Emperor Darius dreamed of snow.
It always started with snow.
Not the soft flakes that sometimes dusted the imperial rooftops, but the endless white of the far north—deep enough to swallow boots, cold enough to sting every breath.
He was young again. Not Emperor Darius, not even Crown Prince—just the emperor's second son, riding through a frozen forest behind his father, surrounded by men whose loyalty he never questioned. His older brother, Xander, had always been the heir, and Darius had been perfectly fine with that. Xander had every quality the court prized in a future emperor: restraint, discipline, patience, and the ability to smile politely at those he despised.
Darius had almost none of these traits. He preferred training grounds over council chambers, horses over banquets, and arguments with knights over lessons in diplomacy. His father often called him a disgrace to imperial etiquette, then laughed and invited him hunting anyway. The throne had never tempted him—a fact that stung all the more because Xander had murdered their father for a crown Darius never wanted. The dream shifted. A howl echoed through the trees, and Darius recalled the exact moment the forest changed.
The horses grew restless first, followed by the sudden absence of birds. The wind faded between the trees, casting an unnatural stillness over the hunting party. His father sensed it too, his hand drifting toward his sword. Then the first Frost Wolf appeared—massive and imposing.
White fur blended almost perfectly with the surrounding snow, while frost gathered around its jaws with every breath. Mana radiated from the creature strongly enough that even the younger Darius immediately recognized its level.
Master Aura Stage.
A beast that strong showing up near an imperial hunting route was already unlikely. Then a second appeared—impossible. Two Master Stage Frost Wolves hadn't just stumbled into their path; they'd been waiting. The first lunged, and chaos erupted.
Horses bolted, men shouted, snow burst under massive paws as the wolves tore through the formation. But what stuck with Darius wasn't the wolves—it was the knights. Some fought, some ran, and some just stood there, watching. That's when his father realized: this wasn't a hunt gone wrong. It was an execution.
Darius remembered drawing his weapon, his father's aura bursting through the forest, and the urgent order to run. After that, everything blurred into violent fragments—white fur, steel, snow stained red, his father's back, a knight behind him, a sudden blow.
The ravine's edge vanished under his boots, and then came the river: cold, dark, merciless. The current took him before he could even grasp what was happening. He fought until his limbs gave out, the surface fading into a distant shimmer above as the river pulled him deeper into the black. His final thought was not of the throne.
It wasn't Xander he'd seen, but his father, standing alone in the snow. Then even that image faded. Warmth replaced the icy river, and Darius awoke beneath an unfamiliar wooden roof. He'd been unconscious for three days. A young woman had found him downstream, half-frozen and badly hurt, and brought him to a hidden settlement beyond the Empire's maps.
Her name was Elyra. At first, Darius thought she was an elf—everyone there did. The pointed ears, the secluded village, and the strange magic woven into the land were convincing enough. Looking back, he wondered how he had believed it so readily. Maybe it was just because he was young.
Maybe because he'd wanted to. Elyra rarely spoke about herself. She was gentle without being timid, patient until Darius pushed her limits, and carried a quiet calm that made the prince feel childish whenever he complained about being stuck in bed. She treated his injuries. He ignored her advice. His wounds reopened. She treated them again. This went on until Darius finally had the groundbreaking idea to actually listen to her. Weeks turned into months. His body healed before his mind did. His father's death clung to him. Some nights he woke reaching for a sword. Other nights he stayed awake until dawn. Elyra never pressed him to talk, and that, more than anything, was why he eventually did. He told her about his father, the Empire, and his older brother.
From the moment they could walk, imperial children bore ridiculous expectations. One day, she asked if he meant to claim the throne. Darius had laughed—he remembered it well. Back then, the thought was absurd. He craved freedom, not an empire. Elyra had gone strangely quiet at his reply, and he hadn't understood why. But the older man reliving the memory did. Freedom.
Of all the words he might have chosen, he had unknowingly spoken the very thing Elyra herself had lost. When Darius finally returned to the Empire, he found a nation already in mourning for him. The second prince had been declared dead alongside his father. Xander had survived—conveniently. Far too conveniently. Before revealing anything, Darius began to investigate.
The more he uncovered, the uglier the pattern became: the hunting route had been changed shortly before departure, several seasoned guards reassigned, reinforcements given conflicting orders, and Frost Wolves driven from lands well beyond their usual range. Certain members of the hunting party had even received payments through intermediaries tied to the Crown Prince's faction. Every thread led back to the same man.
Xander.
The clash between the brothers was quick, but the truth lingered. Xander had planned the hunt—his father was the main target. Darius was included because leaving the second prince alive meant uncertainty. That reasoning haunted Darius more than hatred ever could. He'd never challenged Alexander, never rallied supporters, never shown interest in the throne. Still, soldiers liked him, commoners liked him, and their father trusted him. To Xander, affection was just another kind of political power. Darius was dangerous precisely because he didn't see himself that way.
They fought. The dream never bothered to keep every detail—only the ending mattered. Xander lay defeated, Darius standing over him with the chance to end it all. He hesitated. Despite his father. Despite the river. Despite the betrayal. Alexander was still his brother. Darius lowered his weapon. Xander reached for a broken blade. The hesitation ended. So did Xander.
The second prince entered the chamber seeking answers, but left as the Holy Empire's sole heir. The throne he'd spent his youth avoiding suddenly became his fate, and in what felt like a heartbeat, years had passed. Darius was Emperor. Elyra became his wife. Life settled into something unexpectedly ordinary—not truly ordinary, of course, with an imperial palace for a home and one of the continent's most powerful nations under his command—but ordinary enough that he sometimes forgot the blood that had put him there.
Their first son was born, then their second. The Emperor who could silence ministers with a look found himself powerless against two small children who cared nothing for imperial authority, much to Elyra's amusement. These were the memories Darius hated dreaming about—not because they hurt, but because they were happy, and nightmares knew happiness made the cruelty that followed sharper. Elyra became pregnant with their third child, but the pregnancy weakened her in ways the imperial physicians couldn't explain. Darius noticed; Elyra brushed it off. He believed her because he wanted to. Their third son lived. Elyra did not.
Darius remembered sitting beside her as the distant celebrations for the birth of another imperial prince faded beyond the chamber doors. Elyra had known the truth before he could face it. She made him promise to care for their sons.
He refused to speak as if she were dying, but she insisted. Eventually, he agreed. Her hand grew still in his. Darius stayed by her side long after the healers had gone. He had inherited an empire, with armies, wealth, authority, and power enough to shape millions of lives. Yet none of it could buy even one more morning. The nightmare should have ended there, but it never did.
Years later, a demon named Kala walked into his court with a truth Darius had never wanted to hear. She knew Elyra—or rather, she knew what Elyra truly was.
At first, Darius thought it was just another ploy to exploit an emperor's grief. But then Kala spoke of things no stranger could possibly know: details about Elyra, the hidden settlement, and abilities she had kept secret even from her husband. And then came the revelation that shattered everything—Elyra had never been an elf. The pointed ears, the reclusive people, the strange magic—they'd led Darius to an easy assumption, one Elyra had simply never denied. Her real nature was tied to something far older, something spoken of more often in holy texts than in history books.
An angel.
Even in the nightmare, Darius couldn't shake his disbelief. Then came the second revelation—Elyra hadn't come to the mortal world by choice. She'd been exiled, cast out by her own kind.
Kala either didn't know or wouldn't share the details, but from that moment, old memories soured with new meaning: Elyra's silence about her past, her uncanny knowledge, the way she gazed at the night sky, her reaction when he'd spoken of freedom. What once seemed like quirks became shards of a hidden history. The nightmare wove those shards together. The village vanished. The palace vanished.
Darius stood alone beneath a black, empty sky. Elyra waited far off, just as she'd been when they met—young, quiet, alive. He stepped toward her; she drifted farther away. Behind her, six enormous wings unfurled, stretching across the darkness until there was nothing else. He tried to reach her, but the dream kept the distance. Feathers began to fall—one, then another—white against the dark, like snow. For a heartbeat, Darius was young again, in the northern forest.
Snow crunched under his boots. His father lingered somewhere behind, Elyra somewhere ahead—two people he had loved, two he had failed to keep. The visions blurred; snow turned to feathers, feathers to ash, and Elyra vanished behind six wings that weren't hers. Beyond her stood a shadowed figure, watching.
Then he awoke. Mana pulsed through the imperial bedchamber, splintering the bedframe and whipping the curtains toward the windows. Darius sat upright, hand clenched around an absent weapon. For a moment, the Emperor didn't know where he was. Then it came back—the palace, the dark, the familiar shapes, the empty space beside him. Years had passed. His father was still gone. Xander was gone. Elyra was gone. Time didn't matter to memory. He rose, gazing out at the sleeping capital, the moon hanging over the Empire. Kala's revelation had once left him with many questions—most now meaningless. One remained: Elyra had hidden who she was, and where she came from—things he could forgive. But exile was never without reason. Someone had cast her out, condemning an angel to live among mortals. And he still didn't know why. That—not her nature, not her lies—was what haunted him. Whatever had driven her from her world might still be out there. He kept staring at the moon.
What could Elyra have done to warrant exile? Or, as Darius was starting to suspect more and more—what had she uncovered?