illusion—blood-stained lines. Curses that writhed like snakes. A seal meant to trap, not protect.
"They've grown bold," he murmured.
Beside him, a shadow stirred.
Myra knelt in silence, dark cloak brushing stone. "You want a direct breach, Sovereign?"
Eliot nodded. "Quiet and fast. They expect a siege. We'll give them a slaughter."
He descended first, boots silent on the ancient stairs. Each step was calculated. Controlled. His golden eyes scanned every movement, every whisper of magic in the air.
When he reached the base of the tower, three more hunters had arrived—silent men and women with black blades and no names. His inner circle. Eliot's ghosts.
No war horns. No chants. Just steel and precision.
They moved in.
The bathhouse door shattered inward with a single rune.
Eliot ducked first, moving like a whisper. A blade whistled toward his throat—he deflected it without looking, fingers glowing gold. The air cracked with light. A defensive spell ricocheted into the wall.
The Syndicate hadn't expected him to lead the charge himself.
They never did.
Inside, the air was foul. Runes burned red on every wall. A summoning array still pulsed on the floor, half-finished. Cages lined the corners—some empty. Others held demons too mutilated to speak. Magic crackled underfoot.
"Kill the mages first," Eliot ordered.
His team dispersed instantly.
One leapt to the rafters, twin daggers flashing. Another ignited the eastern wall with silent fire. Myra dropped into the central summoning pit, slashing through a cloaked figure before they could scream.
Eliot moved toward the back—where the real targets always waited.
A warlock stepped into his path, arms raised. The man sneered.
"You think one Sovereign can walk into our house and—"
Eliot didn't stop walking.
A blade of golden light appeared in his hand. No chant. No flourish. He swung once.
The warlock's head hit the ground before the spell finished forming.
Eliot kept going.
He reached the inner chamber.
The door was carved from bone. Fresh bone.
He didn't hesitate.
With a flick of his wrist, five glowing runes slammed into the bone, exploded, and the door burst inward in a storm of smoke and dust.
Inside, three Black Mages sat in a circle—linked, eyes glowing with ritual power. One looked up in time to gasp.
Eliot's blade pierced his chest a second later.
The ritual shattered. Magic rebounded, screaming into the walls. The others lunged—one with fire, one with shadows.
Eliot blocked both.
The golden aura around him burned brighter. A second blade appeared in his off-hand. He spun, cut, and dropped the second mage in one fluid motion.
The last one stumbled back.
"You—You're the Valerian whelp! You're—"
"I'm Sovereign of the East," Eliot said quietly.
He plunged his blade into the mage's throat.
It was over in seconds.
Outside, smoke coiled up from the bathhouse ruins. No sign remained of the Syndicate's command post.
Eliot stood in the wreckage, breathing evenly. Not a scratch on him. His golden hair glowed faintly with sweat and ash.
Myra appeared beside him, blood on her cheek.
"Five bases down," she reported. "Two in retreat. One attempted to escape through the southern sewers."
"And?"
"Dead. All of them."
Eliot nodded. "Clean up the mess. I want the sigils erased and the prisoners removed before sunrise. No witnesses."
Myra hesitated. "There's… something else."
He turned.
She handed him a scroll. Wax-sealed, northern crest.
Eliot's brow furrowed.
"Where did this come from?"
"It was found inside the mage's chamber. Hidden in a box with a freezing spell. Addressed to you."
He broke the seal with one thumb. Unrolled the parchment.
His eyes scanned the text.
The further he read, the colder he grew.
Myra watched carefully. "Sovereign?"
Eliot folded the scroll and slid it into his cloak. "The North is compromised."
"The North?"
"Lucien's territory."
Myra blinked. "I thought he avoided underworld dealings."
Eliot turned away, golden eyes hard. "He does. That's what makes this worse."
He stepped into the night, wind brushing his hair. "Double our patrols along the northern border. Set up mirror wards. No contact with their forces unless cleared through me."
"You think it's coordinated?"
Eliot didn't answer. The fire behind him roared higher.
"Lucien wouldn't make a move. Not like this," he said finally. "But someone wants us to think he did."
Myra lowered her voice. "Then it's a setup."
"Or bait."
The wind howled between the shattered buildings.
Now?
Now the East and North were teetering toward war.
He clenched his hand.
"Have the relic sent to the vault," he said. "No contact with the Emperor. Not yet."
"Understood."
Myra vanished.
Eliot remained a moment longer, golden eyes fixed toward the dark ridges of the distant mountains—where the North waited, silent and snowbound.
A soft voice echoed in his memory.
"You act calm now, my sweet boy," his mother had once said. "But one day, the world will tremble at how much you've been holding back."
He hadn't believed her then.
He did now.
*****
The scent of blood still clung to his gloves.
Eliot stepped through the Valerian estate's gates just before midnight, the black overcoat fluttering behind him. His silver hair, streaked faintly with ash, was tied back loosely. Mud stained his boots. Burn marks crawled up his sleeves.
He looked like a ghost returning home from a war no one knew had happened.
And he was tired.
So very tired.
The front hall was quiet—unusually so. No servants. No greetings. The moonlight spilling through the glass panels painted the floor in pale silver.
Gregor wasn't at the door.
That was the first sign.
The second was the soft sound of someone crying.
It came from the music room.
Eliot frowned and moved toward it without a word. His steps were silent. The sword he'd hidden earlier was still strapped beneath his coat. He hadn't even changed yet. No time. No energy.
He paused outside the door, hand hovering near the handle.
The sobbing continued. Small. Muffled.
He pushed the door open.
Inside, kneeling on the floor beside the harp bench, was a girl in a pale rose gown.
Her golden curls were pinned up with jewels. Her face was streaked with tears. Her hands trembled in her lap.
"...Caelia?"
She turned sharply, eyes wide.
"Brother—!"
She scrambled up, tripping slightly over her gown. Her voice cracked. She looked… terrified.
Eliot stepped inside. He shut the door behind him gently.
Her eyes darted to his coat. The faint bloodstains. The burns.
Then to his face—blank, as always, too calm to be safe.
"I—" Caelia's voice broke. "I don't want to marry."
Eliot blinked.
Of all the things he expected tonight—a cursed artifact, another assassination attempt, Gregor nagging him about food—this was not one.
"You what?"
"I don't want to marry the prince from the North!" she sobbed. "I begged them, Eliot, I begged—!"
Her knees hit the floor again. She clutched the hem of his coat like a lifeline.
"I don't love him! I love someone else! I—I thought I could do it, for the alliance, for the family, but—"
"Caelia," Eliot said softly. "Breathe."
She sucked in air between sobs.
Eliot crouched down, the sword hilt pressing against his ribs.
Now that he looked closer, she was trembling. Not just crying. Shaking. Like someone on the edge of shattering.
"Who?" he asked.
Caelia looked up at him. Her eyes were red.
"...who do you love?"
Her lips wobbled. "Sir Darius."
Eliot blinked again. Slowly.
"The knight who falls off horses?"
Caelia let out a wet laugh. "He's better now."
Eliot sighed and sat back on his heels. "Does he know?"
"Yes," she whispered. "He asked me to run away with him. I wanted to say no, I really did, but I—I can't. I can't do it, Brother. I can't marry a stranger. Not for politics. Not for an Empire that wouldn't even notice if I disappeared."
Her voice cracked on the last word.
Eliot stared at her.
He hadn't even washed the blood off his hands yet.
She buried her face in her palms. "They'll exile me. Or punish Darius. Or hurt you. I know I'm being selfish—"
"You're not," Eliot said.
Caelia froze.
His voice was quiet. Steady. But it held something raw underneath.
"You're not being selfish," he repeated.
"But they'll blame you," she whispered. "If I run."
Eliot looked at his gloved hand.
Then at the blood drying under his sleeve.
Then at his baby sister, weeping at his feet like she was twelve again and afraid of the dark.
"No," he said gently. "They won't blame me."
Caelia sniffled. "You don't know that."
"I do," Eliot murmured. "Because I'll take the fall."
"What…?"
"I'll go in your place."
She stared at him.
"You'll—what?"
Eliot stood. His coat rustled as he moved.
"I'll marry the prince."
Silence.
"You can't be serious," Caelia whispered. "You hate court. You hate the Empire. You said you'd rather die than be tied to the North—"
"Yes," Eliot said. "But I've also said I'd rather die than eat Gregor's soup, and yet here I am."
"Eliot!"
He gave her a small smile.
Not the charming, fake one he used on nobles.
This one was tired. Crooked. Real.
Caelia launched forward, wrapping her arms around his waist.
"You can't," she whispered. "They'll eat you alive. They'll mock you."
"They already do."
Her grip tightened.
Eliot slowly raised one hand and ran it over her hair. She smelled like rosewater and tears.
"I've spent half my life pretending," he said quietly. "Pretending I'm weak. Pretending I'm soft. Pretending I care."
She didn't respond. Just buried her face against his chest.
"But if pretending keeps you safe… I'll keep doing it."
A soft knock interrupted them.
Eliot turned his head.
The door opened a crack.
A familiar face peeked through—young, freckled, wide-eyed.
Sir Darius.
"Um," he said. "Is this… a bad time?"
Caelia pulled away, wiping her face. "Darius!"
"I didn't mean to eavesdrop," he said quickly. "I was just… checking if you were okay."
Eliot arched an eyebrow. "You brought your sword."
"I was checking very seriously."
Caelia laughed, half-sobbing.
Eliot looked Darius over.
He was taller than Eliot remembered. The freckles remained. His boots were muddy, his hands were shaking, and his eyes never left Caelia.
He was completely in love.
"Take her," Eliot said simply.
Darius blinked. "W-What?"
"She's yours," Eliot said. "If you hurt her, I'll rip your spine out and play it like a violin."
Darius went pale. "Yes, Brother-in-law!"
Caelia slapped his arm. "Don't call him that!"
Eliot sighed. "Please don't call me that."
"Sorry, sorry, force of habit," Darius muttered.
Eliot looked between them.
They were young.
They were dumb.
But they loved each other.
That was enough.
"Go," Eliot said. "Before anyone realizes you're missing."
Caelia hesitated.
"I'll send word when it's safe," Eliot added. "You'll have a new name. A small estate. Disappear."
She hugged him one last time.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Then she was gone.
Darius bowed deeply. "I'll protect her with my life, Your Grace."
"You'd better."
The door shut.
Eliot stood alone in the room.
Then he walked to the harp bench and sat down.
Blood crusted beneath his nails. His shoulder still throbbed from earlier. He hadn't eaten.
And now?
Now he was getting married.
To a prince he didn't know.
To save a sister who loved recklessly.
He looked at the moonlight spilling through the stained glass.
Then he leaned back and laughed.
Soft. Bitter. Beautiful.