The Return
Vaeloria burned.
Not literally—not yet—but the air in the imperial capital carried that particular smell that preceded collapse: fear, ambition, and barely contained blood. The streets that had once witnessed three hundred years of absolute order now seethed with rumors, armed factions, and nobles eyeing each other, wondering who would be first to draw their sword.
Emperor Titus Draconis had vanished.
And in the absence of a god, mortals prepared for war.
The Imperial Auditorium had never been so full. A thousand people crammed into a hall designed to intimidate: a hundred meters of white marble, columns rising thirty meters toward ceilings painted with ancient conquests, and at the center, a circular platform where only the Emperor stood.
The Seven Imperial Princes—children of Titus—occupied the front seats. Behind them, the Grand Dukes of the Six Houses. War Masters whose swords had conquered nations. Cardinals of the Cult whose words moved masses. Lords who bought kingdoms with gold.
All summoned.
All present.
The summons had arrived three days prior. Scrolls sealed with black wax appearing simultaneously in every palace of importance.
"The Imperial Auditorium. At noon. Attend or be considered enemies of the New Empire."
No signature. No explanation. Only the absolute certainty that whoever had sent those scrolls possessed the power to fulfill the threat.
And now, as the sun reached its zenith, nervous conversations faded.
Because the main doors—the great ones, requiring twenty men to open, used only when the Emperor himself entered—began to move.
Slowly.
Majestically.
As if time itself bent to their will.
And a figure entered.
The silence was instantaneous.
Absolute.
As if a thousand throats had forgotten how to breathe.
Because the presence that filled the Auditorium was not human. Not completely. It was like standing before a storm made flesh, like feeling the weight of the ocean pressing from above, like knowing—with animal certainty—that you stood before something that could erase you from existence with a distracted thought.
The man walked.
Each step resonated. Not from sound, but from how Aether itself pulsed with each movement, waves of invisible pressure pushing against the cores of every person present.
He wore a long coat falling to the floor, black as midnight with edges gleaming silver, like lightning trapped in fabric. His chest was bare, revealing scars crisscrossing like a map of forgotten wars. And the veins. Black. Visible. Crawling across his skin like roots of a dead tree, pulsing with each heartbeat.
He wore no crown. He needed none.
His aura was enough.
The Imperial Princes rose. Some by instinct. Others by indignation. But all felt the same: their own powers, cultivated for decades, seemed like candles facing a hurricane.
The Grand Masters—legendary warriors whose mere presence intimidated armies—felt their hands tremble.
And the guards, trained to defend the Empire with their lives, did not move. Because all understood the same terrible truth:
If I touch my sword, I die before it leaves the sheath.
The figure reached the center. The platform where only the Emperor stood. And stopped.
The Auditorium erupted.
—WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?! —roared Prince Lucien Draconis—the eldest, the most powerful—his golden aura exploding outward.
—This is blasphemy! —another shouted.
—Guards! Stop him!
No one moved.
Because the man at the center simply... looked.
And the voices died like extinguished candles.
His eyes were gray. Cold. Empty of everything except absolute purpose.
He swept the Auditorium with that gaze. Slowly. Memorizing each face. Each expression of fear, anger, confusion.
And then he spoke.
His voice was not loud. But each word fell into the silence like stone into water, creating ripples reaching every corner.
—I have returned.
Two words. Simple. Terrifying in their certainty.
—YOU ARE NOT OF IMPERIAL BLOOD! —Lucien stepped forward, his power pulsing—. YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO...!
The figure raised one hand.
Lucien's golden aura... trembled. Like a cracking shield. Like a candle in a storm.
The prince fell silent. Not by will. But because his voice simply stopped functioning, strangled by invisible pressure.
—You.
The word was not shouted. But it resonated like thunder.
The man was looking at Prince Zoryn. The youngest. The one who had sought alliances in dark places. The one who secretly believed his marriage connection—his sister, married to someone powerful—would protect him.
Zoryn hesitated. His eyes moved toward the guards, toward the exits, toward his brothers.
—Come here.
It was not a request. It was a command. Absolute. Inescapable.
And Zoryn, hating himself, walked.
Each step was a battle against instinct screaming flee. But his legs betrayed him, moving him toward the center, toward the man radiating power like a black sun.
When close, Zoryn tried to smile. Tried diplomacy.
—My brother-in-law... surely we can...
The man's hand moved.
Fast. Like a striking serpent.
Fingers closed over the top of Zoryn's skull. Squeezing. Not with full force. Not yet. Just enough for the prince to feel bone creaking under pressure.
Zoryn whimpered. Tried to break free. Useless.
—We do not —said the man, his voice almost soft— need trash.
He squeezed.
The skull began to fracture. Lines appearing in the bone. Zoryn screamed.
—Because I am here.
He squeezed harder.
Blood began to drip between the fingers. Zoryn stopped screaming. His eyes rolled back.
—And I will take everything.
The black veins in the man's arm pulsed. Glowed. Black Aether—impossible, unnatural—flowed from his hand into the prince's head.
And the skull EXPLODED.
It didn't break. It didn't fracture. It BURST under absolute pressure.
Bone fragments shooting in all directions. Brain matter painting the white marble. Blood splashing like a broken fountain. The sound was horrible—wet, crunching, final—the kind of sound that engraved itself in memory and never left.
Zoryn's body fell. First the knees buckling. Then the torso collapsing. A senseless pile of flesh and broken bone that seconds ago had been royalty.
The man did not watch it fall.
He was already wiping his hand on his coat, leaving red streaks on black fabric.
The Auditorium was frozen.
No one breathed. No one moved. Because all had just witnessed the impossible:
Imperial blood. Spilled. As if it were nothing.
His gray eyes swept the Auditorium. Slowly. Stopping on each Imperial Prince. On each Grand Duke. On each Master with hand on sword who dared not draw.
And he spoke. One last time. Three words.
Three words that would change everything.
"Everything is mine."
Not a threat. Not a declaration.
Absolute certainty.
Like gravity. Like death. Like truth that existed before anyone spoke it.
He turned. The coat billowed behind him like storm wings. And he walked toward the main doors.
Alone.
Without looking back.
And the Imperial Auditorium—filled with the thousand most powerful people in the known world—remained silent.
Staring at a prince's corpse.
Feeling blood drip from their own faces where skull fragments had reached them.
Understanding that everything had changed.
Because a man without name, without crown, without imperial blood, had entered their most sacred sanctuary.
And had claimed an Empire.
With three words.
And one hand.