Michaelli strode into Prince Terado's residence, his presence a force that shattered the quiet opulence of the palace. The grand doors crashed open, sending a tremor through the chamber, a warning of the storm that had arrived. His entourage of crimson warriors followed in disciplined silence, their mere presence suffocating the room with unspoken menace. The air, once thick with incense and luxury, now reeked of impending reckoning.
"Search everything," Michaelli commanded, his voice a blade of cold steel. The warriors moved with swift precision, tearing through the illusion of order. The rich scent of polished wood and aged parchment was soon replaced by the acrid bite of overturned oil lamps and the crash of priceless artifacts meeting the marble floor. The palace trembled, its halls filled with the sound of a kingdom being dismantled from within.
Terado stumbled into the chaos, still clad in his evening attire. The silk of his robe shimmered under the dim light, but his face was bloodless, drained of its usual arrogance. "Your Highness!" he gasped, voice brittle with disbelief. "What is the meaning of this? I have reported everything, and your men—"
Michaelli's gaze struck him silent. The air grew heavy, thick with an unrelenting force that pressed down on every breath. When the prince finally spoke, his words were slow, deliberate, laced with the venom of withheld fury. "Reported everything?" A cruel amusement ghosted across his lips. "Do you think I place my trust in reports, Your Grace?"
The title dripped with mockery, an acknowledgment of power already stripped away. Michaelli advanced, his boots echoing against the stone, each step tightening the invisible noose around Terado's neck. "Words can be twisted, masked, like the intentions of those who speak them. I prefer my own eyes."
Terado's eyes darted toward the shadows, seeking allies that would not come. His hands twitched at his sides, but the weight of Michaelli's stare pinned him in place. Before he could conjure another lie, a crash erupted from the adjoining chamber. A warrior emerged, his expression impassive as he held out a bundle of parchment. The firelight caught the ink-stained edges, and Michaelli accepted them without breaking his gaze from his uncle.
His fingers traced the rough fibers of the parchment, then stilled. The moment his eyes flicked over the words, the air around him thickened, as though the walls themselves braced for the inevitable. His lips curled, a ghost of a smile with no warmth, only the promise of ruin. "Tell me, Your Grace," he murmured, his voice almost gentle, "how many lives have been bought and sold under your watch?"
Terado paled. "I—I had no idea… this must be some mistake—"
Michaelli raised a gloved hand, halting the pathetic attempt at denial. "A mistake? No. An oversight, at best." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that sliced through the stale air. "But rest assured, you will answer for it."
With a flick of his wrist, he signaled his warriors. They descended upon Terado with practiced efficiency, dragging him toward his fate. His protests rang hollow, swallowed by the vast emptiness of a power he no longer possessed. Michaelli turned, the parchment crumpling beneath the force of his grip. The regent's shouts faded as he was hauled into the abyss, his reign dissolving into the echoes of his own pleas.
Michaelli's gaze shifted downward. Below the polished grandeur of the palace, the underground chamber yawned open, revealing a world of suffering hidden beneath the empire's golden facade. The flickering torchlight cast jagged shadows across the stone walls, illuminating the hollow-eyed prisoners freed by his warriors.
Among them, a frail boy stood out. He did not cower. He did not weep. Instead, he met Michaelli's gaze with an intensity that sent a jolt through the prince's chest—an unfamiliar sensation, sharp and intrusive.
Michaelli stilled. The boy's tattered clothing barely clung to his skeletal frame, and yet, he did not shrink away. A woman—thin, shaking—moved in front of him, shielding him with her own body. The protective gesture struck like a dagger to the prince's gut, an image too familiar, too raw.
His mother. Her trembling arms around him, the scent of her blood in the air, her whispered promises of safety that had been nothing more than desperate lies.
His jaw locked.
"He didn't mean to offend, Your Highness," the woman pleaded, bowing so deeply that her forehead nearly touched the dirt. "Please, spare my son… he's all I have."
For a fleeting moment, the prince wavered. The child's stare was unrelenting, piercing through time, dredging up the weight of memories Michaelli had buried beneath years of cold, calculated control. His chest tightened, the phantom ache of loss pressing against his ribs.
A single breath steadied him. His golden eyes hardened, the ember of old wounds smothered beneath his will.
"Stand up," he ordered, voice low, edged with something unreadable. The woman hesitated, her arms tightening around the boy. Her defiance, her sheer audacity to fight for something so fragile, mirrored the love that had once tried and failed to save him.
Michaelli exhaled slowly, forcing the steel back into his tone. "You have nothing to fear from me."
A pause. The firelight flickered, casting uncertain shadows between them.
"But this suffering," he murmured, each word sharpening into a blade, "ends tonight."
The woman slowly straightened, though her grip on the child remained. Her gaze searched his face, as if seeking the truth in his declaration. Michaelli met her stare without faltering, though something unseen stirred beneath his cold exterior.
"Take them all to safety," he commanded his warriors, the weight of the moment pressing against his chest like an iron shackle. "They will receive proper care."
His gaze flicked toward the chamber's depths, toward the remnants of Terado's rule. His voice turned glacial. "Make sure those responsible for this are dealt with."
The warriors moved swiftly, their duty unquestioned. Michaelli lingered, his back to the woman and the boy, unable to face them any longer. The sight of that embrace—of a love he could never reclaim—was too much.
As he walked away, the echo of footsteps swallowed by the cavernous halls, he whispered to no one, to nothing, to the ghost that would never answer.
"If only love had saved me too, but it never did."