It was the day of the emperor's funeral.
All five great families of the empire had gathered in the grand hall: the Vargreims, Aldekreins, Stolvreims, Valkhrads, and Orkhwalds.
The atmosphere was tense, especially between the Vargreims and the Aldekreins. Once considered a model of alliance, their relationship had shattered like crystal after a recent incident. Tension hung thick in the air—every step, every glance could ignite a spark.
Everyone had come to pay their respects to the great emperor—a ruler who had brought peace and order to these lands. Yet, above the hall lingered a silent question: who would succeed him? And what awaited the country next—chaos or preserved peace?
The hall was quiet, but the silence was deceptive. Beneath the solemn ceremony lay anxiety, suspicion, and cold calculation. Each person thought not only of the past but also of whose side they would find themselves on tomorrow.
Whispers drifted between the columns, discussing the prospective candidates. Two names came up most often: Vergel of House Vargreim and Istar of House Aldekrein.
Despite everything, the majority leaned toward the Vargreims. Their history, their power, and Vergel's brilliance gave him serious prospects. Even the late emperor's heir was no guarantee of the throne: only one who passed through the Gates of the Imperial Threshold of Nadtorn could be recognized as the true ruler.
But there was another figure—Istar.
His abilities were hard to describe in words, and even harder to find a weakness. It was certain: he was stronger than Vergel. And although his house did not wield the same influence as the Vargreims, Istar had already left his mark on history. His victories in wars and his complete mastery over Heiku were undeniable.
The Aldekreins specialized in controlling dolls—mechanisms that thought, spoke, and behaved almost like living beings. They also commanded the element of air. The Vargreims, in contrast, scorched everything in their path, wielding the black dust of Prash.
Their powers were different. The scale of their strength varied. But with Istar's emergence, the balance had shifted. His control over both dolls and the elements allowed him not merely to match Vergel, but to surpass him.
The young genius Vergel—and the one called born to be first: Istar. The people saw them as eternal rivals.
There were other candidates as well: the emperor's son Eirin, his daughter Veilara, and Argeld of House Orkhwald. Yet no matter how prominent their names were, the gazes of those present kept returning to Vergel.
He was quickly surrounded.
— What are your plans for the future of the empire?
— What do you intend to do in these difficult times?
Questions poured in one after another. The smiles were polite, the voices flattering. But Vergel saw through them. They were not concerned with the empire—only with their own standing and with choosing the right side at the right moment.
"I will not be answering such questions today," he said coldly. "We have gathered here for a different reason. Let us honor the memory of the great emperor."
His restraint was so absolute that the murmuring died away. Even the most persistent fell silent.
Yet Vergel sensed something else.
Someone was missing.
His gaze drifted toward the entrance again and again. And then—the doors opened.
Istar entered the hall.
Light hair, an unhurried stride, blue eyes that assessed the entire space in an instant. He looked as though this were not a funeral, but an ordinary evening reception.
"Oh, my apologies," he said lightly. "Please, don't mind me. It's just me."
He walked straight toward his aunt, Eliser.
"My greetings. Everyone seems so tense, don't you think?"
"You're late," she said with clear displeasure.
"Hm? Not at all," he glanced around. "If you ask me, I'm right on time. Has dessert been served already?"
His gaze swept across the tables. Only fruit.
"Hm… not much," he muttered, picked up an apple, and took a bite. "But it'll do."
Eliser barely suppressed a sigh.
All this time, Vergel had not taken his eyes off Istar. Istar noticed, smiled, and gave a casual little wave. Vergel immediately looked away.
For one, it was rivalry.
For the other, it was a game.
"Where are Mother and Father?" Istar asked.
"They're in a discussion."
"Again?" he smiled. "With the Vargreims?"
He shrugged, as if it had nothing to do with him.
"Go and speak with the people," Eliser said insistently. "Do as Vergel does."
"Let it be," Istar replied calmly. "I know what I want."
He tilted his head slightly.
"And I have everything I need to achieve it. Or to destroy it."
Eliser froze. This was not a joke.
"Why so pale?" he smiled. "I'm joking. I won't destroy anything."
After a brief pause, he added:
"I value beauty."
"I know," she replied softly.
She was not afraid of him. If anything, she loved him—her own way of loving, even if that love was strange and dangerous.
"I'll take a walk," he said.
"Just don't do anything foolish."
"Not today."
For a moment, he no longer seemed like a youth or an heir. It was as if an emperor had appeared in the hall.
Istar moved slowly among the people, greeting them politely. His steps were confident—each one deliberate, leading him exactly where he had intended even before entering the hall.
Vergel did not take his eyes off him. Even while responding to others, his gaze was fixed solely on Istar. But the instant he looked away, Istar vanished.
Vergel turned sharply.
"Looking for something?" came a voice directly behind him. "You seem… agitated."
Vergel clenched his teeth.
"Just my imagination."
"Hm? Really?" Istar tilted his head with a faint smile. "You looked more like a puppy suddenly seeing its master."
"Watch your words," Vergel said coldly.
Yet the tension in his voice betrayed him.
"Oh? So I'm the one watching you?" Istar feigned surprise. "Interesting… I didn't know you were observing me so carefully."
"I've said enough."
Istar only smiled wider.
"Then I'll go…"
He stepped forward, but as if remembering something, paused.
"Oh, right," he added carelessly. "I was just curious. They say you like… playing with boys."
The air around them chilled.
"Don't play with fire," Vergel cut in instantly.
"Is this fire?" Istar asked calmly. "Or just the truth that burns?"
"We're done here."
Vergel turned sharply and strode to the opposite end of the hall.
"Do you always run like this, or only when—"
Istar didn't finish. Vergel exploded. He spun, lunged forward, hand raised for a strike—
"Enough!"
Alifia, Vergel's younger sister, stepped between them.
"Calm down!"
"Step aside," Vergel said coldly, shoving her lightly.
"Don't forget where we are," she replied firmly, her voice steady. "This isn't a battlefield."
She fixed her gaze on him and added quietly,
"You're too emotional. It doesn't suit you."
Then Alifia turned to Istar.
"Istar, that's enough. Don't provoke him."
Vergel drew a deep breath. Not a word. He turned and walked away.
"And why did you do that?" Alifia asked irritably once he disappeared into the crowd.
"I was just curious," Istar shrugged. "Who knew his nerves were so… fragile."
"Come," she said curtly.
"Is this going to be a confession of love?" Istar pressed a hand to his chest theatrically. "You could've at least warned me so I could prepare myself."
"Just shut up and walk."
Istar merely smiled and followed her.
The balcony was flooded with light.
Arvendal stretched out below—alive, warm, bustling, nothing like the silence hanging between them.
Alifia leaned against the stone railing and closed her eyes for a moment. The sun brushed her skin as if trying to soothe her. She felt Istar beside her and yet knew—he stood too straight, too distant, as though a chasm already lay between them.
"You're silent again," she said quietly. "Is that your favorite way to avoid conversations?"
"If there's nothing to say," he replied evenly, "silence is best."
She looked at him. His face was calm—almost beautiful in its cold perfection. And that frightened her most of all.
"You don't look calm, Istar."
"You see what you want to see."
Alifia tightened her grip on the railing.
"I see someone who's in pain."
He smiled faintly—just the corner of his lips, without warmth.
"Pain is weakness. I rid myself of it long ago."
"No," she shook her head. "You just buried it deeper than anyone else."
Istar finally turned toward her. His gaze was cold and intent, as though he were not looking at his enemy's sister, but at a piece on a chessboard.
"You worry too much."
"Because I care!" Her voice trembled. "You think I don't see how you're destroying yourself?"
"Don't dramatize."
"I'm not dramatizing!" She stepped closer. "I just… I'm afraid for you."
For a moment, it seemed something in him cracked.
But it was only the light shifting its angle.
"Don't, Alifia," he said softly. "Don't grow attached to something you cannot save."
"What if I don't want to save you?" she whispered. "What if I just want to be by your side?"
He was silent. Too long.
"Our fates are already decided," Istar finally said. "By our families. By our status. By this world."
"Being beside someone doesn't belong on that list."
"And what if I'm willing to break those rules?"
He scoffed.
"And then what?"
"Then let everything remain as it is," she said calmly.
"You're afraid of the consequences," he replied with unexpected firmness.
Istar shot her a sharp look.
"No matter how much I might want to feel fear… I won't commit pointless acts."
"You're just a coward," she said quietly. "You're simply learned how to speak instead. For once… start acting."
She reached out and gently touched his wrist. Her fingers were warm.
"I'm here, Istar."
He looked at her hand as if it were poison.
"Perhaps you're right," he said coldly, withdrawing his hand. "I am not someone worth waiting for."
"I am not waiting," she said quietly. "I am choosing."
Istar turned away.
"Then you choose pain."
He walked off without looking back. Alifia was left alone. The sun still shone. The city went about its life, yet inside her, there was emptiness. She stared at the dark corridor of the palace where Istar had disappeared and, for the first time, realized: sometimes the coldest people simply do not allow themselves to feel warmth.
No matter how much we try to rewrite our own fate, every step forward creates new mistakes. And they, relentlessly, drag us down.
Istar's mystery pulled her in more than it pushed her away. His cold eyes drew one into the endless expanse of the world. And his calm voice was more dangerous than a shout.
He walked along the palace's enfilade toward the reception hall. Even he did not know what made him change his route—whim or premonition.
On his path stood Averon—his older brother. A man connected to him not only by blood but by mutual hatred, masked as familial duty.
"If you're heading to the reception hall," Averon said coldly, blocking the way, "I have to stop you. You do not belong there."
Istar stopped. Slowly. A faint smile appeared on his face.
"Oh, brother…" he said quietly. "Do you really believe you can tell me that? Don't make me cause you pain."
"You stand before the future head of House Aldekrein," Averon replied tensely.
Istar stepped forward.
"If you continue to provoke me," his voice remained calm, unraised, "the one lying down will be the future head. Don't display your stupidity for everyone to see."
"You take far too much for granted!" Averon snapped. "Officially, you aren't even a candidate for the crown. Father forgives you far too much. As your elder brother, I—"
Istar was suddenly beside him, startling Averon. He leaned in and whispered directly into his ear:
"Dear brother… You are breathing here and now only because we are blood. Only because your heart still beats."
He patted Averon lightly on the shoulder—almost friendly—and walked on. Averon did not move.
In that instant, Istar released his Heiku.
A cold, bottomless ocean.
A pressure that crushed the chest.
The sensation that existence itself sought to crush you, slowly and inevitably.
The air grew heavy.
Thoughts became empty.
Averon could not utter a single word after him. His body refused to obey. The difference in power was undeniable.