— Milord, it is time to wake. Your king awaits you in the gardens of the Fortress of Eternal Night — said the servant hastily, already turning toward the door with her head bowed.
Rhaeron sat up in bed, his eyes still heavy with sleep, but the urgency in the maid's voice left no room for delay. He dressed quickly, pulling the dark cloak over his shoulders as the morning chill seeped into the room through the cracks in the stone windows.
As he was about to leave, he heard a strange sound — a message coming from the wall near the window. He approached cautiously, frowning. Two female voices were murmuring something, but they were too muffled to understand clearly. They seemed to be speaking about the lord of the fortress… about his father. But the tone was conspiratorial, far too hushed. Bothered by the curiosity and the inability to comprehend, he turned away.
— Forget it… — he muttered to himself, pushing the door open firmly.
Outside, the same servant was waiting.
— Good morning, milord — she said with a brief curtsey.
— Morning. Who is in that room? — Rhaeron asked, discreetly pointing to the door near where he had heard the whispers.
The servant's eyes betrayed her with an enigmatic smile.
— No one, my lord.
He stared at her for a moment, suspicious.
— Very well — he replied curtly, before walking down the cold corridors toward the gardens where his father awaited.
Upon arriving at the garden of the Fortress of Eternal Night, Rhaeron felt a chill crawl up his spine. Something was wrong. The wind blew cold, coming from both the north and the east, bending the trees as if they were begging for mercy. Leaves danced in agony, and some plants twisted as they were torn from their fragile roots.
At the center of the garden, the lord's long table dominated the scene — like a horizontal throne carved from white stone. There, at the head, sat the lord — a man deformed more by time, rage, and hatred than by age. His gaze was hollow, his words like blades. His presence lingered like a shadow that would never leave. Behind that embittered expression lay a past of violence and torment. His wife — once a lady with golden hair — now wore strands stained with dried blood, her skin marred by both fresh and faded bruises. He hurt her in front of their children, the servants, even his own parents — and no one could intervene. His daughters and sons shared the same fate. They suffered in silence.
"Did you call me, Father?" Rhaeron asked, bowing his head briefly.
"Rhaeron…" the lord murmured, forcing a smile that never reached his eyes. He let out a weak laugh, almost a broken sigh. "Do you know what day it is today, my son?" He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table.
"Of course. How could I forget the day of my birth?" Rhaeron replied coldly, sitting beside his sister.
"That's the spirit," the lord said, his tone thick with irony. "Today, I make you heir to my kingdom."
An uncomfortable silence fell over the table. The lord's tone, more than his words, stirred all unease.
Rhaeron stared at him with suspicion. He still felt that something was profoundly wrong.
"What's this for? I've always been your heir. And you know that." He stood up and grabbed a copper jug, filling his cup with wine until the ruby liquid overflowed, spilling down the edge and staining the white cloth.
The servants rushed to clean the wine, kneeling with trembling rags in hand. The lord remained still, but his eyes flared with hatred. His sons and daughters lowered their heads. Everyone knew what might come next.
Rhaeron had made two fatal mistakes: first, calling him "you"; second, letting the wine stain the white tablecloth — the only thing the lord seemed to cherish.
But Rhaeron didn't care. He leaned back, staring at his father with disdain, his eyes sharp as silent blades. His siblings watched him in panic, silently begging him to back down. Everyone knew that when one erred, all would pay — even their mother.
The lord leaned back slowly, crossing his arms, every muscle taut with contained rage. His jaw clenched tightly.
"So this is how it is… I try to be cordial with you, to socialize, and receive disdain in return? You want me to treat you like animals? Is that what you desire?" His voice was calm but dripping with venom.
Rhaeron remained impassive, his gaze cold as steel.
At last, the lord snapped. He rose abruptly and delivered a violent punch to the lady—his wife's—face. The impact echoed through the garden.
"Useless wretch! Why didn't you teach this worm to respect me?!"
She fell, but he did not stop. He kicked her in the belly, face, and chest—again and again—as if each blow was punishment for the entire world.
The children stepped back a few paces but did not flee. They knew running would only make things worse. They stood frozen, eyes wide, terror petrifying their souls.
And in the midst of it all, Rhaeron… sat. Calmly. Drinking his wine as if it were a scene repeated too many times to cause surprise.
Until a punch hit him with such force it knocked him to the ground, shattering his cup.
It was his sister who struck him—two years younger, the only one still brave enough to raise her voice. Her amber eyes, marked by tears and bruises, stared at him desperately.
Silence fell like a leaden shroud over everyone at the table. Servants, brothers, sisters… even the lord was taken aback.
"Why? Why don't you care about us?" she said, her voice trembling between anger and pain. "You watch all this as if it were a game… a spectacle! Do you hate us? Is that it?! Answer me!"
She dropped to her knees. Tears streaked her battered face, pain flowing from her eyes.
But Rhaeron remained still, without a trace of mercy.
Slowly, deliberately, he spoke without words through his actions.
He walked toward her. His steps were as silent as they were threatening.
He extended his hand and, without a word, gripped his sister's neck with brutal force.
She tried to scream, but the air wouldn't come. His fingers squeezed like iron claws.
"Don't confuse me with one of you," he said at last, his voice low and dripping with contempt. "I am not part of this rot… I am what comes after."
One of his younger brothers acted on impulse.
"Let her go, you worn-out fool!" he shouted, rushing to help her.
Rhaeron slammed his sister violently against the table, the impact making the glasses tremble and the wood crack. Without hesitation, he turned to his brother and landed a sharp punch in his stomach, doubling him over. Then, he struck him with his elbow across the face, opening a cut above his eyebrow.
Another brother stepped forward to intervene, but Rhaeron grabbed a serving knife from the table and grazed his shoulder with it. Blood spattered onto the plates. The sisters backed away in panic, one of them stumbling and falling among the garden flowers.
"Do you think you deserve my heart? My compassion?" he spat, his eyes burning like embers.
Rhaeron glanced at his father, who remained still, smiling faintly — as if approving what he saw. It was as if, for a brief moment, the master had just bred a worthy heir.
"I think we're done here," Rhaeron muttered, stepping over one of his fallen brothers.
He left the garden without looking back. He left behind the spilled wine, the broken table, his brothers groaning in pain, his sister gasping on the ground, and his mother bleeding in a corner. But more than anything… he left behind the unmistakable mark that among them all, he was the most dangerous.
On his way to his chambers, Rhaeron crossed paths with some servants hurrying through the dark stone corridors of the fortress.
"What's the rush?" he said, raising an eyebrow, his voice bored.
One of them, without stopping completely, answered in short breaths:
"An unexpected visitor, milord! The Queen of Ariamor has arrived. It seems she was invited to your coronation as heir."
Before he could say anything, the servant was already sprinting toward the main gate.
Rhaeron frowned for a moment, then changed course. He soon arrived at the front courtyard, where the royal caravan was already taking shape—banners of blue and silver fluttered in the rising wind. The luxury carriage was parked before the grand staircase, and soldiers in ceremonial armor held their formation.
The carriage door opened, and Auraya, Queen of Ariamor, stepped out, wrapped in silver cloaks embroidered with winged lions. Beside her walked her two daughters, a young son, and her husband—the Prince Consort.
She paused for a few seconds, scanning the surroundings. No heralds, no noble guests. Only Rhaeron.
"Where is your father, boy?" she asked firmly, her gaze sharp as a blade.
Rhaeron met her eyes with a half-smile.
"If Your Highness looks carefully… he has not yet arrived."
The response caused the Ariamor knights to exchange glances. One of them, visibly offended, stepped forward.
"What audacity is this? Didn't your parents teach you how to behave before royalty? Even as noble blood, Ariamor is the second most important kingdom on this continent."
Rhaeron turned his face slightly, eyes narrowed. His tone cut through the air:
"Oh, is that so? Interesting…" He paused, savoring the disdain. "But I didn't ask for a history lesson."
The wind blew harder at that moment, as if the very air felt the sting of his words. The knight took a step forward, hand already on his sword's hilt, but was interrupted.
"Enough." The queen commanded with a gesture. Her voice was soft but full of authority.
The knight reluctantly withdrew, sheathing his blade.
"But, my lady… he mocked your name. Make him pay."
"And I have decided how to handle that," she replied coldly.
At that moment, the fortress's side gates opened, and Lord Dyalon arrived, accompanied by his wife—her face still bearing visible marks—and their other children. The air grew heavier. Everyone bowed, except Rhaeron, who only turned his head slightly.
"I hope Rhaeron isn't causing any trouble…" the lord said, a smile barely masking courtesy. "Is he?"
"That boy needs to be taught some manners," growled the same knight.
The lord glanced at his eldest son. The smile faded.
"What has he done?" he asked seriously, eyes fixed on Rhaeron.
Auraya paused, stared at Rhaeron for a moment, then answered:
"Nothing. He hasn't done anything."
"Excellent. Come inside, please. Make yourselves at home," said the lord, flashing a wide, false smile, as if trying to dissolve the tension in the air.
The children of Ariamor made polite bows to House Dyalon and followed their mother up the staircase, entering the fortress as if stepping into a decorated tomb.
As soon as everyone entered the halls of the fortress, Rhaeron slipped away quietly, blending into the shadows of the evening.
"If anyone asks for me, tell them I went for a walk… I'll be back later," he said to the nearest knight, who just shook his head with a resigned sigh. He knew well this wandering side of young heirs.
Rhaeron left the fortress through the narrow service passages, a dark cloak draped over his shoulders. He descended the slopes until he reached the city limits, where the noble world faded and the streets filled with the smell of sweat, smoke, and cheap wine.
He arrived at Belky'uy Street, one of the oldest and most squalid alleys of Full Moon — his favorite refuge. Among dirty alleys and faded facades, street performers acted out a comic play portraying Lord Dyalon's court — caricatures of the lord, his wife, his daughters… even him. The crowd roared with laughter. Standing in the shadow of a tavern, Rhaeron let out a genuine laugh.
"At least here, someone understands me."
He left the square and entered a dark alley where decay was more raw. Muffled cries, bodies tangled in shadows, promiscuity dripping down stone walls. Rhaeron passed among them with an indifferent smile.
"Oops... sorry to interrupt," he murmured sarcastically, laughing to himself.
At the end of the alley, he descended a stone staircase hidden beneath a crumbling archway. There, beneath the city, was a hall bathed in red light, thick with incense, wine, and lust. Cushions, tapestries, and bodies in ecstasy filled the space with an atmosphere of oblivion.
He was greeted by a familiar voice:
"Look who's back. I thought you'd abandoned me." Glory said, seated among cushions, her gaze feline and provocative.
"Never, Glory," Rhaeron replied, approaching, his eyes shining with a mix of desire and emptiness.
She moved, making space beside other entwined bodies. The two sat together, enveloped in the silent decadence of that underworld.
There, far from the court, from his father's eyes, from blood and pain, Rhaeron shed not only his clothes—but everything that still made him human.
After the debauchery and oblivion, Rhaeron was forced to return to the Fortress of Eternal Night. Something unsettled him. A weight, no — a strange vibration in the stones along the path.
As he neared the courtyard, he saw a body fallen before them. It was the same knight he had spoken to before leaving—now sprawled on the ground, soaked in blood, eyes half-open, trembling weakly.
Rhaeron moved swiftly, jaw clenched, fists hard as stone.
"Who did this to you?" he murmured, kneeling beside the man.
The knight tried to speak, but only blood trickled from his lips. The spark of life was fading from his eyes.
Other soldiers rushed to the scene.
"Milord, what happened?" one of them asked urgently.
Rhaeron ignored the question. Silently, he pulled the sword from the ground—the blade belonging to the wounded knight himself—and gripped it firmly.
"Milord… what do you intend to do?" the knight insisted, taking a step back at the sight of Rhaeron's gaze.
"Take care of some worms," Rhaeron said, his voice cold as marble.
He ascended the fortress stairs with steady steps. The night, now fully fallen, seemed to press heavily upon the stone walls. Shadows danced in the corners of the corridors, but Rhaeron illuminated his path in his own way.
He raised his left hand.
From the floor, flames erupted—blue, white, black, and red. The Flame of Perfect Creation, as he called it. No other member of House Dyalon possessed such power. They said he was blessed by Sloyhki, the divine miracle. Rhaeron did not believe it. But he wielded the gift, as he wielded silence, as he wielded violence: as a weapon.
Reaching the door of one of the meeting rooms, he kicked it open. The flame died with a snap of his fingers.
Inside, he saw the Ariamor knight seated among members of the royal family. Upon seeing him, the knight lost his balance and toppled his chair, startled.
"So there you are. I was looking for you all over the castle," Rhaeron said, rage burning in his eyes.
"W-what are you—?" the knight stammered, slowly raising a hand toward the sword at his waist.
"Were you the one who did that to my knight?" Rhaeron said, stepping further into the room. Outside, the rain began to pour heavily.
"It's… raining? Strange…" he muttered, already lunging at the man.
The knight raised his sword just in time. The two blades clashed with a metallic crash that echoed through the corridors. The queen's eldest daughter intervened:
"I'm going to call my mother!" She grabbed her siblings' hands, and they hurriedly left the room.
"Now that the weak ones are gone…" said the knight, his eyes blazing with fury. "Let's begin."
The two faced each other. Rhaeron watched with the air of one already victorious.
"Those amber eyes are pretty… a shame they're on the wrong face. I'll rip them out," threatened the knight.
"We'll see," Rhaeron replied coldly.
They both advanced. Swords drawn back, strength pushing forward. The exchange of blows was brutal, precise, merciless. The metallic clashes sent sparks flying, but neither yielded.
Rhaeron aimed a direct punch at the knight's breastplate but was blocked by the heavy armor. The knight grabbed his arm, trying to twist it and throw him off. Rhaeron reacted with a sharp kick to the center of his opponent's chest. The impact was so strong the metal bent slightly, but the cost was high—Rhaeron's arm began to bleed under the pressure of his combat gloves.
He dropped his sword and charged with his fists.
The knight spun his blade with precision, but Rhaeron dodged like a beast trained in chaos. Punches landed on the knight's chest and helmet—no visible marks but heavy blows.
The knight sneered mockingly:
"That's all you've got? Weak."
Then Rhaeron twisted his body and unleashed his secret move: the Vengeful Moon. The kick, swift and curved, struck the knight's breastplate squarely. The sound of impact echoed like a muffled thunder. The metal dented and cracked in places. The knight staggered backward, incredulous.
Stunned, he threw his sword to the floor.
"Then let's settle this like men," he growled, advancing toward Rhaeron with clenched fists.
They charged at each other with raw brutality. Fists crossed midair. Punches exchanged. But fueled by fury, the knight began to miss. His blows barely grazed, deflected by Rhaeron's calculated, cold movements.
Rhaeron ducked instinctively, dodging a cross punch, then exploded forward—grabbing the knight by the waist and spinning him, slamming him against the black stone wall of the room. The impact echoed sharply.
Before the knight could react, Rhaeron wrapped his left arm around his neck and began delivering a brutal sequence of punches with his right hand—each blow fiercer than the last. The muffled thuds of flesh against the metal armor blended with the distant roar of the rain outside.
"Now, who sent you? Your queen? Is your pride hurt?" Rhaeron growled between strikes.
The knight struggled to break free, elbowing Rhaeron, but the young heir landed another punch on the side of the helmet, throwing the man off balance. Taking advantage, Rhaeron shoved him forcefully to the ground.
The knight dropped to his knees, gasping for air. Blood trickled from a crack in his helmet.
"Haaaah... washed-out..." the knight muttered, struggling to rise.
"You better not have touched any of mine," Rhaeron said, closing in again. "But now… since you started, finish me."
The knight lunged with a straight punch. Rhaeron dodged to the side, grabbed the enemy's arm, and twisted it with brutal force. A sharp snap echoed—the agony crashed down again—this time on the knight's broken shoulder.
Rhaeron mounted him like a predator and began pounding his face with relentless, merciless fists. The helmet's visor dented with every hit. One of the knight's eyes swelled and bled. The room filled with the wet sound of destruction.
"Speak… say the name!" Rhaeron demanded, blood dripping between his fingers.
The knight said nothing. Rhaeron dug his fingers into the visor's crack and ripped the helmet off with a furious yank. The man's face was unrecognizable—swollen, torn. Blood mixed with the rain now dripping through the open window.
"Last chance," Rhaeron said, rising. The Flames of Perfect Creation flickered around him, casting red, blue, and black hues across the room.
The knight spat blood on the floor.
"Go to hell… monster…"
"I already live there," Rhaeron replied.
With a spinning kick to the neck, he finished it.
The knight lay motionless.
Rhaeron panted, his arm dripping blood, gloves soaked through. The other members of the Ariamor family stood outside the room, listening to everything. One of Rhaeron's younger brothers trembled at the end of the corridor, unsure whether to feel fear or pride.
Rhaeron passed them by—bloodstained, silent, untouchable.
In the dark stone corridor, the flickering torchlight reflected the blood dripping from Rhaeron's body. His steps were slow but steady. As he met the eyes of Queen Auraya and Lord Dyalon, standing side by side, they watched him silently.
"Hello," Rhaeron said with subtle disdain, as if nothing had happened.
The silence that fell was suffocating.
Blood dripped from his fingers, hitting the marble floor with a wet, echoing sound. Lord Dyalon stepped forward, eyes burning with fury, but his stance remained controlled. The queen's presence demanded diplomacy.
"What do you think you're doing?!" Dyalon exploded, though his voice stayed measured. "You've just killed a named knight! Of Ariamor! One of our oldest allies! Are you trying to start a war, Rhaeron?!"
Rhaeron met his gaze, indifferent. "He attacked one of mine. I simply returned the favor."
"Returned the favor? You're about to be crowned heir, and here you come covered in blood like… like a street mercenary!"
Before the argument could escalate, Queen Auraya raised a hand—cool and calm as mountain air.
"Dyalon…" her voice was firm, almost cutting. "Not here. Not now."
The lord clenched his fists, jaw tight. Auraya continued, studying Rhaeron like one might examine an exotic creature.
"It's alright, Lord Dyalon. We will settle this after the coronation. Guests arrive at dawn, and you need to be… composed." She said this with a slight political smile, but her eyes were dark, calculating.
"He killed one of your knights. You should…"
"Should what? Call for war over a man who provoked you?" the queen cut in sharply. "Let's pretend, for now, it was… an accident."
Rhaeron shifted away from the queen, stopping just a step from her.
"One day you'll stop pretending. You'll see me for who I am. And you'll fear it."
Auraya simply raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps, Rhaeron. But for now… you're still just a bloodstained boy."
Without another word, Rhaeron turned and continued down the corridors. Silence hung heavy between the two leaders. Dyalon ran a hand over his face, exhausted, and said,
"He's not ready. And worse… he likes it."
Auraya crossed her arms, still watching the bloody footprints on the floor.
"Maybe that's exactly what the world needs now. Someone who isn't ready… but is willing."
Rhaeron likely moved quickly to his chamber. At the door, a guard stood firm.
"Send someone to stitch my wounds," Rhaeron said, his voice dry.
"Of course, milord," the guard replied, shaking his head knowingly.
He settled on the dark sofa, fresh blood still dripping from his arms and hands onto the cold floor. The window was open, and the wind and rain whipped inside, scattering droplets across the room.
Shortly after, two servants entered quietly. One carried towels, needles, and fine thread; the other went to prepare a bath and fresh clothes for the young heirs.
The servant with the tools approached his side.
"Extend your arm," she said softly but firmly.
"I'll begin."
As the needle pierced his torn skin, Rhaeron didn't avert his gaze from the droplets falling inside the room, his mind wandering to who might have left the windows open on such a cold night.
The other servant returned, carrying a bucket of warm water and a dry cloth.
The silence in that room was almost tangible — a rare comfort for Rhaeron. Or perhaps it was the quiet presence of the two young servants who had accompanied him since he was ten; now, at sixteen, the age gap between them was just three years.
For Rhaeron, the silence mixed with the sound of rain formed the perfect combo of calm.
"I'm finished," said the servant, putting away her tools. "Now it's just a matter of cleaning the dried blood."
"I'll start," the other replied, unfolding the cloth.
She began to gently wipe the young man's face. His coal-black hair and amber eyes always fascinated her. More than once, the servant had imagined pushing for something more between them; in her naive and desperate mind, the children should inherit the traits of House Moonveil.
Of course, if she ever tried, she would be punished harshly and without mercy.
After finishing the cleaning, Rhaeron stood and, without ceremony, dismissed her as he headed for the prepared bath.
The young servant blinked, almost unconsciously letting a light sparkle appear in her eyes as she admired the heir's body.
He stepped into the bath, still steaming hot. The servant froze, surprised by his boldness.
Rhaeron extended a hand, a subtle gesture signaling her to calm down.
"Please, could you leave? I want to rest after my bath," he requested, glancing sideways at her.
"Of course, milord," she answered with a slight smile, bowing before leaving the room.
After the hot bath, Rhaeron dressed in light clothes and lay down on his bed, pulling the covers up to his neck. He stayed still, eyes fixed on the stone ceiling, listening to the sound of wind and rain lashing against the windows. The storm seemed to grow fiercer outside, thunder echoing like war drums.
Sleep, however, did not come. Exhausted, he closed his eyes, trying to force rest… until a soft noise made him open them instantly. A muffled sound, coming from the corridor.
Rising silently, he walked to the door and opened it carefully. With the palm of his left hand, he conjured a low flame and stepped barefoot across the cold stone floor of the fortress. The corridors were long and dark, and the wind's howl echoed through every corner like ancient laments.
In the distance, a faint light slipped under the door of a room at the end of the hall. Rhaeron moved slowly, pressing close to the wall. Through the door's crack, he could see two servants from the kingdom of Ariamor talking hurriedly.
"Let's hurry, it's about to start," said one, visibly anxious.
"Wait," the other replied, quickly rummaging through Lord Dyalon's belongings.
"What exactly did the lord and queen send us to find?" the first asked, curious.
"Two goblets made of vibrant ruby… with the purple stone of Infinite Chaos," answered the second.
"Do you really believe that will work? No one has ever seen if it actually did…" the other said skeptically.
"I don't believe it, but… I found them," she said firmly, holding up the goblets.
"The relics of the lost god…" murmured the first, a mix of awe and fear in her voice.
"We better hurry. Before the King of Ariamor wakes," she said, tidying up what she had disturbed.
Rhaeron quickly retreated, hiding in the side corridor. When the room's door opened, he held his breath. The two servants rushed out, running down the hallway without noticing his shadowed presence pressed against the wall.
As they passed, Rhaeron began to follow silently, extinguishing the flame in his hand. The corridors were swallowed by darkness. He walked like a ghost, barefoot, silent.
The servants entered another room. Before approaching, Rhaeron waited. When he was certain they were occupied, he cautiously pushed the door open. The room was like any other in the castle: shelves lined with ancient books, a plush armchair, and a fireplace.
Rhaeron moved toward the shelves and began pulling books, one by one. There must have been more than twenty volumes, but none revealed anything special. Tired, he gave up and sat in the armchair, his eyes fixed on the fireplace.
There was something strange. Something… wrong.
He spoke aloud, moved away from the fireplace, and snapped his fingers. The small flame in his hand flared up, illuminating the room like a tiny sun. The flames grew, burning with unusual intensity… then suddenly went out.
The wall behind the fireplace slid open, revealing a secret passage leading underground.
"What the…" Rhaeron whispered, eyes wide. He had never imagined something like this.
He slowly descended the stone steps. The air was damp, and the symbols carved into the walls pulsed faintly with the light of his extinguished flame. Hearing voices below, he immediately put out the flame and crouched silently, hiding behind a broken stone railing.
Peering down, his eyes widened. In a circular chamber carved beneath the fortress, he saw Lord Dyalon standing beside the Queen of Ariamor before an altar covered in purple candles and ancient bones.
Rhaeron was not surprised. It was becoming predictable. The queen had manipulated them all. She held the kingdom in the palm of her hand. And no one suspected.
The two servants knelt before the altar, holding the goblets they had acquired. A man dressed in purple robes — the priest — extended his hands to receive the chalices.
"We may begin," he said in a deep voice.
The servants approached and handed him the goblets. The priest then took a dark vial and poured a thick, black liquid—like ink mixed with ashes—into them.
"May the blood of Chaos unite the realms. May the lost god open its eyes this night," murmured the priest.
The room grew colder. The candles flickered. The floor began to tremble slightly.
— The goblets are ready, — said the priest. — The bond must be sealed.
The queen was the first to step forward. She took one of the goblets and raised it, staring firmly at Lord Dyalon.
— It is for the New Era, — she declared, before drinking its entire contents in one gulp.
Her eyes gleamed a violet hue. Her expression emptied, as if something had taken over her from within.
The priest extended another goblet toward Lord Dyalon. He hesitated, his hands trembling. But under the queen's steady gaze and the priest's whispered words, he lifted the goblet to his lips and drank.
The symbol of Chaos appeared on the floor: a serpent biting its own tail, encircling a divided sun.
— The heirs will be gathered before the next blood moon, — the priest said.
Rhaeron felt a chill. The heirs... that means me, he thought.
— And what if he resists? — one of the servants asked, fearful.
— Then the very earth will bleed, — the queen replied with a cold smile. — And there will be nothing left to inherit.
At that moment, Rhaeron stepped on a loose stone. A dry noise echoed down the stairs.
Everyone fell silent.
The priest turned toward the stairs.
— …Who's there?
Rhaeron ran up the stairs, his footsteps echoing. He heard shouts and orders behind him. The fireplace was still open — he leapt through it and snapped his fingers forcefully. Flames exploded, sealing the passage behind him.
He collapsed onto the hall's carpet, breathless, his face sweating, his heart aflame.
The castle was no longer the same.
Nothing was safe anymore.
Back in his room, Rhaeron threw himself onto the bed, covering himself from head to toe. Outside, the storm roared — the sound of rain beating against the windows mingled with the wind's mournful howls through the fortress corridors. Then, soft footsteps approached the door.
"Is Rhaeron here, I wonder?" Lord Dyalon murmured, slowly pressing against the door.
"I doubt he knows about that place..."
Auraya stood by the half-open window, her hair damp from the rain, her gaze distant.
"What are you looking at?" Dyalon asked, moving closer to her.
"It's raining... and this window is open?" he said, confused, eyes still fixed on the night.
"He likes it. The breeze, the sound of the rain... I always found it strange, but never stopped him," Dyalon replied with a slight smile.
The tension in the air wrapped around them like the wind slipping into the room. Dyalon moved toward Auraya, his eyes slowly tracing her body until they rested on her breasts. Without ceremony, he touched her, drawing slow, provocative circles with his fingers.
"What do you think we're doing here?" she whispered, her tone teasing.
"You took the words right out of my mouth," he answered before pulling her into a fierce, hungry kiss.
Auraya wrapped her arms around Dyalon's waist, pulling him closer. The storm raged outside as the heat between them grew. Their clothes fell away like leaves caught in the wind. They gave themselves to each other right there, on the cold stone floor, beneath the moonlight spilling through the open window.
Rhaeron, motionless under the covers, heard it all.
"What do you think you're doing… in my room?" he thought, with great effort.
But he said nothing. He simply shut his eyes tightly, forcing himself to sleep, while the storm's sounds and muffled moans mingled in the dark.
The sun had barely risen, and Rhaeron was already springing from his bed. His hair was tangled, and his eyes bore the marks of a restless night.
He glanced down at the floor beside his bed, where the two bodies had lain just hours before.
"At least those pigs cleaned the floor..." he muttered through clenched teeth, the venom still fresh in his voice. His fists tightened involuntarily.
Before he could take a deep breath, a knock sounded at the door.
"What now?!" he exploded, swinging the door open violently.
Two young maidens instinctively stepped back, startled by his tone. One of them, serene-faced with her hair tied by a blue ribbon, tried to regain composure and bowed politely.
"Good morning, milord," she said kindly.
"What do you want?" Rhaeron snapped, his voice still soaked with rancor.
"My mother asked me to see to your care, bring your breakfast and... assist with anything you need," she replied, maintaining a hesitant smile.
"No. I don't need anyone here. Leave." With a sharp gesture, he slammed the door in her face.
He stood there for a moment, staring at the wooden door. Silence returned — but a heavy, unsettling silence, filled with thoughts that refused to fade.
He turned toward the windows. The shutters, which had been left open during the night, were now closed. The room felt stuffy.
Rhaeron walked over and pushed the wooden shutters aside. The cool morning air struck his face. The rain had weakened — now only a light drizzle, and the sky remained overcast, as if the world shared his mood.
He breathed deeply, trying to quell the rising thoughts. But another knock interrupted him.
Again, at the door.
"Damn it, again..." he muttered, turning his neck as if holding back a growing fury.
But this time... perhaps it was someone different.
He turned and strode to the door, ready to face whatever—or whoever—dared disturb him this morning.
Rhaeron opened it again. On the other side stood Auraya and her two daughters.
"May I come in?" the queen asked, her gaze dripping with superiority as she appraised Rhaeron from head to toe.
If I don't let her in, things will get worse... Rhaeron thought, forcing a smile.
"Of course..." he replied, stepping aside to let them enter.
Auraya walked in with elegant steps, surveying the room as if searching for something out of place.
"Your room is quite clean... for a boy like you," she said, her tone heavy with irony.
"My dear queen, what is it that you want?" Rhaeron answered, venom lacing his words as he made an exaggerated bow.
Auraya turned, the fake smile gone.
"My daughters told me you slammed the door in their faces," she said, voice sharp now.
"Oh... that. Sorry, wasn't my intention. I had just woken up, tempers were a bit... frayed," Rhaeron replied, trying to sound convincing.
Auraya moved slowly, her eyes locked onto his. When she stopped in front of him, she leaned in so her lips barely touched his ear.
"My daughters will stay here... to attend to your every need," she whispered, her voice low but cutting. "I don't care if you want to take one... or both of them. If you want to get them pregnant... so be it."
Rhaeron's eyes widened, and he swallowed hard. Before he could say a word, Auraya pulled away, clearly satisfied with the effect of her words.
"We'll be here until the coronation preparations are complete," one of the daughters added casually as the door closed behind their mother.
Rhaeron stood frozen for a moment, staring after them, trying to process it all.
— Who else is coming? — he finally asked, voice steady.
— I think the Frostlith House — the girl replied, her eyes sparkling with excitement. — You know who they are, right?
The other, more reserved, spoke next:
— Pleasure, my name is Ellya, and hers is Lunnay.
— Why the cold tone? — Lunnay asked, turning to her sister.
— Because he's arrogant. Didn't even ask our names — Ellya responded sharply.
Rhaeron sighed.
— Sorry about that — he said, walking over to his bed and flopping down. — Make yourselves comfortable... settle in however you like.
The two exchanged a glance. Rhaeron's room was cozy, but the atmosphere inside was anything but welcoming.
— So… how old are you? — Ellya asked, sitting on the edge of Rhaeron's bed.
— Sixteen. And you? — he answered without enthusiasm, just not to seem completely indifferent.
— Eighteen — Ellya said, puffing out her chest with pride. — And Lunnay is nineteen.
Rhaeron snorted, turning his face away in boredom.
— No need to lie.
— I'm not! Right, Lunnay? — Ellya looked to her sister for confirmation.
— Actually, it's true... — Lunnay answered with a small smile. — I know, we look younger, but that's how it is.
The room fell silent for a few seconds, until Ellya adjusted in her chair and addressed Rhaeron, who was now standing by the window.
— Can I ask you something? But I want you to be honest with us.
— Shoot — Rhaeron said without looking back, watching the fine rain through the glass.
Ellya hesitated for a moment, then asked firmly:— What did my mother whisper in your ear?
Rhaeron kept staring out the window, then answered as if it were no big deal:— Oh, that... She said if I wanted, I could impregnate you... or your sister. Or both.
The two sisters exchanged a glance, unsure of what to say.
Lunnay broke the silence first:— Of course she would say something like that...
Ellya, however, crossed her arms and murmured quietly, mostly to herself:— Always playing with others like pieces on a chessboard.
Rhaeron finally turned toward them, his eyes half-closed.— Are you sitting down?
— Not exactly... — Lunnay replied. — But... she tends to do this kind of thing. Using people. Especially men.
— Or the sons of dangerous men... — Ellya added, looking at Rhaeron with a mixture of pity and respect.
Rhaeron took a deep breath and leaned against the wall.— This ends soon... — he thought silently.
Lunnay moved toward the fireplace, grabbing a cloth to dry her still-damp hair from the mist slipping through the half-open window. Ellya stayed seated, her eyes fixed on Rhaeron.
— House Frostlith should arrive before noon — she broke the silence. — They're always punctual. Cold as the place they come from.
Rhaeron raised an eyebrow, intrigued.— You know them?
— I've seen them once. When I was a child. Their lord… Aelyr… He has eyes like ice and a voice that seems not to belong to this world.— And his daughter… — Lunnay finished, now standing. — They say she was born during a hailstorm. They also say she killed a man with a poisoned arrow at twelve years old.
Rhaeron smirked slightly.— Great. Another charming bunch for this ridiculous celebration.
— You really are going to be crowned? — Ellya asked, her tone softer now.— That's what they say. But between saying it and it happening… a lot of blood might spill along the way.
Outside, drums began to rise slowly — a deep, solemn rhythm that made the windows tremble faintly. Rhaeron moved and looked out onto the balcony: black and silver banners appeared along the path, cutting through the morning mist. Six knights of House Frostlith approached in formation, their helmets with curved horns and cloaks billowing like ghosts in the wind.
At the center, a carriage surrounded by crystal-tipped lances advanced in complete silence. No sound of wheels, no creak of wood. Just the muffled drums and the steady gallop of white horses.
— They've arrived — murmured Lunnay.— And with them... the true beginning — Rhaeron suggested.
He stepped away from the balcony, running his hand through his hair as he walked to the center of the room.— Let's go. We have to prepare. Today begins the part no one will be able to stop.
The sisters watched him with uncertain eyes, unsure if they were facing an heir… or the harbinger of tragedy.
— Let's go down. — Rhaeron said with a faint but firm smile.
In the hidden depths of the fortress, Lord Dyalon and Queen Auraya already waited in position. Soon, their children arrived as well: Auraya's three legitimate sons and Dyalon's nine children, including the heirs — Rhaeron among them. A spectacle of family power, like a silent procession of House Moonveil.
The banners of House Frostlith emerged from the distant mist, revealing their ancient emblem: enduring crystals set against a gray field. The flags danced in the biting wind, and the knights of the North rode forth clad in armor as white as snow, their cloaks woven from ice itself. Their gaze was so cold it could kill — yet they were too alive to be anything less than dangerous.
The main carriage halted before the barriers. From it descended, with all the pomp and glory of the Frost Kingdom, King Aelyr Frostlith, Queen Azlaene, and their four children:
The eldest daughter, Narhaerys,
The youngest, Dealys,
The impetuous Aznarys,
And the only son, Rhoyn, a boy with a sharp gaze and firm bearing.
All bowed in mutual respect.
"Look at you, Dyalon... When I saw your sigil on the invitation, I thought it was some bad joke. But here we are, aren't we?" said Aelyr, with a smile mixing sarcasm and chill. He firmly placed his hands on Dyalon's shoulders.
"Of course. You wouldn't miss this," Dyalon replied with false hospitality, resting his hand over Aelyr's.
As Aelyr greeted the other members of House Moonveil, his gaze shifted to Alysh. She bowed, trained like a queen to mask her pain. The king gently lifted Alysh's chin, noticing the marks — subtle but clear — of recent wounds on her face and neck. His eyes then silently turned to Dyalon. He said nothing but saw everything.
Meanwhile, Narhaerys, the eldest Frostlith daughter, never took her eyes off Rhaeron. He stood among Auraya's daughters, Ellya and Lunnay, but it was as if everything else around her faded away.
Seized by impulse, a young man stepped toward Rhaeron as if time itself had paused. He wanted to speak, but shame and nervousness clogged his throat.
Rhaeron, never losing his sarcastic charm, extended his hand lightly and said,"I hope you brought another gift from the North for me."
Narhaerys blushed, averting her gaze for a moment."Yeah... I did."
With a snap of her fingers, two Frostlith servants came forward from the carriage, carrying a long object wrapped in linen cloth, tied with red ribbons, and sealed with an ancient protective emblem.
"Open it... you'll like it," she said, visibly embarrassed by all eyes turning to her.
Rhaeron carefully tore the wrappings and revealed a curved-blade sword, sharp on only one edge — perfect for quick, precise cuts. The metal shimmered with a bluish tint, as if it held the cold of the North within its very core.
"Forged by the finest smiths in the Frost Kingdom," Narhaerys explained, gaining confidence."The scabbard is enchanted... they say it's fire against fire. Protection against flames. A gift you might need someday."
Rhaeron looked from the sword to her. For a moment, his serious expression softened. The sword was magnificent, but the gesture... the gesture said more than he could admit.
"Thank you, princess," he said with a nod. "A noble gift... for a future king."
Narhaerys discreetly hid her blush, swallowing the warmth rising to her cheeks.
And so, beneath the cloudy sky and biting winds, two great houses faced each other, false smiles masking deep suspicions. Something stirred behind the court's curtains. Something old... awakening.
"Let's go inside," Dyalon said, his voice firm and impersonal.
Before heading to the hall, Aelyr moved closer and gave Rhaeron a light tap on the arm, leaning in to whisper in his ear:"Meet me upstairs. Now."
Without waiting for a reply, the King of Frost withdrew.
"Take the guests to their chambers," Dyalon ordered the waiting servants at the stairway."Of course, milord. This way, please."
The Frostlith entourage ascended silently, escorted by the maids.
Rhaeron, however, did not follow the others. He walked alone down the corridors toward his chambers. On the way, he crossed paths with one of his brothers — the same one who had recently caused trouble. They exchanged glances for a moment, but no words were spoken.
Reaching his door, he pushed it open slowly. Inside, Aelyr stood with his back turned, gazing out the window. Narhaerys sat quietly on Rhaeron's bed, though her eyes betrayed her anxiety.
"Close the door," Aelyr said without looking back.
Rhaeron obeyed.
"What do you want with me?" he asked cautiously.
"To talk. Sit next to Narhaerys," the king replied calmly.
Rhaeron moved over and sat beside the young woman, who offered a timid smile. The late afternoon light touched Aelyr's hair, revealing a pure white as snow—flawless, ageless. His eyes held a pale pinkish hue, almost ethereal, enough to unsettle any man. It was like staring into an ancestral spirit.
"You know it wasn't your father who summoned me, right? That's why he looked so awkward. I tried to hide it, but I saw it all," Aelyr said, turning around with a slight smile.
"Hm... then who was it?" Rhaeron asked.
"Your mother. She sent me two letters: one begging for help... and another, a formal one, to cover it up. Dyalon had no idea I was coming. I only told him when I was already on the road. For all intents and purposes, it looks like I invited myself," Aelyr explained, pulling out a chair to sit before them.
"And if he finds out? If he discovers that my mother reached out to you... he might kill her," Rhaeron murmured, worried.
Aelyr shook his head slowly.
"Don't worry. My plan for tonight... is to save all of you."
The room fell silent. The wind whistled through the window cracks. Rhaeron tensed.
"What are you talking about? Save... from what?"
"You know as well as I do," Aelyr answered. "My kingdom has always been wary of the Kingdom of Ariamor... and Auraya. And I'll say more: she is plotting something against You. Did you know that, in the past, Auraya was in love with your father? But their parents forbade it. She married... but never forgot him. And he, even after everything, never forgot her either. That explains his behavior. A bitterness... a brutality.
Aelyr paused, smiling enigmatically."Well, enough about the past. Let's get to the point," he said, turning to Narhaerys. She practically bounced on the bed."Come on, Father, ask him already!" she said excitedly.
Aelyr folded his hands over his knee and looked directly into Rhaeron's eyes."So, Rhaeron Moonveil... it's simple. Yes or no. Do you accept to marry my daughter, Lady Narhaerys?"
Time seemed to stop. Rhaeron looked at Narhaerys. The world around him faded away. The question echoed in his mind, mixed with promises, distrust, power... and a flicker of hope.He took a deep breath."...I accept."
Narhaerys couldn't contain her joy. She let out a muffled scream, jumped on top of Rhaeron, throwing him onto the bed and kissed him with passion and abandon, not caring about her father's presence.
Aelyr let out a brief laugh as he rose from his chair."Whoa, take it easy, young ones," he said with a slightly darker tone. "We still have to talk to Lord Dyalon. But... I doubt he'll oppose."
"The coronation is coming soon," Aelyr affirmed, voice firm but tired."That's all for now," he said, standing up. "I think I'll take a walk around the castle and then head to the city. I'll speak with your father later about the marriage. I..."
He walked to the door, paused, and turned back with a crooked smile:"One more thing... no children. Control yourselves, okay?" he said, laughing.
"Father!" Narhaerys exclaimed, blushing brightly.
Rhaeron's cornered laugh echoed softly as Aelyr left the room.Suddenly, a servant woman appeared, running breathless and terrified. She nearly collided with Aelyr in the corridor, barely managing to keep her balance. Her eyes widened in shock as she recognized him.
"Why the rush?" Aelyr asked sternly, leaning against the wall with crossed arms.
"Forgive me, Your Majesty... but it's you I was looking for," she said, her voice trembling."Huh?" Aelyr raised an eyebrow, curious.
"It's King Dyalon... he's... he's hurting Lady Alysh. She's lost a lot of blood," the servant whispered, tears starting to fall.
Aelyr froze for a moment, his eyes hardening. Without a word, he spun around and dashed down the corridor.
Rhaeron and Narhaerys appeared at the doorway, their faces pale but determined.
"Come on! We have to stop my father!" Narhaerys urged, panic in her voice.
The three raced through stone columns and tapestries, up and down stairs, until they reached the hallway outside Alysh's chambers.
The corridor was crowded—servants, knights, and attendants all frozen, unwilling or afraid to move. Some whispered nervously, others wept quietly. From inside the chamber came muffled screams—the violence was still happening.
Rhaeron and Narhaerys reached the doorway but Aelyr was nowhere in sight.
"Where is he?" Rhaeron demanded, scanning the crowd.
"Mama!" Narhaerys cried, rushing to Azlaene, who stood pale and desperate, clutching her daughter's arm.
"Narhaerys, where is your father?" Azlaene asked anxiously.
"I... I don't know. I thought he'd be here by now. The servant ran after him..." Narhaerys answered, glancing nervously around.
"He will kill her..." Azlaene whispered, voice trembling. "The knights of the Moonveil and Ariamor houses won't let anyone enter. They're all standing there... like statues. No one dares pass."
The corridor fell deathly silent as Rhaeron stood, fists clenched, his eyes burning with fury.
"Kamily! You need to stop this!" the youngest daughter of Dyalon shouted, tears streaming down her face.
"How? I can't get through!" Rhaeron growled, glaring at the knights blocking the chamber's entrance.
From inside, the heavy thuds of blows still echoed.
His brothers stood frozen in fear—some trembling, others staring blankly at the floor. None dared move. None dared resist. Their father's brutality had paralyzed them all.
The metallic scent of blood seeped out from beneath the door. Alysh's sobs had fallen silent.
Rhaeron stared at the knights. Then at the door. Then down at the floor.
A slow, cold rage surged through him.
"I'm going in. And anyone who tries to stop me dies right here." His voice was low, but resolute.
He took a step forward—and then the air shifted.
Aelyr appeared.
He moved through the crowd with slow, deliberate steps. His presence was overwhelming—bones seemed to creak in their sockets as if made of dry sticks. One by one, heads bowed before him. Even the strongest swallowed hard. Servants trembled.
The knights guarding the door exchanged quick glances—just a moment of hesitation.
Aelyr reached out and touched the hilt of his sword.
And then... nothing but blood.
The bodies of the knights from Houses Moonveil and Ariamor shattered into pieces.They crumbled like dry leaves blown by the wind.An invisible, swift, and precise strike — there was no time for cries, no time for defense, no time for honor.They fell like sacks of flesh.
Rhaeron froze. Everyone froze.Aelyr said nothing, not even glancing at the carnage. He simply approached and opened the door.
Inside the chamber, blood coated everything — the walls, the sheets, the carpet.Auraya of Ariamor sat at the edge of the bed, her eyes half-closed.When she saw Aelyr enter, her gaze flicked to the bodies of the fallen knights outside.Silence shifted into fear.
Dyalon, who had been moments away from striking Lady Alysh, slowly turned around.He was covered in blood, breathing heavily, eyes void of remorse."What are you doing here?" Dyalon said, unmoving. "I don't recall inviting you."
Aelyr didn't answer.He walked over to a small table, calmly poured himself a glass of wine."Oh, really?" he replied, taking a sip. The taste seemed unpleasant.
"If no one here called you... then she must have."Dyalon sneered, pointing disdainfully toward Alysh, stretched out on the floor, drenched in blood, her eyes half-closed.
Aelyr looked at her. She was still breathing — faintly, but alive.
"Take her away," he said coldly, glancing at both Dyalon and Auraya.
The servants rushed in, almost slipping on the blood, moving toward the fallen queen's body.As one bent down to touch her, Dyalon kicked at her.
But something sliced through the air.A sudden, lethal flash descended from above.
Dyalon staggered back, startled, nursing a shallow cut on his face.He looked toward Aelyr — who remained standing in place, as if doing nothing.
"What are you waiting for? Get her!" Aelyr ordered the servants, his voice still icy."He won't harm you."
Frightened but trusting his words, the servants lifted Alysh's nearly lifeless body and hurriedly carried her out of the room.
Aelyr turned, walking toward the door.But before leaving, he paused.He looked at Auraya. Silence stretched between them for a few seconds.
Then, without a word, he tipped the glass and threw the wine at her.The crimson liquid ran down, staining her white dress like fresh blood.Auraya only stared, expressionless.
The door shut behind him.Aelyr was gone.But the mark of his presence would linger in that room for a long time.
After the incident, night soon fell.The full moon shone in the sky, round and silent.Everyone who gazed upon it wondered: when was the last time it had ever seemed so alive?
Rhaeron prepared to finally become the heir of the Fortress of Eternal Night, future king of House Moonveil and the people of Fullmoon.
Narhaerys stood beside him, her hair loose and expression calm yet resolute, placing a darkened silver necklace around Rhaeron's neck.Though made of silver, its color was coal black, etched with the symbols of Moonveil's vassal houses — a chain of loyalty forged in ancient blood.
Rhaeron wore his coronation attire, black from head to toe, with deep red details that seemed to pulse under the torchlight.His heavy leather cloak, embroidered with the symbol of the full moon on the back, weighed on his shoulders like the responsibility he was destined to carry forever.The fitted black tunic, cut with military precision, gave him a firm and battle-ready posture.
A black leather belt with a silver buckle cinched his waist, from which hung the sword Narhaerys had gifted him that very day.His tall, dark leather boots were sturdy and fit for both ceremony and war.
Rhaeron's appearance was a perfect blend of dark nobility and military brutality. A prince with the gaze of a warrior. His face reflected the resentment that had shaped him and the pride that guided him.
His aesthetic recalled the gothic knights—the most ruthless and imposing Moonveil in history—who bore the full moon not as a symbol of light, but as a portent of darkness and dominion.
The fortress gradually fell silent.The torches flickered.
And when Rhaeron took a deep breath... it was as if the very night itself was about to bow.
Most of the vassal houses, summoned from the farthest corners of the Moonveil territory—having crossed valleys, forests, and mountains—were present that night. The coronation ceremony had been awaited for years—and now, finally, Rhaeron would be elevated as the heir to the Fortress of Eternal Night.
Inside the room, Narhaerys drew Rhaeron close. Silently, she began to brush his long, coal-black hair—a shade so dense and absolute it seemed to absorb all the surrounding light. He watched his own reflection in a small dusty mirror, his amber eyes shining with a mixture of anger, pride, and silence.
The door creaked open slowly.Dealys, Narhaerys's younger sister, peeked in."Everyone is waiting for you, Prince," she said, holding the doorknob before pulling it back.
"Finished," murmured Narhaerys, dropping the brush.
Rhaeron adjusted himself, ran his hands over his garments, and stared once more into the mirror."Let's go, Narhaerys."
They stepped out together, their footsteps echoing through the cold, dark corridors of the fortress. The banners bearing the full moon swayed gently, as if the very stone itself were breathing.
Near the main hall, Narhaerys had to part ways. She ascended to the royal family's reserved seating beside her father Aelyr, her mother Azlaene, and her siblings. She lightly touched Rhaeron's hand before leaving and continued on her path.
Two ceremonial knights clad in black armor with scarlet details opened the doors of the Great Hall of the Fortress of Eternal Night. The scent of incense and iron hung in the air. Inside, King Dyalon sat upon his colossal throne, carved from obsidian and ancient steel. Nearby, Auraya sat with her husband and children. On the opposite side of the hall, Rhaeron's four brothers and four sisters sat silently—like statues sculpted by duty.
The hall was filled with nobles, each clad in gala attire, banners, and emblems representing their respective vassal houses. As Rhaeron entered, numerous eyes turned toward him—like blades hidden behind thin smiles. He pretended not to notice.
With his hands behind his back and a serious gaze, he walked down the main aisle, feeling the weight of those stares piercing him at every step. When he finally reached the throne, he knelt with one knee on the cold dark stone floor, silent, eyes fixed downward.
Dyalon let out a low, soft chuckle, folding one hand.
Two handmaidens entered the hall—one with her hair tied back, the other with shoulder-length loose hair. Both wore white dresses accented with red and solemnly carried a dark oak wooden box. Guards flanked them on either side.
They stopped before Rhaeron and knelt.
Opening the box, they revealed the heir's crown of House Moonveil—crafted from ancient rubies, their blood-red stones seeming to pulse silently. The base of the crown was blackened by time, almost charred, as if the very metal had decayed over generations of blood and betrayal.
Rhaeron didn't blink.
The fortress held its breath.
The full moon watched.
And the gods—if any still existed—waited to see who would kneel, and who would bleed.
Dyalon slowly descended the steps of the throne, his heavy footsteps echoing through the hall. His black cloak trailed behind him like a living shadow. He stopped before Rhaeron, who remained kneeling, unmoving—like a statue carved to be shaped by eternity.
The handmaiden on the left—the one with flowing hair—stepped forward, holding the ancestral crown gently with both hands. Her body trembled slightly under the symbolic weight of the object. Kneeling on one knee, she lowered the crown toward the king like an offering to forgotten gods.
Dyalon grasped the crown.
He stared at it for a brief moment—the ruby stones gleaming in his emotionless eyes—then firmly placed it upon Rhaeron's head. The impact echoed like the sound of a seal being stamped.
His voice was cold, ceremonial, carrying the weight of command:
— "I, Dyalon, hereby name Rhaeron Moonveil Prince of FullMoon and heir to the Moonveil Throne."
Silence.
A single moment of absolute silence.
Then, one by one, the lords of the vassal houses began to bow, like tides pulled by the gravity of something greater. Some with pride, others with reluctance.
Together, they declared in unison:
— "We pledge our loyalty to the heirs of the Eternal Night Throne."
Their voices filled the hall like thunder echoing from ancient caves.
The great houses spoke in order, their banners raised high by standard-bearers:
– House Dawrkater – House Draylock – House Morgan – House Drayklyn – House Mrogwa – House Nyoere
And many more, who, even in silence, lowered their heads before the new name crowned by blood and legacy.
Rhaeron remained kneeling, his face a mask of stoic calm, as if the crown's weight was not only physical but a pact with the darkness that had always shadowed his bloodline.
The oath was sealed.
The full moon still shone outside, but within the Fortress of Eternal Night, it was Rhaeron who now eclipsed every gaze.
The crowd erupted in applause for Rhaeron.
Everyone — except Auraya, who watched silently, her eyes cold as frozen glass.
From the top of the staircase, Rhaeron discreetly glanced toward the left corner of the hall, where the Frostlith family stood. Amid the shadows of banners, he saw Aelyr slipping away — his steps calm, nearly invisible to the watching eyes. His family followed, receding like night mist.
But then—
A scream tore through the hall.
A masked man plunged a dagger into the neck of an unknown lord. Blood gushed like a scarlet fountain, splattering a woman beside him — perhaps his wife — who was swiftly pushed to the floor and pierced by another blade.
Chaos. Screams. Running. The clash of metal. Children crying. Nobles howling in terror.
The doors burst open with a thunderous crash, and more masked men poured in, clad in dark garments, armed with short swords, hatchets, and curved blades. The knights guarding the entrance lay dead or had retreated.
Dyalon sat unmoving. Auraya, too. As if they had been waiting for this.
Rhaeron watched the tumultuous crowd. Glancing to the side, he caught a glimpse of his brothers fleeing with Aelyr and the Frostlith family, escaping through a side passage.
But he was trapped in the eye of the storm.
Many tried to flee, but the masked assailants sealed the doors and attacked without mercy.
Spotting an opening near a column, Rhaeron sprinted.
Auraya shouted:— "He's running away!"
Dyalon bellowed like a fierce beast:— "Seize the prince!"
One of the masked men pulled a gazelle horn tied to his shoulder and blew a harsh trumpet blast. The sound echoed through the corridors.
More masked attackers emerged from the shadows, blocking Rhaeron's path.
Sword drawn.
Three against one.
Rhaeron attacked with fury and precision, as if he had trained his whole life for this moment. Horizontal slashes, vertical strikes, sweeping arcs, lunges and withdrawals. One of the masked men landed a punch in his stomach, making him fall to his knees. Another raised a blade for the final strike — but Rhaeron twisted his body, sweeping the attacker's legs and driving his sword into the enemy's neck.
The second assailant charged — Rhaeron dodged, sprinted, escaping the encirclement.
But upon reaching the central courtyard, two awaited him.
A tall man, wearing a silver mask and light armor. And a woman clad in black, moving like a serpent, each spin a threat, each leap a violent poem.
The woman attacked first, aiming her curved blade at Rhaeron's head.
He ducked instinctively. The man followed with a powerful kick, slamming the prince against the stone wall.
"So, you're Dyalon's eldest?" the man said, his voice rough and mocking.
The woman spun behind him, as if dancing in a blood-soaked ballroom.
"Ignore her," the masked man continued. "She's like that."
Rhaeron, gasping, raised his sword again.
"What do you want with me?" he growled.
"Isn't it obvious?" said the man, spreading his arms. "To kill you. Like we were paid to."
He laughed.
"What's all this noise? Metal clashing… desperate screams… Ahh, music to my ears."
The woman stopped spinning, standing still behind him. Both masked. Both merciless. Rhaeron feared her more than the man.
But before either could strike again—
A new sound echoed through the stone corridors.
Clashing swords. Sparks of steel flashing against shields and blades.
Then, two figures emerged from the smoke enveloping the castle.
The king of Ariamor.Against the king of Frost.Aelyr against Awren.Two monstrosities in the form of kings.Two monsters clashing inside the fortress.— Opa... Looks like we have unwanted visitors. — said the masked man, with a dragged, sinister laugh, that echoed through the corridor of wet stone.Rhaeron saw a breach — a narrow opening between broken stone columns.He ran. But did not get far.The dancing woman appeared in front of him with a spin, eyes shining behind the cracked mask. Curved blade in hands.Rhaeron extended the sword, and the clash was immediate.Steel against steel.A fierce confrontation.She moved with grace and speed, like a living shadow.Rhaeron blocked what he could, but the curvature of her blade created unpredictable angles, making each defense difficult.And then—It started to rain.Heavy drops falling from the gray sky, washing the blood, wetting the hair, making the floor slippery.The masked man moved slowly, now with a long sword wielded and a hidden smile.— Let's finish this soon. — he murmured, emotionless.Two against one.Rhaeron retreated. He was exhausted. Blood ran from the cut on his rib and the side of his arm.The two masked ones advanced together: frontal, lateral, crossed, unpredictable attacks.The short blade came from below; the long one, from above. Circular blows, thrusts, grazing cuts.Rhaeron blocked poorly. Each impact pushed him further back. Several blows hit him — on the shoulder, thigh, back.Rhaeron staggered. He couldn't hit any.His arm trembled. His breath was heavy.
But then — a thunder tore the sky. Two silhouettes appeared in the middle of the rain.Aelyr Frostlith. Awren of Ariamor.Like beasts at war. Two living legends that collided among the masked men like twin storms.The steel oscillated at absurd speeds. Rain, blood, and sparks danced around them. Aelyr defended with icy precision. Awren attacked with maddened fury.But the masked men did not hesitate.Even with the kings dueling beside, it was decided for Rhaeron, determined to kill him right there. And Rhaeron… bled. Almost fell. But did not surrender.The prince will first survive.— Opa... Looks like we have unwanted visitors. — said the masked man, with a dragged, sinister laugh, that echoed through the corridor of wet stone.Rhaeron saw a breach — a narrow opening between broken stone columns.He ran. But did not get far.The dancing woman appeared before him with a spin, eyes shining behind the cracked mask. Curved blade in hands. Rhaeron extended the sword, and the clash was immediate.Steel against steel.A fierce confrontation. She moved with grace and speed, like a living shadow. Rhaeron blocked what he could, but the curvature of her blade created unpredictable angles, making each defense difficult.And then—It started to rain.Heavy drops falling from the gray sky, washing the blood, wetting the hair, making the floor slippery. The masked man moved slowly, now wielding a long sword and a hidden smile.— Let's finish this soon. — he murmured, emotionless.Two against one.
Rhaeron retreated. He was exhausted. Blood flowed from the cut on his rib and along the side of his arm.The two masked men advanced together: frontal, lateral, and crossing attacks, unpredictable. The short blade came from below; the long one, from above. Circular strikes, thrusts, slashing cuts.Rhaeron blocked poorly. Each impact pushed him further back. Several blows hit him — on the shoulder, thigh, back. Rhaeron staggered. He couldn't land a single hit.His arm trembled. His breathing was ragged.
But then — a thunder tore through the sky. Two silhouettes emerged in the middle of the rain.Aelyr Frostlith. Awren of Ariamor.Like beasts at war. Two living legends colliding among the masked men like twin storms.Steel oscillated at absurd speeds. Rain, blood, and sparks danced around them. Aelyr defended with icy precision. Awren attacked with frenzied fury.But the masked men did not hesitate.Even with the kings dueling nearby, they decided to focus on Rhaeron, determined to kill him right there. And Rhaeron… was bleeding. Almost fell. But did not give up.The prince would survive first.
"Boy, run!" Aelyr said, his harsh voice cutting through the roar of the rain."I'm trying… but I can't! They're too fast!" replied Rhaeron, retreating with a trembling sword in his hands, his eyes desperate.Aelyr stepped forward, firm as an ice wall."Leave them to me," he said, a deadly coldness in his eyes.
Awren of Ariamor fell there, kneeling in the drenched courtyard. His body was a tapestry of blood: exposed ribs, deep cuts on his thighs, arms, legs, chest, face — Aelyr's blade had passed through him like a cutting storm.Rhaeron staggered, passed by Aelyr, and ran, stumbling over his own feet, blood dripping from his forehead.
But then...A strange silence fell.As if the whole world held its breath.Aelyr turned around.And what he saw froze him in place.Auraya. With a calm face, cold eyes, her hair soaked and covering part of her face.Auraya was behind Rhaeron. And she was plunging a curved dagger into the black leather of his ceremonial robes.Between his shoulder blades. Right on the symbol of the full moon. The Moonveil House crest.Rhaeron let out a choked sound — a mix of surprise, pain, and betrayal. His expression froze. His legs gave way. He fell to his knees.Aelyr gathered himself. Awren, though wounded, widened his eyes, trying to get up.Auraya whispered into Rhaeron's ear, in a tone only he could hear:— You should never have been born, bastard.And then she pushed him forward, letting him fall onto the blood- and rain-soaked ground.— Auraya? — Aelyr murmured, confused. His eyes fixed on the silhouette before him.The woman turned sideways. The sharp gaze, the identical features.— No... Rhaelyx? What are you doing here? — Aelyr stepped back, perplexed.— Sister-in-law, good to see you again. — said Awren, with a weak smile, spitting blood. — Rhaelyx, my wife's twin sister... always showing up at the wrong time.Rhaelyx twirled the dagger between her fingers, her eyes playing with the scene like a bored actress on stage.— You spoiled our fun, bastards. — growled the leader of the masked men, furious.
— Sorry, my little sister asked for some help... and here I am. — Rhaelyx laughed. A sharp, cutting laugh like a razor blade.She then looked at Aelyr with contempt and longing:— You're still the same. I just want to understand why you chose that tramp Azlaene... instead of me. — Her voice was filled with venom and bitterness.Aelyr took a step forward, narrowing his eyes. Quick as lightning, he lunged with his sword. Rhaelyx spun to the side, dodging with feline grace.But the strike was not real.It was a distraction.Aelyr took advantage of the opening and ran, leaping over rubble and cracked pillars of the outer hall, disappearing into the shadows.— That's it for now. — said the masked leader with a frustrated sigh.He glanced at the woman beside him. They exchanged a look, and he took her hand.Without another word, the two vanished into the darkness of the night, slipping through the hidden passages of the ruined castle, leaving chaos and blood behind.The rain kept falling. On the ground, Rhaeron lay still. Awren, half-conscious, murmured for help. And Rhaelyx, at the top of the stairs, watched it all with the smile of someone who knows the game is far from over.When Aelyr returned to his carriage, silence came with him.No words were spoken. No looks exchanged. Only the rhythmic sound of the hooves of the Frost Knights beginning to march. They were leaving behind that cursed kingdom — the Fortress of the Eternal Night — wrapped in blood, betrayal, and smoke.Inside the carriages were the eight children of Dyalon and Alysh, along with Alysh herself, head bowed, too weak to raise her voice.The atmosphere was heavy.Narhaerys couldn't hold back the anguish. She looked at her father with tear-filled eyes and said in a low but firm voice:— Where is Rhaeron?
Aelyr remained silent. His jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the road ahead. He knew that question would come. He also knew that the answer would shatter his daughter into a thousand pieces.They had met when they were still young. She and Rhaeron. Two hearts forged for one another, raised side by side... A rare connection, now about to be broken forever.— She asked you a question, — Azlaene said firmly, staring at Aelyr. — Are you going to remain silent in the face of your daughter's pain?Aelyr slowly turned to Narhaerys, forcing a small smile—broken, empty. A smile that said everything words could not.And in that moment... she understood.The truth fell like a silent blade upon her heart.— I'm sorry, my daughter... — Aelyr murmured, his voice choked.Narhaerys's eyes, the pale pink of dawn's first light, filled with tears. She looked away, staring at the floor of the carriage, trying to find some answer there.Why couldn't he save him? Why Rhaeron...?She clenched her fists, her chest tight. There, in the cold of dawn, as the Frost Kingdom receded from Moonveil's lands, a part of Narhaerys stayed behind.And silence, once again, took hold of the road.— Later... we will tell his brothers, his sisters... and his mother, — Aelyr said with a voice thick but controlled, trying to remain strong in front of Narhaerys.
At the Fortress of the Eternal Night, beneath the stained glass windows stained with blood and under the pale morning light, two knights of the royal guard dragged the body of Rhaeron Moonveil to the throne room.The black tunic of the heirs was torn, soaked in blood. His face, still youthful, lay pale but without losing dignity. Even in death, he seemed to stare at the throne.The knights knelt before Queen Auraya.— Here he is, my queen. What shall we do with the body...?
Auraya didn't say a word at first. She simply raised her gaze toward the throne, where Dyalon was leaned back, a goblet in his hand. Rhaelyx — wearing a scarlet dress — sat on the armrest of the throne, swinging a wine glass like a bored child. Awren of Ariamor, now healed, stood leaning against a column, silently watching.Auraya crossed her arms indifferently.— You decide then, Dyalon.Dyalon let out a dry, soulless laugh.— Throw it away. — he said, referring to his own son's body as if it were a burden. — There's a river nearby... throw it there. Feed the fish. That's the most use that kid serves now.The knights exchanged glances, hesitated for a moment, but then simply agreed.— As you wish... my king.Then the room filled with laughter.Rhaelyx laughed loudly, as if she'd heard the best joke of the night, flicking her fingers toward the body lying on the floor.— Bye-bye, little cousin... shame you were so pretty. — she said mockingly, placing a finger on her lips in a fake gesture of mourning.Awren just watched. Auraya averted her gaze.And Rhaeron Moonveil's body was dragged away again, for he was heir to nothing. As if he had never existed.The path to the river was long, lined with twisted trees and bushes that seemed to whisper secrets to the wind. The two Moonveil knights walked in silence, dragging the lifeless body of Rhaeron, wrapped only in the torn cloak he once proudly wore during his coronation.No pyre had been prepared. No funeral rites. No prayers.When they reached the edge of the icy river, they threw the body in like debris. The current accepted it silently, pulling it through the dark waters.— It's over. — said one of the knights, spitting on the ground.— May the fish make good use of it. — replied the other, turning back toward the castle.
The waters swallowed Rhaeron Moonveil, the heir of the Eternal Night, as if the world had decided to forget him.The sky began to brighten, but without color.Gray clouds covered the horizon like mourning veils. Small drops of rain slid over the wagons and tents, gently dripping onto the twisted branches of the forest surrounding the Frostlith camp. The smell of wet earth mixed with fear and uncertainty.Aelyr stepped silently out of the carriage, feeling the morning chill touch his skin like a bitter reminder.Then he saw: everyone was awake. The eight children of Dyalon and Alysh, and Alysh herself, standing beneath a tree, cloaked in a heavy mantle, eyes weary. They watched him as if they already knew. But they didn't.Aelyr stopped in the center of the camp. He looked at each face one by one. Narhaerys was there too, her eyes swollen from sleepless nights.He took a deep breath. He felt his throat tighten, and the pain he carried from the dark hall now weighed like a blade lodged in his chest.— I need to tell you all something.Silence.The sound of the rain grew louder.— During the attack... — he began, but his voice faltered. — Rhaeron... was wounded. I fought to reach him. But... I... couldn't.Some stepped back, shocked. Others furrowed their brows, trying to understand. But Narhaerys dropped to her knees.— You're saying that... he...?Aelyr closed his eyes for a moment. Opened them, wet.— Yes. Rhaeron is dead.Alysh brought her hand to her mouth, staggering backward. Her youngest children wept. The older ones fought to hold back their tears.
But Narhaerys sank to her knees. Her hair soaked, hands resting on the damp ground, and her eyes... lost.— You let him... die? — she whispered.— I was fighting the King of Ariamor, I told him to flee but there was no way... I swear by all that is in Frost, I tried to save him.— And his body? — asked one of the brothers, voice choked.Aelyr hesitated. It was a question he didn't want to hear.— I didn't... recover it. The castle... was taken. When he was attacked, it was straight to the heart, he fell dead. But... there was no way back.Alysh spoke. A dry, short cry, as if a piece of her soul was torn away.She only looked down.— He was my future. My love. — she said, as if confessing to a tomb. — And now he's gone... Without honor. Without farewell. Without even a place to bury him.Aelyr dropped to his knees before her. — I'm so sorry...She didn't answer.In the nearby forest...A black crow landed on a wet rock. It watched. In the distance, the river waters still murmured — and something moved beneath the surface.Rhaeron's eyes opened again. But we no longer belonged to the same world.