The echo of magical cannons reverberated through the shattered gates of the Lothien Empire's capital. The purple residue of residual energies, now splattered across the once-gleaming white cobblestones, resembled filth. Blood had not waited to stain this apocalyptic scene of confusion and chaos. Men and women lay fallen from the first impact, their limbs severed by explosions. Feathers from the griffins of the magical cannons drifted down like snowflakes, only to disintegrate upon touching the ground, vaporized by the magical radiation emanating from a lone figure, a man with long golden hair, his face drenched in blood and tears.
Far removed from the chaos and the agony of those he had once led, the rebel prince known as Igfrid Severe D'Tyr knelt, clutching a bundle in his arms. Silver hair, aquamarine eyes holding the calm of the eastern sea, and a final smile frozen on her lips... the bundle he cradled was the head of his beloved.
"Canaria… Canaria… Canaria… Canaria… Canaria… Canaria… Canaria, Canaria, Canaria, Canaria, Canaria, Canaria, Canaria, Canaria, Canaria, Canaria, Canaria, Canaria, Canaria, Canaria, Canaria, Canaria, CanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanaria CanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanariaCanaria..."
"What was happening?"
"What was I'm holding?"
"Why… why… Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Whywhywhywhywhywhywhy…"
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"
Everything had happened too fast, too horribly unexpected. Igfrid hadn't understood until Canaria Von Lancet's body collapsed with a dull thud, her blood raining down as her head was torn from her torso. The roar of gunfire, crumbling buildings, and screams of soldiers and magical cannons erupted the moment Igfrid, his crimson eyes blazing with mana and fury, fell to his knees before the woman for whom he had started this revolution.
Beyond the hellish chaos of the battlefield erupting from the sudden attack on a hostage, a woman's smug smile bloomed atop the ramparts. Her pink eyes, the undeniable proof of her royal lineage (albeit bastard), twinkled with twisted delight behind the blue-tinted lenses of her magical long-distance spectacles.
Silvine, whose rose-hued eyes had once bewitched the former emperor, wore ornate feminine armor. Her ample bust, soft curves, and angelic face framed by peach-colored hair gave her the aura of Astrif, the Goddess of Passion.
Yet beneath her beautiful, innocent facade festered a spiteful, dark spirit that reveled in the Von Lancets' downfall and the carnage below.
The revolution —inherently absurd —had been led by the exiled prince, Igfrid, who'd deceived everyone with his pretty face, so like his mother's. All for a woman doomed to die. Why would Igfrid, a former royal, cling to a useless fool like Canaria? Silvine, chosen by the gods, deserved happiness. No one could deny her.
So why had Igfrid chosen Canaria? Why had the gods gifted her joy meant for Silvine, leaving her only the hollow title of kralice beside a fool like Sigurd?
"Of course, it was all Canaria Von Lancet's fault!"
She'd laughed herself breathless, euphoric, when Canaria's head fell —severed by the hidden magical blade her escort had smuggled for this very purpose.
The treaty's light pillars, the ceremony... all her design. True, hostages couldn't be harmed, but Canaria was no hostage.
Months prior, Canaria had become Silvine's slave, bound by a collar hidden beneath her tattered clothes. As property, Silvine could kill her whenever, wherever. A slave wasn't a citizen, or a hostage.
Silvine had not violated the divine treaty, but Igfrid would. Blinded by rage, he'd attack Sigurd, dooming the rebel south. No god would punish Lothien for defending itself.
The hostages meant for the rebels had died when Canaria fell, but what did it matter? Minor casualties to stoke divine wrath against the revolution.
Everything had unfolded perfectly, exactly as she'd envisioned!
*******
Igfrid couldn't see her from where he stood, but he knew she —that bitch —was there. His crimson eyes burned with rage, his hands stained crimson with the blood dripping from Canaria's severed head… He would make her pay.
He felt his mana overflow, the heat of his hatred surging through his mana channels. The radiation, already palpable since the chaos of battle erupted between rebels and the imperial army, intensified. An invisible shockwave swept across the plains, piercing even the fortified city walls. An unknown force born from a single man's overwhelming mana, crushing everyone in its path.
Griffins circling above, panicked by the unseen power, lost their ability to fly and plummeted, colliding midair in desperate attempts to escape. The force spared no one, imperial soldiers or revolutionaries. Banners and swords fell, precious metal armor stained red under a rain of flesh and feathers.
Soldiers and rebels alike were crushed by falling griffins or impaled by stray swords, bows, and shields dropped by magical gunners. Even those smugly watching from the ramparts, relishing the chaos ignited by a single death, fell victim to the oppressive force.
Silvine, trembling and suffocating under the pressure, clawed at her chest. A primal dread screamed at her to flee... now.
A dying beast's roar echoed, freezing her blood. It was a warning: Run or die.
Seconds dragged as her hand finally grasped the pendant at her throat. She looked up...
A wall of fire surged toward her. She felt its searing heat a heartbeat before vanishing with her teleportation artifact.
At the inferno's core, surrounded by flames devouring all, Igfrid Severe D'Tyr cradled his wife's body. He had restored her form but not her soul. Her reattached head bore no scars, the skin flawless, just as he remembered.
"If Canaria is gone, this world isn't worth preserving. If she's gone… let it all burn to ash."
Her death had reignited his magic, a power to make the architect of this suffering pay.
They'd taken everything, without reason.
His wife. His child…
Igfrid had long accepted he'd sacrifice the child's early years if it meant reclaiming Canaria.
Everything had been clear from the start: the timing of Canaria's capture, the rumors of Silvine's seclusion during her "pregnancy", her delayed response to the Church's crisis. Igfrid wanted to ignore it, but he knew
Silvine craved a royal-blooded heir to replace her foolish, pliable brother.
Blinded by arrogance, Igfrid had believed himself in control. Only too late did he realize he'd underestimated Silvine's grasp of divine machinations... the very gods he'd trusted, who'd betrayed him.
If the gods sided with a creature like Silvine, he'd reject them outright.
He brushed his fingers across Canaria's forehead, as if she were merely asleep. Whispering ancient Lothienic verses, he memorized her skin's fading warmth. A mineral crystal soon enveloped the woman Igfrid loved, sealing her in a translucent cocoon. The vortex of fire and ruin dissolved, revealing an apocalyptic wasteland: charred corpses, figures frozen mid-scream, their remains scattering as gray ash in the wind.
Lörien's once-white walls now stood blackened and crimson, warped and melted by Igfrid's wrathful flames. Over half the city lay destroyed, its inhabitants surely dead. Fire spread like plague through untouched districts, trapping survivors between molten stone and fractured ramparts.
Beyond it all, the rulers' castle stood pristine, white walls untouched, kingdom's banner fluttering. Igfrid knew what came next.
"Reduce it all to ashes."