Dempsey, Teranua – March 15, 6:00 PM
The smoke came first.
Not the kind from Dempsey's ever-churning factories — no, this was thicker. Wilder. It bled into the sky like ink in water, curling past the steel rooftops and gold-plated towers, swallowing the afternoon sun in a haze of fire-lit shadow.
Gregoria Wilson ran through the eastern corridor of Castle Wilson— or what remained of it — the hem of her soot-stained dress catching on marble cracks as tremors shook the floor beneath her.
Another explosion. Closer this time.
The chandelier above her groaned, then collapsed behind her in a burst of shattering crystal and flame.
She didn't look back.
Don't think. Just run.
Her lungs burned. Her mouth tasted like metal. The smell of oil-fed fire and burning velvet drowned out her thoughts.
She staggered past the portrait hall, where gilded frames once held generations of Wilson family lineage — but now only scorched outlines remained. Her grandfather's face had already been blackened by the fire; her mother's eyes gone to cinders.
They came to kill the crown.
But she wasn't wearing it. She never had.
The fire had started in the west wing — timed with the changing of the palace guards. One moment she'd been reading alone in the study. The next, the sky outside had flared crimson, and one of the maids had screamed about loyalists storming the gates.
The Carrington Loyalists.
And leading them — Margaret Woolworth-Carrington herself.
Gregoria had seen her from the third-story window. Dressed in black mourning robes like a widow at a war council, one hand raised as her men — old royal guards turned zealots — broke formation and charged.
The same guards who once bowed to her uncle, King Carrington.
Now they set fire to the house of his half-brother.
Her father.
William Wilson.
She didn't know where he was.
She'd last seen him earlier than day but only over a broadcasts he made to the public, promising a new age of peace and freedom.
He promised a contrast to King Carringtons fascist regime that outlawed art, religion, and freedom of expression.
The entire nation seemed to be in support, yet Gregoria was unconvinced. Her fathers eyes looked haunted, unfamiliar. He hadn't said much in weeks. Not since the World Council meeting.
Not since the fall of Warden's Maw became public.
Not since he met with some strigoi leaders.
The rumors said he was aligning with Jureslavia or Sang. That he was betraying Teranua.
She hadn't asked. She couldn't.
Now she never would.
A blast shattered the dining wing. Dust rained from the ceiling as she ducked behind the archway, her knees buckling. The painting of the First Treaty — the one her father used to call "a forgery framed in silver" — collapsed in flames.
She crawled beneath the smoke, coughing, eyes streaming.
All around her, the castle groaned like a dying beast.
When she reached the lower servants' quarters, the screams had stopped. Only the fire spoke now — cracking, splitting, devouring every stone and thread.
She found one guard — young, trembling, bleeding from the scalp — huddled behind an overturned table.
He looked up. Saw her.
"Lady Gregoria?" His voice cracked. "Y-You shouldn't be here—"
"You think I chose this?" she spat, dragging him upright. "Get up. Is the courtyard gate open?"
He shook his head. "Loyalists took it. Killed the quartermaster. Said no one leaves until Wilson pays in blood."
Gregoria's jaw tightened.
"Then I'll take the servants' tunnel. Burned or not."
The tunnel ran from the wine cellar beneath the castle to an old shrine road that snaked down to the undercity. It hadn't been used in decades — not since before the Convergence War. But her mother had once shown her the latch beneath the last wine rack.
"In case you ever need to leave without anyone seeing."
She limped her way to the cellar, half-holding the guard. They reached the stones. Flames hadn't touched this far down yet — only the heat. It clung to the walls like sweat.
Gregoria shoved the last rack aside and braced herself.
There. The latch. Still rusted. Still intact.
She twisted it hard.
Stone slid with a groan. A narrow passage revealed itself, curving downward into shadow.
"I'll hold the door," the guard said. "Get to safety, Lady Gregoria."
She paused. "What's your name?"
He blinked. "I—Fenton."
She nodded. "Fenton, if you die here, I'll carve your name into the pavement of every alley in Dempsey. That's a promise."
Then she vanished into the dark of a nearby tunnel.
She ran for what felt like hours. The tunnel was damp, steep, and lined with old roots and ghost-pale vines. Her hands bled from scrapes, her knees bruised.
By the time she emerged into the lower shrine road, dusk had fallen. The sky bled orange. Smoke still curled into it like a mourning veil.
Castle Carta glowed above the ridge — a torch in the crown of Teranua.
She sank to her knees, gasping.
Behind her… everything was gone.
Her home. Her family. Her title meant nothing now — merely hours after she became the princess of Teranua.
"Let it burn."
Gregoria whispered the words aloud.
Not as defeat.
As a vow.
She stood, eyes dry, heart numb.
Ahead, Mount Falle loomed — steep, forested, half-swallowed by fog.
She walked toward it with fire on her back and no one at her side.
The shrine of Lalume waited above.
Interlude: The Producer's Gaze
Dempsey – March 15, 8:00 PM
Friedrich Jackolan adjusted his cufflink with a care that bordered on reverence.
His reflection in the executive limo's window stared back — pale, unbothered, immaculate.
The flames of Castle Wilson flickered in the distance, visible even from the lower quarter. From this angle, it looked less like destruction and more like… revelation. Like a curtain being lifted on an old, unwanted act.
One dynasty crumbled.
Another prepared its debut.
The faint scent of burning silk teased the air, drifting from the collar of his coat. He hadn't stayed long — only long enough to watch the western tower fall.
So much for Teranua's stability.
He didn't mourn it.
Not the Wilsons. Not the Carringtons. Not the ash-choked ideals they fought over. It was always about power in the end. And power always changes hands — or is seized by the patient.
His fingers idly traced the lapel of his coat. The lining carried the Continuity Mandate seal — not visible, not known to the world, but present in every stitch, every calculated move.
Friedrich leaned back in the seat, exhaling through his nose.
He'd seen her.
That girl from the burning castle.
Running.
Smoke at her back. Fire dancing in her eyes.
She hadn't noticed him watching from the neighboring spire's balcony. Few ever did. He was a producer, after all. The man behind the curtain. A hand in the script, but never the star.
And yet—
There was something in her face.
The rawness. The hate. The grief wrapped around purpose.
She's not ready, he told himself.
But soon.
Soon she would come to him. Not as a believer — no, she would scowl and spit and demand.
But she would come.
And when she did, he would offer her exactly what she wanted:
A stage. A mask. A weapon.
The car slowed to a halt outside the black-glass tower of JC Studios.
His driver opened the door. Friedrich stepped out onto the pavement, the city light kissing his face like a lover's lie.
"Prepare casting call materials," he said into his earpiece. "By sunrise. I want raw talent. Desperate faces. Pain behind the eyes."
He paused.
"And make sure the shrine girl receives an invitation. Unmarked."
A pause on the line. "Sir?"
Friedrich smiled — slight, razor-thin.
"She's going to be perfect."
He walked into the tower, his shadow swallowing the lobby before the doors even closed behind him.