The city woke early that morning.

  Long before the bells of the High Temple rang the hour, streets leading toward the southern gates were already thick with bodies—citizens wrapped in cloaks, merchants standing on crates for a better view, children hoisted onto shoulders, veterans leaning on old spears they no longer carried into battle. Word had spread through taverns and markets alike: the generals were marching. The Empire would answer the green skin threat not with fear, but with steel.

  Trumpets sounded from the walls.

  Deep. Brassy. Triumphant.

  The southern road lay open, banners snapping in the wind—imperial crimson and gold, the sigils of ancient legions stitched anew for war. Columns of infantry stood in perfect formation, spearheads catching the morning sun. Cavalry units waited beyond them, horses stamping and snorting, tack gleaming, rider's rigid with discipline. Wagon trains loaded with grain, powder, and shot creaked beneath their burdens, flanked by pistoleers and engineers.

  At the center of it all stood General Bhraime Montclef.

  He wore full plate, battered and reforged, bearing the scars of a lifetime of war. His helm was tucked beneath one arm, revealing a weathered face framed by a thick mustache and streaks of grey in his hair. His eyes swept over the assembled host—not as a ruler surveying subjects, but as a commander counting the lives entrusted to him.

  Beside the mustering grounds, a raised stone dais had been erected.

  Emperor Gregor Willinghelm stood upon it, the morning light catching the gold of his crown and the dark lines beneath his eyes. Empress Cristina stood at his side, her posture impeccable, her gaze steady as she watched the soldiers assemble. Lord Protector Ernesto Montclef stood just behind them, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

  Draumbean was there as well, staff planted against the stone, eyes distant—already tracking paths that stretched far beyond the road ahead. Xavert stood a short distance away, hands clasped behind his back, bronze veil glinting faintly. Lord Chronos Chessire lingered nearby, silent, his Templar armor immaculate, eyes never still.

  A ripple of movement swept through the crowd as General Evangeline appeared.

  She rode at the head of her column, armor polished to a dull gleam, cloak bearing the sigil of her command. Her forces were smaller, leaner—scouts, intelligence officers, rapid-response infantry. Where Bhraime marched to crush, Evangeline rode to uncover.

  Cheers rose anew.

  Bhraime stepped forward.

  He mounted the dais slowly, deliberately, the clatter of his armor echoing across the square. The trumpets fell silent. The crowd hushed. Even the horses seemed to still.

  Bhraime turned.

  For a long moment, he said nothing.

  Then he spoke.

  “People of the Empire.”

  His voice carried without strain, rolling across the stone like distant thunder.

  “You stand here today not because war has come to your doorstep—though it has—but because you remember who you are.”

  Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

  “For generations,” Bhraime continued, “we have been tested. By famine. By traitors. By enemies who believed us soft, divided, finished.”

  He swept his arm toward the assembled legions.

  “They were wrong.”

  A roar answered him.

  “The green skins come now in force. Not as raiders. Not as pests to be swatted aside. They come believing this land is weak. That its people have forgotten how to stand.”

  His gaze hardened.

  “They believe wrong again.”

  Cheers erupted—raw, desperate, furious.

  “I have marched against them before,” Bhraime said. “I have seen their strength, their savagery, their hunger for destruction. I will not lie to you. This will not be an easy war. Blood will be spilled. Lives will be lost.”

  The crowd fell quiet.

  “But hear this—no village will burn unanswered. No banner will fall unavenged. No monster will claim this soil without choking on it.”

  His voice rose.

  “These legions behind me do not march for glory. They march for the farmers whose fields were trampled. For the merchants whose caravans were burned. For the children who slept last night wondering if dawn would bring fire.”

  He paused, letting the words settle.

  “We march so they do not have to wonder again.”

  The silence broke into thunderous applause.

  Bhraime lifted his helm and placed it beneath his arm once more.

  “Stand tall today,” he finished. “Stand proud. Because when we return, it will be with the south secure—or not at all.”

  The roar that followed shook the square.

  As the applause surged, quieter conversations unfolded at the edge of the dais.

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  Cristina leaned toward Gregor. “They believe in him.”

  “They must,” Gregor replied quietly. “Belief is as valuable as steel.”

  Nearby, Ernesto watched Bhraime with a complicated expression. “He always did know how to speak to soldiers.”

  “And to crowds,” Draumbean added softly. “Which makes him dangerous—and necessary.”

  Xavert’s voice cut in, low and smooth. “Heroics will not stop an army.”

  “No,” Draumbean replied, eyes never leaving the host. “But they will keep one from breaking.”

  Chronos spoke for the first time. “If the south falls, faith will fracture.”

  “And if it stands?” Xavert asked.

  Chronos did not answer.

  Below, Evangeline dismounted briefly to speak with Bhraime.

  “You will draw every eye,” she said. “Which suits my purpose.”

  Bhraime smiled thinly. “Just don’t disappear on me.”

  “No promises,” she replied, mounting again.

  The drums began to beat.

  Columns shifted. Orders rang out.

  Bhraime turned once more toward the dais.

  Gregor met his gaze and nodded.

  Bhraime nodded back.

  Then he looked to Ernesto—his brother.

  No words passed between them.

  They did not need to.

  Bhraime swung into his saddle, armor creaking, reins tightening beneath his grip.

  The southern gates opened.

  Trumpets blared.

  The legions marched.

  As Bhraime rode forward at the head of his host, he glanced once more toward the city—toward the family he left behind, toward the Empire he would bleed for.

  Then he faced south.

  And rode into war.

  The cheers aboveground never reached the lower stones.

  They faded long before the stair that led into the imperial dungeon, swallowed by layers of granite and ancient wards that drank sound as readily as they drank light. Down here, the world was narrow corridors, damp air, and the constant, patient drip of water falling from somewhere unseen. The dungeon predated the Empire itself. Kings had been crowned and buried while these halls remained unchanged, their purpose singular and unforgiving.

  A small boy descended the steps.

  He could not have been more than ten by the look of him—thin-limbed, barefoot, his clothes little more than rags stitched together from castoffs. His dark hair hung in uneven strands about his face, and his hands swung loosely at his sides as he walked. He did not hurry. He did not sneak. He walked as one might stroll through a market square, eyes half-lidded, expression placid.

  Above, banners snapped in the wind. Trumpets blared. Generals rode out beneath thunderous applause.

  Below, the boy counted steps.

  He passed iron sconces burning with pale witch-light, their flames steady and unnatural. Passed cells whose occupants either slept or pretended to. Passed stains on the stone that had never quite faded, no matter how many times they were scrubbed. He moved through it all without a flicker of interest.

  At the final checkpoint before the deepest cells, two guards stepped out to block his path.

  They were veterans—broad-shouldered men in imperial mail, faces lined by years of watching criminals rot. One carried a halberd, the other a short spear. Both frowned in confusion at the sight of a child wandering this far below.

  “Stop where you are,” the halberdier barked.

  The boy did not stop.

  He did not speed up. He did not slow. His pace remained unchanged, soft footsteps echoing faintly off the stone.

  “I said stop, child,” the guard repeated, irritation creeping into his voice as he shifted his grip.

  The boy looked up then.

  His eyes were pitch black.

  Not dark brown. Not shadowed by poor light. Black—absolute, lightless voids that reflected nothing at all.

  Before either guard could react, something unfolded behind the boy with a sound like wet leather tearing.

  Two barbed tails lashed outward in perfect symmetry, each one whipping forward faster than thought. Iron-hard tips punched straight through armor and flesh, bursting from the guards’ backs in sprays of blood. The men made no sound at all. Surprise froze their faces as life fled them.

  The tails retracted just as swiftly.

  The guards collapsed, armor clattering softly as their bodies hit the floor.

  The boy stepped over them without a glance.

  Twenty.

  That was the count so far.

  He reached the end of the corridor where a massive metal door loomed—rune-etched, reinforced, its surface scarred by centuries of failed escape attempts. A thick iron bar sealed it from the outside.

  The boy grasped the bar with one hand and slid it free with effortless ease.

  The door creaked open.

  Light spilled into the cell beyond.

  Inside, sitting cross-legged in one corner with his hands resting upon his knees, was Prince Alucarde.

  He was thinner than he had been when last seen at court, his once-fine clothing reduced to a threadbare tunic. His hair hung long and unkempt about his shoulders, his beard grown wild. Chains lay coiled on the floor nearby, unused but ever-present. He squinted as the sudden light struck his eyes, lifting one hand to shield them.

  “Who’s there?” he asked hoarsely.

  A child’s voice answered him.

  “Your salvation has arrived, Prince.”

  Alucarde froze.

  Slowly, he lowered his hand.

  The figure standing in the doorway was absurd—small, barefoot, ragged. Not a knight. Not a jailer. Not a priest come to extract a confession.

  “A child?” Alucarde murmured, disbelief warring with desperation.

  The boy smiled.

  It was not a child’s smile.

  “Well,” the boy said lightly, “that depends on whether you accept my master’s proposal.”

  Alucarde pushed himself to his feet and staggered closer to the bars, eyes never leaving the strange figure before him.

  “Who is your master?” he asked, voice tight. “Who sent you?”

  “Never mind that for now,” the boy replied, glancing over his shoulder. “Time is short. I can hear the guards already.”

  As if to punctuate his words, distant shouts echoed faintly down the stairwell.

  Alucarde stepped fully into the light, gripping the bars. “State your terms,” he said quickly. “And be done with riddles.”

  The boy’s black eyes gleamed.

  “I need you to travel with me,” he said. “To a temple far off in the northern mountains.”

  Alucarde blinked. “A temple? Why? What is there?”

  “All will be explained once we arrive.”

  “And why must I go?” Alucarde demanded. “Why me?”

  The boy tilted his head, feigning thought. Then he gestured lazily around the cell.

  “Does it matter?”

  Alucarde looked at the walls. The chains. The filth.

  The years.

  “No,” he said quietly. “I suppose it doesn’t.”

  He met the boy’s gaze. “Fine. I accept your terms. Now let me out.”

  “As you wish,” the boy said.

  He snapped his fingers.

  The door swung open.

  At that exact moment, armored boots thundered down the corridor. At least twenty guards poured into view, weapons drawn, faces contorted with fury and fear.

  “What now?” Alucarde shouted, panic surging.

  “Now,” the boy said calmly, “we leave.”

  He lifted both arms.

  The air thickened. A deep red mist seeped up from the stone floor, coiling and folding in on itself like living smoke. Symbols flared briefly within it—ancient, jagged things that made the eyes ache to follow. The mist tore open, forming a gateway that pulsed with heat and wrongness.

  The guards charged.

  The boy shoved Alucarde forward.

  The prince stumbled through the gateway just as steel whistled through the space he had occupied. The boy followed a heartbeat later, and the red mist collapsed inward with a thunderous snap, leaving only empty air and screaming men behind.

  Alucarde hit the ground hard.

  Dirt filled his mouth. Pine needles stabbed into his palms. He groaned and pushed himself upright, coughing and spitting as he took in his surroundings.

  They stood in the heart of a vast forest.

  Towering trees stretched skyward, their canopies blotting out much of the moonlight. The air was crisp, cold, scented with sap and moss. Somewhere nearby, an owl called.

  Alucarde turned in a slow circle, disbelief etched across his face.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  “Far from where we need to be,” the boy replied.

  He was already walking away, bare feet soundless against the forest floor.

  “Wait!” Alucarde called, hurrying after him. “You haven’t even told me your name.”

  The boy glanced back over his shoulder.

  “Lukle,” he said.

  And then he smiled again—just briefly—before disappearing deeper into the trees.

  The prince followed.

  Behind them, far away beneath stone and iron, alarms rang too late to matter.