Michaelli's footsteps echoed through the stone corridors as he made his way out of the chamber, each step heavier than the last. The cold air clung to his skin, and the scent of damp stone mixed with the lingering iron of blood. Shadows stretched across the walls, flickering in the dim torchlight like specters from his past, whispering of a broken childhood. For a brief moment, he felt small again, a child lost in the darkness.
His chest constricted at the thought of the boy—fragile, wide-eyed, afraid. The weight of that gaze pressed against his mind, stirring something he had long buried. In the child's fear, he saw echoes of himself, a yearning for safety that had once been his own. But Michaelli knew better than to entertain such thoughts. Pity was an indulgence, and indulgence had no place in the empire he sought to build.
As he ascended the stairs leading out of the underground chamber, a figure emerged from the shadows, moving with the quiet grace of someone who had spent years in the art of discretion. Nixon. His face, usually impassive, bore a trace of solemnity.
"The operation was a success, Your Highness," Nixon reported, his voice measured, steady. "All the prisoners have been freed, and Lord Terado has been taken into custody. What are your orders regarding his punishment?"
Michaelli came to a halt, the weight of the boy's eyes still lingering on him, an invisible chain wrapping around his ribs. He exhaled slowly, forcing the sensation away. His fingers twitched at his sides, curling into fists. Mercy was a weakness, a chink in the armor of power. He could not afford it.
"Make an example of him," Michaelli said at last, his tone devoid of hesitation. "Let it be known that Terado, the Prince, will die at dawn. Let the higher-ups hear of his crimes along with his head."
His voice did not waver, but something in the air did—an imperceptible shift as Nixon absorbed the words. The man nodded once, his expression unreadable, before turning to carry out the order.
Yet, as Michaelli resumed walking, the ghost of the boy's eyes still clung to him. A bitter taste settled on his tongue, though he could not name it. The anger gnawed at his gut, a festering wound that had never quite healed. His mother's death, her choices—it was all there, etched into his bones, bleeding into every decision he made. He had clawed his way to power, but no amount of it could fill the void she had left behind.
Stepping into the night air, the cold wind bit at his skin, cutting through the heavy fabric of his coat. He lifted his gaze to the sky, but the stars were nowhere to be seen—only the dark clouds loomed, ever-present, pressing down on the empire he ruled.
"Your Highness." Nixon's voice was cautious now as he approached once more. "About the boy... and his mother. What shall we do with them?"
Michaelli's golden eyes flickered, his fingers curling slightly. The question struck deeper than it should have. Nixon's tone carried an unspoken suggestion—spare them, take them under your protection, a token of mercy. But Michaelli had no room for such things. He had made his choice, walked too far down this path to turn back.
"They are nothing," he muttered, his voice hollow. His gaze fixed on the darkness beyond the city walls. "Send them to the northern border. The boy can join the others being relocated if he wishes. As for the woman… she can serve in the outer provinces."
Nixon hesitated for just a breath, but then bowed and strode away to carry out the orders.
Michaelli stood still for a moment, staring into the abyss beyond the palace. The unease still lingered, coiling in his gut like a serpent refusing to be ignored. His hand drifted to his side, fingers brushing over the hilt of his dagger—the same blade his mother had forced into his grip the day she ended her own life. The metal was cold against his skin, grounding, familiar.
He exhaled sharply and forced the memories back into their prison. There was no room for such distractions. Not now. Not ever.
With one last glance at the sky, Michaelli set his jaw and walked forward, disappearing into the empire's shadows—where love was a relic of the past, and power was the only truth that remained.
***
Michaelli's eyes gleamed as he surveyed the road ahead, the weight of his plans pressing against his chest like an iron vice. The night carried a sharp chill, but he barely felt it. His thoughts burned hotter than any flame. Prince Terado was merely a pawn in a much larger game—one that Michaelli had been playing long before tonight. His majesty's shield had been stripped away, leaving the emperor exposed. The empire was thick with rot, its corruption stretching its vile roots all the way to the throne. The capture of Terado would send a ripple of fear through the ranks of those who cowered at the emperor's side, but this was only the prelude to the storm Michaelli would unleash.
Standing at the threshold of Terado's estate, he exhaled slowly, a steadying breath that did little to cool the fire within. The scent of damp earth and distant smoke lingered in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of impending bloodshed. His vengeance had been set in motion years ago, its roots deep and unshakable. The empire he sought to rebuild needed more than power—it needed purification. The innocent had suffered long enough. The weak had been trampled beneath the weight of greed. Michaelli would carve a path through it all, cleansing it with fire and steel.
And none were guiltier than the emperor himself.
In order to fight a dragon, one must become a dragon.
He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms as he reminded himself that this was only the beginning. Terado was not the final target—he was merely the warning shot, a declaration that no one, not even the emperor's brother, was beyond reach. Fear was a weapon, but it was not enough. Michaelli did not merely want them afraid; he wanted them to feel their power slipping through their fingers like sand. The empire, once a symbol of tyranny, would rot from within. And he would be there at every step, ensuring it fell apart piece by piece.
He turned sharply to Nixon, who stood rigidly at his side, awaiting orders. The flickering torchlight cast shadows over the younger man's face, but his eyes remained steady.
"Terado is merely the start," Michaelli murmured, his voice as cold and smooth as a dagger's edge. "His execution will send a message, but I want more than just fear. I want his allies to scramble, to feel their grip slipping. And when they fall, they will fall hard."
Nixon bowed, the movement precise. "I understand, Your Highness. I'll ensure the news spreads throughout the empire by sunrise."
Michaelli gave a curt nod, his gaze fixed on the sprawling empire beyond. The stars above seemed dim, swallowed by the weight of the past and the future. He envisioned the intricate web of deceit that had sustained the empire for generations. Every move had to be calculated, every strike delivered at the perfect moment.
"Let them think this is an isolated incident," he continued, his voice softer now, almost contemplative. "Let them believe Terado was a victim of his own greed. We will strike again, but not too soon. They must not see the pattern—not yet. Inform the crimson commanders. They are to disperse and continue to be my eyes."
A gust of wind swept through the courtyard, rustling the edges of Michaelli's coat. He barely felt the chill. His mind had already drifted to the emperor—his father. A man whose very existence sickened him. The bloodline that had shackled an empire, that had turned suffering into a law, had to be erased. Michaelli's fingers twitched at the thought, the phantom echo of past wounds tightening around his ribs.
"The emperor," Nixon ventured, careful, measured. "Do you have a timeline for when you will… confront him?"
A slow, humorless smile curled Michaelli's lips. "When the time is right. He believes himself untouchable, but he forgets that the foundation of his empire is fragile. One crack, and everything crumbles. For now, let him feel secure in his throne. But every move I make brings him closer to his end."
His gaze drifted toward the horizon, where darkness swallowed the landscape, mirroring the depth of his resolve. The empire would crumble, and from its ashes, he would rebuild something new—something untainted. But first, he had to sever the chains that bound it together.
He turned to Nixon once more, his expression unreadable. "The others will be next—those who believe their wealth and titles will protect them. Begin gathering information on the Duke of Velmar and Lord Faustus. Their time will come soon."
Nixon nodded. "It will be done, Your Highness. And the historian—do you believe it's dangerous to let him near you? We don't yet know where his loyalties lie."
Michaelli's gaze flickered with something almost amused. "That one is clever. Keeping him close benefits me more than pushing him away. One thing is certain—he is not the emperor's. I already have plans for him."
With that, Michaelli dismissed the topic, striding away from Terado's estate. Behind him, the warriors worked in silence, planting false evidence, wiping away any trace of their presence. The night smelled of smoke, of damp stone, of the remnants of a world soon to collapse.
His thoughts remained a swirling tempest of vengeance and strategy. His steps were steady, his resolve unshakable. Terado's fall was but the first stone cast in a war that had been brewing for years.
No one could stop him now. Michaelli had spent his life learning from the shadows, witnessing the sickness of power, the slow decay of those who wielded it. His mother's death had sealed his fate—his deepest wound, his greatest strength. He was beyond salvation. His hands were already steeped in blood, and he would drag every last one of them into the abyss with him.
As he approached the waiting carriage, the echoes of his footsteps fading into the silence, Michaelli's mind settled on a single, unshakable truth: the empire would fall, and in its place, he would forge something new. Something no one like him would ever rise from again.