The sky burned.
Smoke curled through the ruined city like a living thing—hungry, chaotic, endless. The once-glorious capital of Verralt, jewel of the Empire, was little more than crumbling stone and screaming fire. Soldiers shouted in the distance, their voices half-swallowed by the roar of collapse and crackling embers. Ash snowed down like it was mourning.
And in the middle of that hell, a man stood alone.
He wore armor blackened by soot, dented from countless battles. A thick longsword, chipped but resolute, was stabbed into the earth beside him. The flames reflected in his blue eyes like old memories, and a faint smile—tired, bitter—pulled at his lips.
The world he'd once fought to protect was dying.
And for the first time in six years, he felt light.
---
Six years ago, Verralt was not a burning ruin. It was alive, loud, beautiful.
Spring had come early that year, painting the capital in wildflowers and sunlight. Markets bustled with color and noise. Noble houses flung open their gardens for celebration. The Holy Order's banners fluttered from the spires of white-gold temples. It was the kind of day where fate felt too far away to matter.
Naithan Verralt, the seventeen-year-old second son of Baron Verralt, had never looked more at peace. His sword clashed against his instructor's, steel ringing through the private courtyard of House Verralt.
"Keep your elbow tight! You're not swinging a club!" barked the grizzled knight who had once served three kings.
Naithan grinned, sweat glinting on his brow. "If I was, maybe you'd finally lose."
"Cheeky brat."
He lost, of course—knocked flat on his back with one well-placed strike. But he laughed. It was a good day. He still had those.
He picked himself up and turned toward the balcony where his mother watched with folded arms and a soft smile. His father wasn't present—rarely was—but that was fine. His older brother was sparring in the other courtyard. Servants bustled. The sun was warm. He was improving.
Naithan was aiming to become a Holy Knight.
In Verralt, there were two roads for soldiers. The first was through honor: those blessed and trained by the Church to become Holy Knights—guardians of the realm, wielders of divine magic and unwavering justice. The second was... less noble.
The Penal Blades.
Criminals, exiles, disgraced nobles—anyone seeking redemption through blood. They fought in the same wars but bore no banners. They died so others didn't have to.
Naithan knew what path he wanted. He had no intention of dying in the mud to prove his worth. He would protect, rise, be recognized. Make his family proud.
That afternoon, he shared lunch with his brother, Alric—the golden heir of the Verralt line. Tall, sharp-featured, already commanding at nineteen.
"You still flinch before the strike," Alric said between bites of roasted pheasant. "It's small, but tells the whole story. You're hesitating."
"I'm not scared."
"Didn't say you were. Just... commit. Doubt kills more than steel."
Naithan nodded, chewing in silence. It was always like this—blunt advice wrapped in brotherly affection. Alric pushed him to be better, and Naithan admired him for it. Maybe envied him a little too.
Later that evening, the family gathered for a small dinner. The baron had returned, flanked by a few sour-faced advisors. His voice was thunder, his presence heavier than his armor. He gave Naithan a nod, nothing more.
It was enough.
Naithan slept well that night.
The next morning, he woke early and headed toward the lower district. He wore common clothes, hood up, sword hidden. His destination was a modest bakery tucked between smithies and stables.
She was waiting.
Elyra—the baker's daughter. Brown curls, flour on her nose, and eyes like the morning sky.
"Late again," she teased, tossing him a warm loaf.
"You said sunrise. It's barely dawn."
"Barely is still late."
They shared stolen minutes and fresh bread in the alley behind the bakery. She asked him about swordsmanship. He asked her about pastry recipes. She told him she wanted to see the mountains someday. He told her he'd take her.
And in those moments, the future didn't feel heavy.
But the world does not wait for dreamers.
The first crack came a week later—a whispered rumor in the barracks. Treason. A noble family under suspicion. Accusations of forbidden magic, conspiracy, rebellion.
Naithan didn't pay it much mind.
Until the Holy Order arrived at his gates.
Until his father was dragged out in chains.
Until Alric looked him in the eye and said, "Whatever happens—don't trust them. Not even the Empress."
Until he was forced to kneel before the woman he had once pledged to serve, and she called him a traitor.
Until the light that once warmed him turned to fire.
---
Now, years later, the empire burns. And the man at the center of it—Naithan Verralt—stares into the flames, not as a knight, not as a noble, but as the last shadow of everything he once was.
And for the first time, he whispers:
"I don't regret it."