Prologue: The Shadow of the Altar
The Capital was a labyrinth of whispers and closed doors. As the Grand Commander of the Imperial Knights, the highest-ranking warrior in the land, Killian held the only authority left in a crumbling world. The Emperor was dead and with the throne standing empty, the Temple had seized control of the Empire's soul.
Killian moved through the city like a man hunted. He had spent weeks using his rank to dig through the secret archives, gathering evidence to prove Seraphine's innocence. In his satchel lay the truth: intercepted letters revealing that the "Astra Ledger" was a forgery created by the High Priest.
Just a few more hours, Killian thought, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. I just need to find her.
Killian used his master key to infiltrate the High Security Dungeon where Seraphina was officially being held. He moved through the shadows, neutralizing guards with silent precision, until he reached the deepest cell—the one labeled with the Astra crest.
He threw open the door, his heart hammering. "Duchess Astra, I'm here! I have the—"
He stopped. The cell was empty. No scent of life, no sign of a prisoner. A cold, jagged dread settled in his gut. They weren't keeping her in an Imperial prison; they had hidden her in a place where the law could not reach.
Killian knew he was now a traitor in the eyes of the Temple. Like a madman, he sent coded letters to his most loyal subordinates—knights who had bled with him on the northern borders.
Search every altar. Tear down every curtain. Find the Duchess.
For three days, the Grand Commander led a rogue faction of knights, storming through holy sites with a fury that bordered on sacrilege. He didn't sleep; he didn't eat. He was a wolf hunting for his lost star.
Finally, in the bowels of a nameless, forgotten Temple on the outskirts of the city, he broke through a final stone wall.
Killian froze. The air in the lightless hole was thick with the scent of iron and rot.
He fell to his knees in the filth, his golden armor clattering against the stone. In front of him lay a woman who was almost unrecognizable. Her emerald gown, once a symbol of her status, was a shredded rag soaked in dark, dried blood. Her skin was a ghostly, translucent grey, mapped with the horrific marks of weeks of intense torture.
"Seraphina..." his voice broke, a strangled, weeping sound.
She was clinging to the very last thread of life. At the sound of his voice, her head lulled back. Those famous emerald eyes—the ones he had dreamed of since he was a boy in the slums—slowly opened. She looked at him, and for a heartbeat, there was a flicker of recognition, a final spark of the woman who had once given a nameless orphan a piece of bread.
Then, as he reached out to touch her face, the spark vanished. Her eyes grew dim, the vibrant green fading into a hollow, sightless glass. Her hand, which had been twitching against the stone, went limp.
"No," Killian gasped, pulling her broken body against his chest, his screams echoing through the hollow temple. "No! Stay with me! I found you! Seraphine!"
Killian carried her cold body out into the light, but the world he emerged into was already dead. He didn't know that Alaric had already fallen on his own sword in the meadow where Evelina hung from a tree.
Outnumbered and broken, Killian stood over Seraphine's body as the Temple's Inquisitors closed in. He fought until his sword snapped, until his lungs gave out, and until the darkness finally took him too.
But in that final moment, as the axe of the Temple descended upon him, a silent, furious vow rippled through the fabric of time.
If there is a second chance... I will burn the heavens themselves to keep her alive.
The axe fell.
And then, there was only a blinding, white light.