The world was washed in colorless snow and ghost light.

  Through the veil of smoke, emerald sparks began to glimmer—small points of green that pulsed against armor and skin.

  Darius looked down first. A single green light shone at the center of his chest plate, faint but steady. He glanced at Cassian beside him—the same light burned there. Around them, Augustine, Aelun, Princess Seraphine, and half a dozen knights all shared the same glow.

  But others… others glowed red.

  The Emperor watched the phenomenon unfold with narrowed eyes. Red motes flared across his assembled ranks—on captains, bannermen, even one or two nobles who still clutched blood-stained banners. A Duke, a Marquis, a handful of lesser lords.

  He exhaled once through his nose, then began to laugh. It wasn’t mirth—it was disbelief sharpened into a blade.

  “So even my own nobles,” he said quietly, “barter their souls to the Circle. My empire rots from its roots.”

  Before his voice faded, steel flashed.

  Cassian’s sword, Serenity, carved through the first traitor’s chest in a burst of white-blue flame. Augustine’s strike followed, silent and surgical. Aelun’s arrows sang through the snow, each one finding a crimson-lit heart.

  No one hesitated. No warnings. No mercy.

  A few of the marked tried to shout their innocence, but Darius was already moving—white fire trailing behind him as Devotion cut through the air. Their cries were swallowed by the storm.

  He pivoted toward another red-lit noble—a Duke clad in gold-trimmed mail—and raised his sword for the finishing blow.

  A single metallic clang stopped him.

  The Emperor’s blade—black steel rimmed with searing blue Vaylora—had caught Devotion mid-arc. The shock of it rattled Darius to his core. His sword arm trembled under the effortless strength holding him back.

  “Your Majesty?” Darius asked, eyes wide.

  The Emperor’s gaze shifted to the Duke. “Why?”

  The blade flicked once—clean, deliberate—opening a thin red line across the Duke’s thigh.

  The man gasped, falling to one knee. “Sire—please! It’s a mistake! Some trick of that witch’s magic—”

  Another cut, shallow but cruel, scored across his arm. The Duke flinched, clutching the wound, his voice breaking. “You can’t believe this sorcery! You’re being deceived!”

  The Emperor’s expression didn’t change. His tone stayed mild, almost curious.

  “Why?”

  The Duke looked up, trembling. “I’ve served you faithfully! My father before me—my sons after me! There must be some mistake!”

  A third slash opened across his ribs, staining his coat dark. The Emperor stepped closer, unhurried, his sword dripping red onto the snow.

  “Why?” he asked again, softer now, like a teacher coaxing a lesson from a slow student.

  The Duke’s fear curdled into rage. He lifted his head, blood on his teeth, and met the Emperor’s gaze.

  “Because you’re a monster,” he spat. “A violent beast that calls his slaughter divine! You bathe in blood and call it order. And your spawn—your precious heirs—are no better! The Empire deserves better than you!”

  The Emperor tilted his head, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Better?”

  He stepped forward, pressing his boot against the Duke’s chest, forcing him back into the snow. “Better than the man who built it? Better than the blood that holds it together?”

  He smiled—a cold, perfect smile. “Then show me, Duke. Show me the better man.”

  The Duke’s hand twitched toward his blade. He never made it.

  The Emperor’s sword came down in a clean, vertical arc—splitting steel, flesh, and bone alike. The Duke’s body slumped sideways, head still upright for a moment before toppling with a hollow crack against the stone.

  The Emperor stood over him, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. For a moment, there was only the hiss of falling snow on blood-warm stone. Then he looked down at the corpse and said quietly, “You were right about one thing.”

  He wiped his blade clean on the Duke’s cloak, his reflection glinting off the polished steel. “This Empire does deserve better than me.”

  He turned toward Cassian. The words hung heavy in the air. “So you must be better.”

  Cassian straightened, his expression unreadable in the dim blue glow of Vaylora. “That was always the plan,” he said simply. “And I already am.”

  For a heartbeat, father and son stared at each other—royal blood mirrored in opposing fire.

  Then the Emperor’s mouth curved, not in anger, but in amusement.

  “You’re certainly better at talking nonsense,” he said, sliding his sword back into its sheath.

  Cassian smirked faintly. “Someone has to inherit that talent.”

  The Emperor turned away from them all, gaze sweeping across the ruined street. “Enough sentiment. The rot is revealed.” His voice deepened, carrying through the wind.

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  He turned to Darius, Vaylora coiling faintly around him like smoke.

  “Inquisitor," he said. “Hunt down every noble that bears the mark of red. Burn the corruption from my city.”

  He turned his gaze toward the others—the gathered knights, saints, and soldiers who stood amid the wreckage. “The rest of you—purge these undead abominations. Leave nothing standing that crawls or bites. This is my capital, and I will see it clean by dawn.”

  The soldiers around him dropped to one knee, their voices rising in unison. “For Valenfor!”

  The Emperor gave a single nod. “Then make Valenfor proud.”

  As his final words echoed through the night, a jagged bolt of lightning tore across the sky—splitting the clouds with blinding light. The thunder followed like a drumbeat, shaking the city’s bones. As the lighting passed over them, bolts of lightning rained down in its path, vaporizing ghouls as it passed.

  For a brief instant, every warrior in the capital looked upward—at the flash that heralded something far greater than storm or spell. The Emperor’s eyes narrowed.

  “Lucen, is here? Things will wrap up quickly then,” he muttered.

  The lightning that split the heavens came down like judgment.

  Lucen hit the ground with the force of a meteor, blue-white light erupting outward in concentric waves. Every undead within twenty paces was vaporized where it stood—armor, bone, and rotted flesh reduced to ash by the sheer discharge. When the smoke cleared, he stood alone amid the ruin, golden hair crackling with static, eyes glowing the same color as the storm above.

  He looked across the shattered street. A lone figure stood there—draped in black cloth stitched with bone charms, surrounded by a sea of shuffling corpses. The man smiled faintly, like this was all an amusing accident.

  “Well,” the necromancer said, voice smooth and calm despite the chaos. “This is unexpected. I didn’t think I’d meet Lucen the Wrathful tonight.”

  Lucen tilted his head, lightning crawling down his arm.

  “And who the fuck are you supposed to be?”

  The necromancer spread his hands. “Names have power—”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Lucen interrupted. His voice cracked like thunder. “You’ll be dead before I care.”

  He flicked his finger.

  A bolt of lightning screamed through the air, splitting the ranks of undead like a blade through water. The impact detonated against the necromancer’s position, turning the square into a furnace of light.

  For a heartbeat, there was only smoke—dense and swirling, the ground still crackling with residual arcs. Then movement.

  A storm of bones erupted from the cloud—spear-tips, spines, and shattered ribs all whirling together into a cyclone of ivory and death. They hurtled toward Lucen in a wave meant to impale him from every angle.

  Lucen didn’t move.

  Lightning crawled across his skin in veins of gold and white, his aura expanding outward like a living storm. The first spear struck—and disintegrated on contact. Then the next. Then all of them.

  The storm of bones shattered in midair, each fragment shredded to dust by the wild currents surging from his body. Sparks snapped through the haze, illuminating the scene in flashes of electric blue.

  When the smoke finally cleared, Lucen was still standing exactly where he had landed—unscathed, eyes glowing like twin suns.

  From within the lingering smoke, a calm voice drifted out—still unhurried, almost amused.

  “Ah, yes,” said Cursed Bounty. “This was a poor match for me. Your defense is nothing but attack… even your guard bites.”

  He sighed, as if discussing a minor inconvenience instead of near-death. “And you’re far too fast for containment. I suppose I’ll take my leave. We’ve already achieved what we came for.”

  Lucen’s glare sharpened.

  “You think you can run?”

  Cursed Bounty’s laughter slithered through the drifting smoke, cold and knowing.

  “Oh, I won’t be the one running.”

  The forest around them began to stir. The lightning-scorched soil split as hands—some skeletal, others still slick with half-burned flesh—clawed their way up from the dirt. The trees themselves creaked under the strain as more corpses spilled from the branches above, strung like puppets in the necromancer’s web.

  Dozens became hundreds, a tide of the dead closing in from every direction, their moans echoing through the woods like a low, broken hymn.

  Cursed Bounty’s voice carried faintly over the noise.

  “Let’s see how long your lightning can burn before it runs out.”

  Lucen’s jaw tightened. Electricity rolled off his body in violent arcs, charring the ground beneath his boots.

  “You don't worry about fodder,” he said—before vanishing in a flash that split the trees like dawn breaking through storm clouds.

  He vanished in a flash—reappearing directly in front of the necromancer’s silhouette, his palm glowing with lightning.

  “When fighting a necromancer's hoard,” Lucen said, voice low. “Ignore the body. Kill the heart.”

  He brought his hand down.

  The resulting explosion was apocalyptic. Thunder ripped across the city; the earth cracked beneath his feet. A crater bloomed where the necromancer had stood. Ash and glassy sand hissed at the bottom where stone had melted from the heat.

  Lucen stepped forward through the thinning smoke, the forest still hissing with the echo of his lightning. Charred trunks glowed faintly around him, casting long, skeletal shadows.

  He kicked aside a smoldering ribcage, eyes scanning for any trace of the necromancer—only to see movement at his feet.

  A severed head rolled to a stop against his boot. Its half-melted features still twitched, and its eyes—two pale coals—flickered weakly with false life.

  Lucen stared down at it for a moment, jaw tightening. The storm around him pulsed in time with his heartbeat.

  “You did all this with an undead doll?” he muttered, voice low, almost a growl. He gave the head a hard kick, sending it tumbling through the ash.

  The head’s mouth twisted into a grin, and a voice—that same voice—came from within it.

  “Of course. Why risk the real thing for a trivial errand?”

  Lucen’s eyes narrowed, lightning crawling across his arms. “Figures.” He took a step forward, his tone cutting through the smoke. “Who the hell are you?”

  The severed head lifted slightly, faint light still flickering in its hollow eyes. “I am known as Cursed Bounty.”

  Lucen froze. For the first time since he’d arrived, the storm around him faltered. His expression hardened—shock flashing behind the rage.

  “…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  The head’s lips twitched into a ghost of a grin. “Oh, you know the name, then? Good.”

  The head chuckled faintly. “Enjoy the rest of my toys, Saint.”

  The light in its eyes began to dim.

  Lucen’s jaw tightened. “Coward.”

  A low, fading laugh answered him. “Coward? No, no… pragmatic.”

  The voice was already dissolving into the air, growing faint and distorted. “You’ll understand one day, Saint of Wrath — survival is the purest form of faith.”

  Lucen’s glare burned brighter than the stormlight building around him. The moment the last echo of that mocking tone faded, his restraint snapped.

  He swung his arm wide, and lightning answered. The sky split open once more—bolts raining down like divine punishment. Every undead in sight was annihilated, their bodies scorched to nothing, their remnants etched into the stone as blackened silhouettes. The ground itself smoked, carved with trenches of molten glass.

  When it was over, Lucen stood alone, arcs of light still dancing across his shoulders. He stared into the distance—toward the heart of the capital—and muttered under his breath:

  “You better be watching, Meme. Because I’m not done yet.”

  With a single crack of thunder, he vanished again—only the scent of charred flesh in his wake.