The gates of Zathora groaned open.
Lancer rode through first.
Each footfall of his winged mount sent tremors rippling through the stone streets, the sheer weight of the beast announcing his return long before the banners came into view.
The creature resembled a griffin in shape, but its tail trailed wisps of black flame that licked the air behind it, leaving a faint scorch wherever it passed.
Behind him followed his escorts—each mounted on a wyvern of their own. Less fantastical than their king's mount, yet no less terrifying. They carried long poles with crimson flags snapping in the wind, the emblem emblazoned upon them unmistakable.
A dragon.
Then came the army of casters.
They marched in tight battalions, staffs and sigils at their sides, their synchronized steps so precise that their footfalls were no louder than the beating wings of the beast Lancer rode. The whole scene screamed one word. Discipline.
Inside the capital city's walls, the returning army was met not with silence—but with a sea of people.
The moment Lancer's mount threw back its head and released a roar that split the sky, the people answered.
The crowd erupted.
Thousands upon thousands of voices rose in unison, their roar swallowing the beast's own, drowning the sky in sound. Cheers, laughter, triumphant screams—jubilation unrestrained.
Lancer's expression remained stern.
Yet he raised one hand.
Silence fell—if only for a heartbeat.
He waved.
The city exploded.
"Lancer! Lancer!"
"Long live the Human Kingdom!"
"Long live Lancer!"
"Those rebellious bastards in the east never stood a chance!"
"Bahahaha! Trying to overthrow the crown!?"
"They should have known better!"
The excitement reached a fever pitch, even as Lancer rode past them, deeper into the city, his mount's wings folding as the streets narrowed.
Melroy urged his wyvern forward, striking its side to quicken its pace. He slowed only when he drew level with his king.
"My Lord," Melroy bowed from his saddle.
"Melroy." Lancer nodded, eyes forward.
"The people are pleased with our victory."
"They know nothing," Lancer replied curtly, not even glancing at him.
Melroy hesitated, then continued. "I know Draven was a close friend. Killing him could not have been easy. But it was important that the act was carried out."
Lancer snorted. "You don't need to remind me of my duties, Melroy."
"Then, if I may suggest something, my lord…"
"You may."
Melroy inhaled before speaking. His eyes flashed with something barely concealed—something sharp, eager. "May I suggest displaying the traitors' heads to the public? It would do a great deal for the people's morale."
Lancer finally turned to look at him.
He did not do so sharply. His expression remained almost unbothered.
But Melroy had spent decades at his liege's side.
The simple glance told him everything he needed to know.
Lancer was far from pleased.
And yet—that was precisely why Melroy had suggested it.
Because he knew Lancer couldn't outright refuse him without proper reason.
Reason he just didn't have.
He wanted Draven Blackthorne—the former Warden of the East—and his wife, the great caster Vivian, displayed for all to see. Heads mounted high for all to see. A spectacle for the masses.
It was despicable.
But to the general populace?
It was brilliant.
The people loved blood and theatre. This was what the Human Kingdom thrived on.
Entertainment.
It took a long moment before Lancer finally looked away.
"Do as you please."
"Thank you, my lord."
Melroy slowed his mount and peeled away, already barking orders to his trusted aides. A grin crept across his face as he rode on.
...
Aurora had been sobbing for so long that her tear glands should have been dry by now.
Why?
The question hurt more than anything else.
Why?
She had been attending class—just another ordinary day at the academy—when she was dragged out without explanation.
Unwelcome hands handling her with rough and tight grips. With no courtesy for her dignity whatsoever. She had been handled like a common whore in front of her peers.
The same peers who once admired her talent now stared in confusion.
Then the truth spread.
Not just a simple rumour.
But a fact.
Her entire family had been slaughtered.
Not a single soul left alive.
Confusion turned to disdain, and then disgust.
She couldn't understand it.
Her father was many things—but everything he was, was rooted in honour. He would never. Never become a traitor!
So it had to be false.
It had to.
Yet the narrative spreading through the city was clear: Draven Blackthorne and his house had plotted a coup. The king had responded, and justice had been served.
Now the army had returned.
Aurora had been pulled out of the academy, dragged into the capital, thrown into a cold filthy dungeon within the castle. She had been held there since yesterday with no food and no water.
But that hardly mattered.
Even if they had offered her nourishment, she would not have taken it.
Tok. Tok.
A knock came at the beaten down metal door—perfunctory but meaningless. Whoever stood outside did not wait for permission.
Apparently, decency no longer applied to her.
Two towering casters in armour entered the room.
"Lady Aurora Blackthorne," one intoned. "The king has summoned you for trial. You are suspected of colluding with your family, the Blackthorne House, to stage a coup. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do may and will be used against you."
Chains clinked.
Aurora's swollen eyes trembled.
"No. No—!"
She resisted as they tried to shackle her limbs. The whole ordeal was ugly. Embarrassing. The men made no effort to be gentle. Whether through cruelty or orders, she didn't know.
She kicked. Thrashed. Fought with everything her small body could muster.
It only made things worse.
Until—
"Calm yourselves."
The voice was calm and absolute.
An old woman stepped through the doorway, clad in white robes, and her presence otherworldly, suffocating.
The casters froze.
"Y-Yes, Lady Giselle!" they shouted in unison, retreating instantly.
Giselle approached Aurora.
Aurora was shaking violently now, her breaths coming in ragged gasps, tears streaming freely down her cheeks to her small chin. Her strength gave out. She collapsed to the floor, the chains that the casters had somewhat managed to put on her wrists clattering loudly against stone.
Her gaze dropped.
Her eyes were hazy, and lifeless.
She hadn't changed her uniform since yesterday. Not like she could. It was dishevelled from the struggle, torn at the back, revealing pale skin beneath the fabric.
Giselle took all of that in with a slight frown on her face, and, she hesitated.
Only for a moment.
What a pitiful child... She sighed, and then she steeled her heart. This needed to be done.
Duty outweighed whatever sentiment she was feeling.
She stepped closer as the casters stepped away. "Aurora dear, I know this has been difficult for you. But please, cooperate. I promise this will be over soon, and you can return to the academy."
Aurora did not respond. Even if that was true, what reason would she have to return.
"If you resist," Giselle continued gently, "it will only become ugly."
Silence.
Giselle sighed again, stepped back, and gestured for them to proceed..
The casters moved again.
This time, Aurora did not fight.
Her wrists and ankles were chained, and she was pulled into the dark corridors, more guards waiting to escort her. Giselle led them through the dungeon halls in silence as people looked on curiously. Some looked away. Others watched with pity.
Aurora noticed none of it.
Her world was collapsing.
Eventually, they stopped.
Before a pair of massive double doors.
Familiar doors.
The same ones she had once passed through to receive awards and praise from the king for her outstanding brilliance in the academy.
From Lancer.
Now that same 'king' had executed her family.
Her father.
His friend.
And now—he would judge her.
How ironic.
The doors creaked open.
A voice announced their arrival.
Giselle entered first, courtiers bowing as she took her place beside the royal family. Aurora was beckoned forward by a strong hand.
She stumbled forward awkwardly, making no effort to catch herself.
The chains rattled loudly as she fell to her knees upon the polished floor.
She did not look up.