Lucian walked slowly, almost dragging his feet, as though each step toward the imperial palace weighed ten times heavier than it should. The echo of what he had just witnessed at the execution ground refused to leave him. The image of Kathal Drumaz, defiant even in chains, the priest's words, the roar of the crowd—all of it looped endlessly in his head like a cruel song that wouldn't stop playing.
He tried to shake it off, but the more he tried, the sharper the images became.
The demons' faces—gaunt, hollowed by starvation, their eyes sunken and lifeless—haunted him most. They should have been his enemies. For years, he had been taught that the demon race was humanity's greatest threat, the blood-soaked enemy to be cut down without hesitation. Yet, as Lucian walked, his stomach twisted.
He remembered laughing with them once. Sharing drinks in taverns after the peace treaty. Trading stories of the war, not as enemies but as men who had simply survived it.
He remembered the sly grin of the demon who had cheated him out of three silver coins during a card game. And he remembered—far too vividly—the nights he had nearly lost himself to the honeyed words of a demon's prostitute. He had barely escaped their embrace, heart pounding, both from fear and temptation.
And now? Now he had watched them marched out like cattle, beaten, starved, slaughtered on a public stage while the people cheered.
"And today I'm watching them executed," Lucian muttered bitterly under his breath. His voice trembled, though no one around him paid any mind.
His thoughts drifted toward Lilia. Was she safe? Was she even alive? He had no way of knowing. She had been a handful, infuriating even, always pushing boundaries and challenging him, but he couldn't deny the truth—he enjoyed her company. She had been a source of insight, of information, of laughter when the world was too heavy. And now the uncertainty gnawed at him.
His steps carried him onward until the sight of the imperial palace broke through his haze. Even at a distance, the marble walls gleamed like polished ivory beneath the afternoon sun. It rose above the city like a monument to power, dwarfing every other structure in Ardenfel. The palace was both breathtaking and intimidating, a reminder of the empire's might.
As he drew closer to the massive front gates, Lucian slowed. The intricate carvings of swords, spears, and shields adorned the iron doors, telling the kingdom's history in etched steel. Dozens of soldiers stood guard, their polished armor gleaming, halberds held at attention. Their discipline was suffocating.
Lucian slipped his hand into his pocket, pulling out his pocketwatch. He flicked it open and glanced at the face.
"…Thirty minutes early," he murmured. A humorless smile tugged at his lips. "Did I come too early?."
He had no intention of wandering the streets again after what he'd seen. Better to wait here, in the lion's den, than risk another sight like that execution.
The soldiers noticed his approach and instinctively raised their weapons, but the moment recognition dawned, their tension melted away.
One of them, a bald veteran with a scar across his cheek, bowed low. "You are right on time, my lord."
Lucian blinked. "Has my brother arrived?"
"About thirty minutes ago, yes," the soldier replied.
Lucian's eyebrow twitched. So he's already here… what is he doing. Does he having his date here?
The soldiers moved aside, and the gate groaned open. Lucian gave them a curt nod and stepped inside.
The palace courtyard stretched before him, vast and immaculate. To his left, soldiers sparred in the barracks yard, their shouts sharp and disciplined. To his right, gardeners trimmed hedges into perfect symmetry, the sweet scent of freshly cut grass mixing with the faint metallic tang of oil from the soldiers' weapons.
The walk to the main doors took longer than he expected, each step dragging him deeper into unease. At last, two guards stationed at the doors pushed them open.
"Third floor, my lord," one of them said.
Lucian nodded silently and entered.
The palace's interior stole his breath. White marble gleamed in every direction, polished so finely it reflected like glass. The central hall rose upward with vaulted ceilings, sunlight streaming through stained-glass windows that painted the floor in splashes of color. A grand double staircase curved upward like a pair of wings, beckoning him higher.
He ascended, his boots echoing sharply against the marble, until he reached the third floor. The corridor stretched long and straight, lined with paintings of kings and queens past, each gazing down with cold, judgmental eyes.
At the far end stood a heavy oak door. Lucian approached slowly, each step heavier than the last. He lifted a hand and knocked.
Seconds later, a voice called from within. "Come in."
Lucian pushed the door open—and froze.
Inside, the room was packed. A massive map dominated the central table, surrounded by nobles, generals, and advisors, their voices hushed as they turned toward him. The air was heavy with authority and tension.
His mind reeled. What the hell is this?
At once, his brother's voice cut through the silence. Garrick pointed an accusing finger. "I knew you'd pull something like this!"
Lucian blinked, baffled. "What?"
"This is one of the most important days for the empire, and you're out lazing in the city! Do you have any idea how much you've tarnished the family's name?"
Before Lucian could reply, another voice sliced through Garrick's tirade. "Enough, Garrick."
Lucian's gaze followed the interruption—and locked onto her.
She stood near the head of the table, her red hair cascading down her back like a river of fire, her crimson eyes sharp and unyielding. Her beauty was undeniable, but there was no warmth in her gaze, only cold judgment.
Seraphine von Ardenfel.
"He's three minutes late, not three hours," she said flatly. "The only thing he's missed is people's whining."
The nobles stiffened at her words. Garrick grit his teeth but forced himself into a mock bow. "Yes, your highness."
Lucian clenched his fists. Damn you, Garrick. You set this up. If I had arrived when you told me to, I'd be walking into a disaster at home. Bastard.
Before his temper boiled over, a sudden voice called out. "Luc!"
A girl rushed forward, seizing his arm and pulling him inside. Her snow-white hair shimmered under the lantern light, her pale blue eyes sparkling with delight. She pouted. "You're late!"
Lucian blinked down at her. Elektra Snowden.
Memories rushed back. He had saved her during his second year at the academy, and she had clung to him ever since, even after he had turned her down for Tess.
The princess at the head of the table gave them a brief glance before focusing elsewhere. "What of the Anders?" she asked.
"They have refused the call, your highness," a nobleman replied grimly.
The princess clicked her tongue in irritation. "Fools. They act as though they're the only ones who lost family to the war. We already face greater threats—if they think I'll allow a civil war on top of it, they're mad!" She slammed her palm against the table, the sound cracking like thunder.
Lucian's heart stuttered. The Anders? Refusing a royal summons? Is it because of Marcus?
Marcus… the heir of the Anders family. His friend. A man once hailed as a hero of the war. But he too felled in the final battle, atleast in his memory.
"No… no, this is wrong," Lucian whispered. His hands trembled slightly.
Elektra tugged on his arm, worry in her eyes. "Luc? Are you alright?"
He forced a nervous smile. "Y-Yeah. Everything's fine."
But nothing was fine.
The princess sighed, regaining her composure. "Next week, I will personally lead an expedition to the northern border. Our task is to identify and eliminate any elves who dare trespass."
Her words spilled out in cold detail—locations, supply routes, troop numbers—but Lucian heard only the horror behind them.
Not again. Not this war.
His throat tightened, but no words came out. All he could do was stand, listening, as the nightmare unfolded around him.