[Year -2348 (Earth)]
"Bow your head. You now stand in the presence of the Blade of Empires, the Sovereign Flame, the Unwed Empress of the Three Thrones—Her Majesty, Queen Malenia"
The voice echoed across the obsidian-tiled chamber.
Silence swept the great throne hall as hundreds of heads bowed.
Ethan Morwen stood among a line of bloodied soldiers—armor scraped and dented, cloaks soaked in the grime of travel.
They were the honored warriors of the Battle of Roxan, brought here to receive reward and recognition. Yet all he could feel was the ache in his bones and the dull burn of something that had long since stopped being grief.
Then he looked up—and there she was.
Queen Malenia.
She entered like a storm dressed in velvet.
No crown sat atop her head; she had never needed one. Her presence was its own declaration—sharp, unyielding, and absolute. Her gown flowed like blackened silk inked with gold veins, echoing the colors of her banners. Her gaze swept the hall with quiet precision, pausing on none.
She ascended the steps and turned.
Behind her, carved into the marble wall, were the three sigils of her dominion: the silver wolf of Eirenthall, the shattered sun of Velvryn, and the obsidian rose of Noctra. Three kingdoms. One throne. Her throne.
The seat itself was a marvel of impossible architecture—crafted from bleached bones and gold, draped in midnight blue.
Not a throne made by men, they said, but by a god who had grown bored and sought poetry in stone.
She sat. And the world held its breath.
Beyond the arched stained-glass windows, the sky had turned a heavy greenish-gray. That hush before a storm. The scent of cold stone, and rain drifted in through the open colonnade.
Far outside, the canopy trees swayed under growing wind.
The nobles seated along the lower dais remained silent, polished and perfect, their faces carved in etiquette.
Behind the golden barriers, the common folk crowded, pushing against each other for a glimpse. Their voices were lower, feverish, urgent.
"Isn't the commander of One Squad her former betrothed?"
"Ethan Morven, son of the Ruin King…"
"Poor soul."
Ethan heard it all.
He kept his head straight, gaze forward. Rain tapped faintly against the windows now—first drops. Somewhere deeper in the castle, a bell tolled once, long and low.
A soldier stepped forward from the side of the hall, voice booming with ceremonial finality:
> "Let it be known that Her Majesty, Queen Malenia of the Three Thrones, shall now grant commendation to the warriors of the Battle of Roxan. First to stand before the throne—Commander Ethan Morven, of One Squad."
Ethan Morven walked with slow steps toward the throne.
The hall seemed longer than it was—
His boots echoed dully against the stone.
Why fight for a nation that crushed his kingdom beneath its heel?
Why serve the throne that once left his people to rot?
The answer had never made sense to anyone but him.
"They took in my brother."
He wasn't naïve. He never believed they did it out of mercy.
But they gave his brother food. A roof.
That had been enough.
He had joined their military not out of loyalty, but as a trade.
A payment.
You keep him alive, I'll fight your wars.
Ethan knew he would never see his brother again.
He had come to peace with that.
All he had ever asked of the world was one cruel miracle: let him live.
But last week… that miracle died quietly.
An assassin's blade carved through the palace in the dead of night. Malenia's mother. Her father. And among the list of "unintended casualties" was a name tucked near the bottom—
Cael Morven. Age 12. Status: Deceased.
The day after the funeral pyres, his unit received a summons to the capital.
"Funny," Ethan thought. "We were never called here once in four years."
Now, here he was—on a red carpet that felt more like a noose, walking toward the woman who once shared a ring with him.
The only thing in his pocket was a rough stone rune, pulsing faintly beneath his fingers. He'd found it in the ruins beneath Myr-Valeth during the Roxan campaign the ancient city.
'There nothing more that left now,'
No family. No friends. No kingdom.
Just the woman on the throne and a buried hatred too tired to be called rage.
Ethan stepped up to the marble podium. There were no guards surrounding the queen.
Why would there be?
Malenia was said to possess an Innate Domain, an ability known among scholars as Null Extension. It wasn't magic. Not quite.
Those who tried to strike her found the distance between them and her multiplied—infinitely—. Even blades thrown with force would slow, bend, and spiral off-course.
She didn't need guards!
"One Squad Commander, step forth."
The announcer's voice rang out.
"Her Majesty shall now award the victors of Roxan, starting with—"
Ethan didn't wait for his name.
"Flash—"
The word whispered as his foot sparked against stone.
A technique once considered lost—Flashfall, the instant step used by the Blade Saints of the second era. In a single blink, he blurred across the dais.
Steel kissed air.
The sound—sharp, final—echoed through the grand throne room as Ethan Morven surged forward, blade in hand, and drove it toward the woman seated before a thousand silent witnesses.
Thwack!
His sword slid through flesh.
Not resistance. No magic to repel him. Nothing.
Ethan has expected something.
Then he looked up in her eyes—looking at him.
Deep, green, and shimmering like rain-touched emeralds. They did not widen in shock. They did not burn with hatred.
They… understood.
'Why didn't she use her ability?' Ethan thought. 'Why didn't she stop me?'
She could've.
She was the one rumored to possess the Distance Law—a rare ability that distorted proximity itself. It was said that if she willed it, no blade could ever truly reached her.
And yet… she let him in.
Blood spread across the fine silks of her royal attire, yet her voice was steady, no louder than a whisper meant only for him.
"I tried to save you. And your brother."
"But in the end… I'm nothing but a puppet on a throne I never asked for."
"Forgive me!
Ethan's breath trembled.
What bullshit is she spouting…?
But before the thought fully formed, he heard it.
The rain.
Droplets began to tap against the massive, stained-glass windows behind her throne. Soft at first, like a mourner's steps, then louder.
He staggered forward.
And then it happened.
Shff. Thunk. Crack.
Dozens of blades erupted from his back, one after another—royal guards finally breaking the trance of silence.
His knees buckled. His vision dimmed.
His hand reached into his bloodied coat and clasped a small, jagged ruin-stone—unearthed in the forgotten city beneath the Ashen Steppes.
Carved into its surface were faded inscriptions: Adeath offered in resolve, a whisper of luck bestowed.
There was a tale… if you spoke the Three Mantras of Passage while the blood of fate ran hot, the stone would provide luck and fortune.
He began to whisper:
> "From dust I came, with loss I walk…"
"Let what I surrender now return to me tenfold…"
"May death remember my name."
With each line, pain intensified, steel grinding against bone. But he kept going.
He was nearly at her.
He barely heard the final sword pierce his side.
He stumbled forward.
Then—Melenia hand, cold and trembling, reached behind his head.
Pulled him in.
Her lips found his.
Soft. Warm.
The kiss was not one of victory. Nor betrayal. Nor farewell.
It was an apology, a confession, and a memory, all tangled in one breathless, fleeting act.
For a second, the entire world stilled.
Their foreheads touched. Their breaths shared.
He saw their younger selves running through poppy fields. Her laughter. His dreams. Their vows whispered to moonlight.
And then—
The black void.
The room vanished. The palace dissolved. There was no more rain. No more pain. Only endless black stretching beyond perception. Neither sky nor earth—just nothingness.
Yet her lips were still on his.
She refused to let go.
Until…
Ethan opened his eyes.
Pushed her away with trembling fingers.
"Even if the stars die…" she whispered, "I hope… you're reborn where no chains can find you."
And with that—she faded.
Her body unraveling like smoke into the void.
And before him, a light bloomed...