The ornate halls of the Third Prince's southern citadel shimmered with gold and silk, an illusion of nobility veiling a darkness that slithered beneath its marbled floors. Lanterns cast warm, flickering light across ancient banners bearing the sigil of his bloodline—a twisted serpent wrapped around a spear—but the deeper one went into the belly of this palace, the colder the air became, and the more the shadows whispered.
The guards moved aside as the Third Prince descended the stairs with deliberate grace, his hands behind his back, his golden armor glinting in the low torchlight. He moved like a man not just born to power, but sure of it—certain that history would one day bend to his will.
"Let's see how the research is progressing," he said softly, almost to himself, his tone devoid of emotion. The captain of his guard flinched slightly, casting a glance at the obsidian doors ahead. No one liked entering the labs beneath the Ravenhall Citadel, but none dared question him.
When the doors creaked open, the scent of chemicals and something more grotesque—blood, decay, flesh warped beyond recognition—slammed into them like a wall. The laboratory was massive, circular, and hollowed deep into the earth, its ceiling lined with binding chains and alchemical conduits. Living humans hung from reinforced harnesses, slung like cattle, their eyes wide, some unconscious, others awake, twitching as glowing serums pulsed into their veins through copper-threaded tubes.
Cages lined the far wall—some already broken open. The creatures inside them were no longer fully human. Elongated limbs, bone ridges, tusks, eyes like coals glowing with unnatural fire. Failed experiments… or perhaps early successes.
A woman stood in the center of the lab—a girl, really, no older than twenty-five—but her eyes spoke of centuries. Her silver hair fell in waves down her back, contrasting with her dark red robes, embroidered with the sigils of Somatra—the cult whispered in the Empire's darkest corners, feared by even the Inquisition.
As the Prince approached, she turned with a smile, tilting her head playfully. "What brings you down here, your highness?" she asked, voice laced with a sickly-sweet lilt. "You usually send your lapdogs."
The Prince's expression remained unmoved. "Curiosity," he said. "And concern. The Sultan will soon move to Constantinople. I want my pawns in position before that."
She clasped her hands together mockingly. "How thoughtful. And here I thought you didn't care about your little kingdom anymore."
"I don't," he replied coldly. "I care about results. How are the trials going?"
She gestured to the walls. "Fifty-seven subjects alive. Thirty-two showing signs of mutation. Six controllable. Three… speak."
"Speak?"
"Yes." She smiled wider. "They've retained memories. Identities. I've even had a few recite imperial poetry."
The Prince stepped closer to a nearby chamber, gazing at a young man whose body was covered in armored scales, claws protruding from his fingers, his mouth stitched shut. His eyes glowed violet. He trembled under the Prince's gaze.
"And the mental stability?" he asked.
"Poor. But improving. We've begun integrating memory filters from our grimoires. The mind collapses less frequently now. Within months, I can create you a legion of undying soldiers."
"And the bloodline resistance?"
She hesitated. "Still a problem. The wards placed on noble families during the Celestial Concord still hold. Their blood rejects the transformation. They're… incompatible."
"Not all noble blood," he said, and there was a glint in his eye.
She looked at him sharply. "You intend to test it on Ravenclaw."
"He is the Empire's greatest asset and greatest liability. And his bloodline… is old. Older than most remember. If it bends to Somatra's gift, it confirms what I need to know."
"And if it doesn't?"
"Then we destroy him, and I claim his duchy."
There was a pause, filled only by the quiet hum of alchemical pumps and the distant moans of the altered.
"You're playing a dangerous game, your highness," she said. "Too many threads pulled, and the whole tapestry falls."
He turned away, walking toward the iron door. "That's the point," he said over his shoulder. "Let the tapestry fall. I'll be the one who weaves the new one."
She watched him go, eyes narrowing. "We shall see, your highness… we shall see."
"My lord," the attendant said cautiously, matching his prince's steps as they made their way through the marbled halls. "There's still the matter of… Princess Sonya. She's returned to the academy. Shall we… intervene?"
The prince didn't stop walking. He kept his eyes forward, taking in the towering stained-glass windows that depicted his ancestors in divine war—illusions of glory, he thought. All of them are fools.
"She will come," the prince said finally, voice like a whisper of frost, "on the day of my birth."
The attendant looked confused. "Your birthday celebration, sire? You still intend to hold it?"
"Yes," the prince replied, his lips twitching into a grin, cold and without joy. "She will come. They all will. The nobles. The ministers. The high families and those wretched, crawling things who still claim loyalty to the Empire."
"But the princess—"
"I said she will come," he interrupted, more sharply this time. "That girl is bound by more than duty. She's proud. Stubborn. If she suspects I am involved in anything, she'll come to confront me. And when she does…"
He paused at a massive bronze door leading into his private chambers, placing a hand on the dragon-carved handle.
"…we will strike."
The attendant's breath caught. "Strike, sire?"
The prince turned, finally meeting his eyes. "Not with an army. Not yet. With something far more precise."
He gestured to a table beside the door, upon which sat a velvet-draped object. The attendant pulled it aside, revealing a small glass vial glowing with deep amber light—a prototype of the mutagenic serum developed by the Cult of Somatra. One that worked on those of noble blood… or so the cult believed.
"She is the perfect candidate," the prince whispered. "Powerful. Proud. Unstable. She already broke a bond with Ravenclaw once. Her blood is fiery. Imagine what she could become."
"You plan to… infect her?" the attendant asked, stepping back.
"Don't be stupid," the prince snapped. "Not now. Not like that. I'll show her what I have. I'll let her see what her precious Empire hides in the shadows. If she's truly an idealist… she'll fall to despair. If she resists, then I'll let her taste her power turned against her."
"And if she speaks?" the attendant asked.
"She won't," the prince said. "Because she will be too afraid. The Ravenclaw boy might suspect, but Sonya… she is too tangled in guilt to act. Her hands are already stained."
He turned to the window, watching the sun descend behind distant mountains.
"I want a celebration prepared," he said. "One worthy of a prince. Invite all ten of the great houses. Especially Dmitri and Yale. Let them drink and laugh. Let them believe that I am still playing the fool."
"Understood, sire. And the academy?"
"Send another beast if needed. Something subtle. Keep the pressure mounting. The cracks must grow until the Emperor's advisors fear the academy itself is cursed."
He paused.
"And let Ravenclaw stew. The more he's hated, the more unstable he'll seem. When he finally breaks… no one will defend him."
Far to the North — The Academy, Days Later
Princess Sonya stood alone in the upper courtyard as the chill wind tugged at her cloak. The night was quiet, the moon above casting silver upon the cracked stone tiles. Her breath fogged before her.
She had not slept since the interrogation. The accusations. The looks. Velsh had pressed her, again and again, on what had happened in the Black Forest. Why had she tamed the wyvern? Why had she followed Ravenclaw? Why had she lied?
She had denied nothing. Nor had she confessed.
And then Ravenclaw had asked her the same question—"What did you say about me?"
She'd brushed him off, but the guilt was like ash in her mouth.
She hadn't meant to… not at first. She had followed orders. She had acted out of fear, anger, and pride. But the prince… that damnable prince… he had been the one who'd manipulated the entire thing. From the wyvern to the king chimera… to Gunther's release.
Her thoughts were interrupted as a small note was slid beneath her door later that night.
"The Prince invites you to his birthday celebration."
She stared at it for a long time.
It wasn't a request.
It was a move.
And Sonya… was already a piece on the board.
The soft flicker of candlelight cast long, restless shadows across the stone walls of Sonya's chambers. She sat in silence, the note from the Third Prince lying crumpled beside her on the desk. Her eyes were fixed not on the parchment, but on the dying flame of the candle—watching it sway and dance in the stillness as if searching for a reason to burn just a little longer.
The room was filled with the scent of old parchment, wind-swept silk, and ash. The wind beyond the window howled, echoing like a ghost through the narrow halls of the academy. But Sonya did not shiver. She was far too deep in thought to feel the cold.
Her mind reeled back—to the Black Forest.
She remembered the wyvern—its wings dark against the moonlit sky, its eyes burning with bloodlust. That had been her moment. Her test. Her first strike against House Ravenclaw. The order had been clear: lure him out, unleash the beast, make it look like an accident. And she had done it. Not because she hated Ravenclaw. Not because she wanted him dead. But because she had been told to. Because the Third Prince had promised her answers, protection, and power.
But it hadn't gone as planned.
Ravenclaw had survived.
Not just survived—he had fought alongside her when the chimera attacked. He had shielded her, dragged her from the jaws of death, even when he must have known she'd lured him there.
And then the king chimera had come.
That was not part of the plan.
Even now, Sonya felt the phantom weight of its roar in her chest. A creature of nightmare, summoned from the deepest black—how had it appeared? Who had brought it?
Selen.
The name hit her like a blow. Her former confidante. Her loyal handmaiden. The woman who had served her since she was a child vanished into the Black Forest, only to resurface amidst the Cult of Somatra. Traitorous. Changed. Cold.
Why?
Why had Selen joined them? What had they promised her? What secrets did the cult hold that were worth betraying everything for?
And then… There was Gunther.
The academy had been shaken to its core when he was released. A chimera—one of the most advanced bio-magical experiments known—let loose on students during a festival. Dozens injured. Some are still in critical care. It was a miracle none had died.
Gunther had been intended for one thing: chaos.
Sonya's hands clenched on the edge of her desk.
Why had the game changed?
She had once thought she understood the pieces on the board. The Ravenclaw heir—Austin—was dangerous, yes. Powerful, proud, unpredictable. But predictable in the way storms were. You could see them coming, feel the pressure change, and prepare for them.
She'd believed he would be the one to betray her family. That he would rise and tear apart the empire from within with fire and steel. That he would become the tyrant in her nightmares.
But now… now she wasn't so sure.
He wasn't the one who had summoned monsters.
He wasn't the one conducting experiments in underground labs.
He wasn't the one who'd filled her ears with lies and sent her into darkness with blood on her hands.
He wasn't the one laughing as Gunther tore through her classmates.
Sonya stared at her reflection in the mirror.
Who was the enemy now?
Was Ravenclaw truly her enemy?
He had questioned her after the interrogation. Demanded to know what she told Velsh. And she had seen it then—in his eyes. He didn't trust her. Not fully. Not anymore. Maybe he never had. And who could blame him?
But what chilled her even more was that Velsh had arrived.
He wasn't supposed to come. That man, that bloodhound, had a vendetta against House Ravenclaw. She had heard the stories of the Ridge of Baskerville, of the bitter defeat and the scar Austin had left on Velsh's face.
But the investigation had been his excuse.
The moment Gunther appeared, Velsh had arrived like a shadow, questioning, prodding, trying to humiliate Ravenclaw in front of the Senate's eyes. Trying to corner her as well. If not for the laws of the Empire, Sonya was certain Velsh would have tried to imprison them both under some fabricated charge.
He's changing the narrative, she realized. They all are.
The attack in the Black Forest—rewritten as a student field exercise gone wrong.
The taming of the wyvern—reduced to reckless behavior from a prideful princess.
Gunther's rampage—labeled a result of rogue magic, not deliberate sabotage.
And no one would speak of the cult. No one dared.
Welsh. The Third Prince. Selen. The Cult of Somatra.
They were reshaping the truth.
And what of the Empire?
Would the Emperor ever know the truth? Or had even he begun to lose his grip on the threads of power?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the distant sound of bells—midnight. The final toll of the day.
She rose from her desk, walking to the window. Beyond the frost-kissed glass, the lights of the academy flickered, some still burning from students studying late or professors burning midnight oil in dread of the next council meeting.
She had once dreamed of this place as a symbol of unity. Of knowledge. Of power. Now it felt like a theater of shadows.
What do I do? she thought.
If she turned against the prince, she would be labeled a traitor to her blood.
If she allied with Ravenclaw, she risked betrayal—or worse, dragging her family into his war.
But standing still meant nothing.
The game had changed.
The rules were burning.
And she stood at the edge of the board, unsure if she was a queen or a pawn.
No—she could not be a pawn.
"I will find the truth," she whispered. "Even if I have to burn the whole board down to get it."
In the dim-lit chamber of the Ravenclaw estate's inner sanctum, Austin sat by the window, moonlight cutting clean lines across his face. A steaming cup of untouched tea rested beside him, its surface rippling faintly. The events of the past few weeks—the Black Forest Festival, the wyvern incident, the chimera attack, Velsh's interrogations, and the unexpected failure of multiple assassination attempts—were all swirling in his mind like a storm he couldn't quite see the center of.
He exhaled slowly, staring down at the open book on his lap. But the pages were not of lore or spell theory—they were his own notes. Notes from the story he'd written… the one that should have gone exactly as planned.
"This is not what was written," he murmured, fingers tightening over the leather-bound spine. "This… isn't how it was supposed to go."
From the shadows behind him, a man stepped forward, his face partially hidden beneath a traveler's hood. A faint shimmer of magical concealment still clung to him.
"Master," the man said, bowing low, "we've received the latest report."
Austin turned to look at him with narrowed eyes.
"Well?"
"It's about Miss Sonya," the informant continued. "Ever since she founded her trade company, her profits have spiked. Her wares are flooding the western markets. Particularly medicines, alchemical materials, and arcane reagents. What's more alarming—our sources confirm she is not receiving these from the Elven Forest anymore."
Austin's brow furrowed.
"Then where is she getting them?"
The man hesitated. "The Abyssal Forest, sire. Through smugglers. The materials are transported by an underground network routed through the southern badlands, bypassing customs entirely. She's paying top coin to mercenary bands to keep the routes safe."
Austin stood, crossing the room slowly.
"She's outmaneuvering us."
"Yes, sir. Our own sales are down by nearly forty percent. Noble houses once loyal to your brand are now switching to hers. She's presenting herself as the Empire's golden daughter—strong, self-made, and unafraid to compete in the men's arena."
Austin ran a hand over his face, laughing under his breath.
"A bird that eats every day will never learn to hunt. But when the hand that feeds it vanishes…" He turned to the informant, eyes cold and sharp. "What happens then?"
"The bird starves."
"Exactly."
He walked to a map pinned across the far wall—marked with pins, thread, and paper slips.
"Here's what you'll do," Austin said, voice low. "Wipe out her smuggler network. Not all at once. Piece by piece. Make it look like wild beast attacks, tribal interference, desert raiders. Be subtle."
The agent nodded, jotting notes rapidly.
"Then," Austin continued, "identify one of the merchant houses that have publicly aligned with her. Burn it to the ground. Leave no survivors. Send a message to the others that alliances have consequences."
"Understood."
"And lastly," Austin said, now looking over his shoulder, "her main factory—the one she built to rival mine. I want it gone. But make it clean. No traces. A lightning strike. An alchemical accident. Frame a rival merchant group. Just... don't leave a trail leading back to the Bunny Alir Trading Company."
"Of course, professor."
"Good. Also... find out who ordered the recent monster attacks. Gunther, the wyvern, the chimera… none of this feels random. Selen might be involved, but someone else is pulling strings. I want to know who."
The man vanished into the shadows, footsteps silent.
Austin stood alone, staring at the map.
"She's playing at a queen's game," he whispered, eyes narrowing. "But she's not ready for war."
The sun had barely crested the eastern peaks when the first whisper reached the inner circles of Veldora's underground. A merchant house in the outer district of Bryn's Hollow had burned to the ground. No survivors. The smoke danced like a funeral shroud above the market for hours, blackening the dawn skies. To the outside world, it was a tragic accident — a fault in the arcane furnace, perhaps. But those who knew better, those with ears in the right corners, recognized it for what it was: a message.
Austin, high-ranking professor and silent architect of many unseen moves within the empire, sat in his darkened office, lit only by a single lamp and the swirling glyphs of a monitoring crystal. His fingers drummed rhythmically against the oak desk as he listened to the reports. A network of shadows, silent and unmarked, was moving swiftly.
One by one, the names on the parchment list were crossed off. The smugglers who had once proudly traversed the forbidden routes of the Abyssal Forest, hauling rare herbs and enchanted minerals for Sonya's growing empire, were vanishing. Some were found dead in alleys. Some were found... not at all. Their disappearance was complete, not a coin, not a footprint, not a body left behind.
It took only five days before the network began to fracture.
In the halls of her new factory, Princess Sonya's aides grew tense. Her top alchemist, a man imported from the Altherian Isles, paced furiously as his ingredients dwindled.
"We have enough essence for two more cycles," he snapped. "After that? I can't replicate it. Whatever grows in that forest isn't replaceable with local substitutes."
Sonya's brow furrowed. She knew the fragility of her operation — the materials she needed for her enchantments and product lines were far beyond what most merchant guilds could source. The Abyssal Forest was her secret edge. No noble house would dare enter it, let alone strike deals within. Except her.
But now, someone was unpicking the threads.
She ordered a quiet investigation of her own, but that too hit brick walls. Informants disappeared. Her trusted go-between, a man known only as "Skell," hadn't reported back in three days.
Meanwhile, Austin stood overlooking the academy courtyard, arms folded behind his back as the sun climbed. From afar, one might have thought him serene — but his mind was a warzone.
"The princess's empire is built on theft, deception, and the arrogance of youth," he muttered under his breath. "She thinks because she tamed a beast, she can tame a kingdom."
He didn't hate her. No, that would be too personal. He respected her cunning, her drive. But unchecked ambition had to be redirected. Controlled. Trimmed like a flame just before it consumed the parchment.
Back in a quiet safehouse, his agents worked. A map was stretched out, marking all known entry points from the Abyssal Forest. One agent, a man with half his face scarred by acid, circled a route.
"This one's next," he said. "They call it the Serpent's Vein. The last functioning supply line."
Austin nodded. "Make it look like the forest took them."
And so, the operation escalated. At Serpent's Vein, illusion spells mimicked the sounds of abyssal creatures. Traps laced the underbrush. Screams echoed through the canopy one night — and then, silence.
Back in the capital, Sonya's factory ran dry. Production halted. Her contracts, promises to merchant lords and distant noble houses, began to fall through. Her name — once praised — now rang with tension. She was failing to deliver. And in the empire, a failed business was as dangerous as a failed rebellion.
Austin's job was not done, however.
He now turned his gaze inward — to the Academy. Someone had instigated the Gunther attack. Someone had given orders. Ravenclaw suspected the truth, but there was no proof yet. Austin's agents began collecting whispers from the shadowed halls. Who had been missing the night of the Black Forest Festival? Who had contacts with cults? Who had unusual access to chimera-based alchemy?
He would tear it all apart.
For now, though, he smiled.
Because Sonya's empire had begun to crumble — and no one knew it was him.
Not yet.
The scent of lavender oil hung thick in the air, failing to mask the acrid tension that blanketed the chamber. Princess Sonya stood by the glass-paneled window of her private office, her arms folded across her chest as she stared out at the once-bustling courtyard of her factory. The machinery that normally hissed and clanged with arcane energy now sat cold and silent. Not a soul moved below — only the wind disturbed the tarps that covered crates of unused components.
Her mind raced, thoughts unraveling like frayed thread.
Who could it be?The thought echoed, circled, whispered.
First, the smuggling routes had gone quiet. Then the factory floor began to stall as critical materials from the Abyssal Forest simply stopped arriving. Then came the fire — that merchant house in Bryn's Hollow, one of her key partners, razed to ash in the dead of night. All that remained was a foundation of scorched stone and a few half-melted sigils. The city guards had declared it an accident, but she knew better.
That was no accident. It was precision. A message. A warning.
But from who?
Her fingers tightened against her elbow. Could it be Ravenclaw? No. He was bold, yes, and clever, but too straightforward. He would have confronted her, not moved in shadows. Velsh? He had a vendetta, but his methods were far less subtle — more brute force, more thunder and law.
No, this was someone else. Someone watching. Someone inside.
Suddenly, the heavy oak doors burst open, crashing against the walls. Three of her investors swept into the room like a storm.
"Princess!" shouted Lord Halthen, a balding man whose veins always seemed ready to burst from his forehead. "We demand answers!"
Following close behind was Lady Selma, one of the Empire's most ruthless merchant baronesses, and Gaius Corven, a shadow investor whose coins funded half of Sonya's expansion over the past year.
"What's going on?" Selma snapped, eyes like polished ice. "The merchant house was one thing — but now the entire production has gone dull. We've received reports from every outpost. Shipments halted. Work crews dismissed. If you think we'll just absorb this loss—"
"I never said that," Sonya interrupted, her voice cool, but sharp as a dagger's edge. She turned from the window to face them. "This is sabotage. And I'm dealing with it."
"Sabotage?" Gaius raised an eyebrow. "From who?"
"I don't know yet," she said, her tone clipped. "But they're methodical. Strategic. They know what to hit, and when."
Gaius stepped forward, folding his hands behind his back. "Then perhaps you should have thought twice about basing your supply on unregulated channels. You assured us the Abyssal Forest was secure. That the smugglers were… loyal."
"They were," she hissed. "Until they started vanishing."
Lord Halthen began pacing furiously. "If we don't stabilize the output, the nobles who signed contracts will start pulling their investments. Your name, Princess or not, is about to be dragged through the muck of the Imperial Trade Tribunal. You'll be summoned. Audited."
"They'll call you a fraud," Selma added with a sneer. "And once that label sticks…"
She didn't need to finish. The Empire was cruel to failure, even among its elite. Especially among its women.
Sonya's jaw clenched. "You'll get your returns. I'll fix it."
"How?" Gaius challenged. "You've lost the forest. The merchant networks are crumbling. And rumors are already swirling that your products are not elven-crafted, as you claimed."
Selma leaned forward. "Do you even understand what kind of damage that could cause? The Elven Council could sue you for misrepresentation of sacred trade—"
"I SAID I'LL FIX IT!" Sonya's voice exploded in the room like a shockwave, silencing them all.
A long pause followed. Only the rustling of parchment and the crackle of the nearby fireplace filled the space.
"I've given this operation everything," she continued, quieter now but no less dangerous. "And I won't let it die because of some ghost moving in the dark."
She walked behind her desk and placed a small obsidian shard onto the table — a communication stone linked to a very specific contact in the slums.
"This ends now," she whispered to herself.
Gaius narrowed his eyes. "One final chance, Princess. One."
They left her chamber one by one, slamming the door behind them.
Alone again, Sonya returned to the window.
From the shadows of the city, someone was bleeding her dry.
But she was no longer the girl who had once lived in the palace. She was the woman who tamed a wyvern and survived a king chimera. And if they thought she'd break this easily…
Let them come.