When the prince was cast out beyond the Rift, the Solaryn Citadel didn't celebrate. It mourned quietly, though none were allowed to say it. The air in the palace turned heavy with silence, the kind that even music couldn't break. Whispers followed every corridor—about betrayal, about punishment, and about a name no one dared speak anymore.
Mukul Ardyn Solaryn had been erased from every record—at least, that was what the council wanted. But even ink can't erase the human heart. And in that heart, the Emperor still remembered.
Emperor Cassian Solaryn, father of the realm, had been a man of immense power. His voice could silence storms, and his smile could brighten the darkest hall. But after Mukul's exile, something inside him began to fade. At first, it was only tiredness. He no longer joined the morning councils. The crown weighed more heavily on his brow than it used to. Then came the coughs—quiet at first, then constant, like thunder waiting behind clouds.
By midsummer of that same year, Cassian couldn't rise from his bed. The doctors called it "soul fever," a rare illness that struck only when one's life energy began unraveling from within. No remedy worked. Not the potions brewed from moonroots nor the mana crystals imported from the Silver Isles. The Emperor, once radiant as Aurelion's twin suns, grew pale like ash.
Prince Varcan sat beside him one morning, his expression carved with worry—or what appeared to be worry. "You must rest, brother," he said softly. "The realm needs you strong again."
Cassian gave a faint smile. "You always said that when I was ill as a child. But this time, Varcan… it feels different."
"You're only weak from burden," Varcan replied. "When the council stabilises, you'll feel better."
The emperor's golden eyes, though dim, still saw too much. "Stabilizes… after banishing my son?"
Varcan looked away. He said nothing.
The silence stretched long. Finally, Cassian murmured, "You said it was necessary. That he betrayed the flame."
Varcan placed a hand on his brother's shoulder, his voice quiet and practised. "He did. You saw the evidence yourself."
"But did I?" Cassian's voice cracked. "I can't remember, Varcan. It's all fog now. Why does the memory slip away every time I reach for it?"
Varcan said nothing again, but a faint spark of unease flickered in his eyes.
Outside the chamber, Grand Chancellor Helmor Veyne stood waiting like a shadow. He had been the emperor's most trusted advisor for decades, though now, that trust had become his greatest weapon. When Varcan stepped out, Helmor bowed low.
"How fares His Majesty?"
"Weak," Varcan said coldly. "Too weak to question."
Helmor smiled faintly, though his eyes did not. "Good. Then our preparations can continue."
Varcan crossed his arms. "You swore this sickness wouldn't kill him."
"It won't," Helmor replied. "It will keep him asleep—long enough for His Grace's authority to… transition smoothly, should the court vote for regency."
Varcan frowned. "And what if he wakes before that?"
Helmor's smile sharpened. "Then I'll remind him that memory and magic are fragile things. I assure you, my lord, Emperor Cassian will not remember what truly happened two years ago."
The torchlight flickered against the marble walls, dancing like fire trying to escape.
That night, the Emperor dreamed again. In his mind, he saw flashes—his son standing before him, bound in light-chains, speaking words he couldn't quite hear. Then Helmor's voice whispered through the fog, "He betrayed you." Over and over, like a chant. When Cassian awoke, he felt cold sweat running down his face.
He called for his handmaiden, Elira—a quiet girl who had served him since the queen's passing. "Fetch Varcan," he said in a raspy voice. "And Helmor too. I want to ask something."
Varcan arrived quickly, but Helmor took his time, pretending not to rush his entrance. Cassian looked at them both from his bed, his pale fingers gripping the sheets weakly. "Tell me how it happened," he whispered. "Tell me again how Mukul betrayed us."
Helmor lowered his head, speaking softly as if to a child. "Your Highness, Prince Mukul conspired to open a Rift Gate capable of unleashing void energy within Aurelion's heart. His own hand sealed the order—I showed you the records."
"And… the witnesses?" Cassian asked, his voice trembling.
"Three," Helmor said. "All sworn nobles. But sadly, two perished last winter, as you recall."
Cassian blinked slowly. "Yes… Yes, I remember now." But he didn't.
Varcan stepped forward gently. "You should rest. The fever worsens when you strain your mind."
The Emperor's lips curved into a faint smile. "You always sound like your mother when you say that."
He lay back and closed his eyes. The room darkened as the lamps dimmed one by one. When they thought he had fallen asleep again, Helmor turned to Varcan and spoke in a whisper, "It is almost time. The council grows restless without leadership. They will demand a regent."
Varcan nodded slowly, though his gaze lingered on his brother's frail form. "Make sure the old man doesn't suffer," he said quietly.
Helmor's smile returned, hollow and cold. "Suffering? No. Only forgetting."
In the weeks that followed, the emperor slipped in and out of consciousness. His dreams became fragments of what once was—his wife's laughter, the feel of his son's small hand gripping his as they walked through the royal garden. In his sleep, he whispered Mukul's name again and again, as if calling for forgiveness the world had refused him.
No one answered.
The doctors said the illness worsened because of age. The priests said it was punishment from the gods. But in the dark corners of the palace, servants whispered a different theory—that the Emperor's sickness began not with age or fate, but with a curse whispered over royal wine.
And though every healer tried, the flame of Solaryn's heart grew weaker each day.
By the end of the second year, Emperor Cassian could no longer recognise the faces of his own family.
But sometimes, in his fading moments, he still murmured one thing—a single name that refused to be forgotten among gods and mortals alike.
"Mukul…"