Steel rang against steel beneath a winter sun, bright enough to sting the eyes and cold enough to make breath smoke in the air like incense.
Prince Albrecht Von Holtzen did not complain.
He was nine years old, and his arms shook with the effort of holding his stance, yet he refused to let his shoulders sag. His feet were planted in the trampled frost of the training yard, boots biting into the packed earth. He wore a padded gambeson beneath a short cloak stamped with Holtzen's crest, and his blond hair—lighter than the Emperor of Almeric's molten gold, more like wheat under sun—was damp with sweat despite the chill.
"Again," the instructor barked.
Albrecht drew his practice blade back, breath hissing between clenched teeth, and lunged.
The older man parried easily, his wooden sword snapping Albrecht's aside and rapping the prince's knuckles in the same motion. Pain blossomed sharp and hot. Albrecht's fingers spasmed around the hilt.
He did not drop it.
His jaw tightened. His eyes—storm-gray and stubborn—did not blink away tears. He forced his grip to steady, forced his breathing to slow.
Around the yard, banners snapped in the breeze. Soldiers watched with mild amusement, some with approval. A few clergy in white tabards marked with Valion's symbol stood near the edge of the yard, their hands folded, their gazes measuring.
Holtzen was a kingdom that adored heroes.
It carved them into its religion, canonized them into its mythology, and taught its children from the cradle that greatness was not a gift, but an expectation.
Albrecht had been born into that expectation like a chain around his throat.
"Your Highness," the instructor said, and though he bowed his head in respect, there was nothing gentle in his tone. "You're slowing."
"I'm not," Albrecht snapped, and lunged again.
This time he overextended, his small body throwing everything into the strike. The instructor's parry sent the practice blade flying from Albrecht's hands. It skidded across the frost and stopped near the boots of one of the priests.
Silence fell, thick and humiliating.
Albrecht stood empty-handed, chest heaving, fingers curled as if still gripping what he had lost. His cheeks flushed—not with cold, but with fury.
The priest stooped and picked up the blade. He turned it in his hands as though it were something sacred, then stepped closer and offered it back hilt-first.
"Heroes are not made by clean victories," the priest said softly. His voice carried the smooth certainty of doctrine. "They are made by what they endure."
Albrecht took the blade, hands trembling. "I can endure," he muttered.
The priest's eyes, pale and keen, lingered on Albrecht's face. "You will," he replied, and there was a strange weight behind the simple words, as if he spoke them as prophecy rather than reassurance.
Albrecht stared up at him. "What do you mean?"
The priest's mouth curved faintly. "A great shadow is said to rise," he murmured, voice lowered so that only the prince could hear. "A Demon King. A calamity. The world will beg for a blade bright enough to cut through it."
Albrecht's fingers tightened on the hilt. "When?"
The priest glanced toward the sky, where sunlight burned white through thin cloud. "Sixteen years," he said, as calmly as if reciting a date of harvest. "That is what the old records whisper. Sixteen years until the world's hinge turns."
Albrecht swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. Sixteen years felt like forever. Sixteen years felt like nothing at all.
The instructor cleared his throat, impatient. "Again, Your Highness."
Albrecht lifted the practice blade.
His arms still shook. His knuckles still stung. But beneath the pain, something else flickered—an iron determination that did not belong to a child. He set his feet, squared his shoulders, and stared at his opponent as though the man were not an instructor but the first obstacle in a long chain.
Again.
The wooden swords clashed.
Again.
Albrecht's breath burned in his lungs, and the thought of sixteen years lodged itself in him like a splinter he could not pull free.
Again.
And somewhere in another land, in another palace, another child lay beneath painted constellations, small fingers curled around a ceremonial token—unaware that a ticking clock had just been spoken aloud in a different kingdom's training yard.
In Almeric, the palace moved with the slow, controlled grace of something that believed itself eternal.
The morning was pale, the sun filtered through winter haze, and the capital beyond the palace walls murmured with life: wagons creaking over cobbles, merchants calling from stalls, distant bells marking the rhythm of work. Inside the Imperial Citadel, servants glided along corridors, their heads bowed, their hands full. Guards stood like statues in white-and-gold armor, their eyes sharp, their posture unyielding.
And at the heart of it, the Emperor convened.
The chamber was not the public throne room, but the Hall of Petitions—still grand, still gilded, still designed to remind any visitor that they spoke beneath the weight of empire. Tall pillars flanked the central dais. A long table of dark wood stretched below it, surrounded by carved chairs where ministers and nobles might sit during deliberations. Behind the dais hung twin banners: Lune's crescent, Aurora's sunburst, embroidered so finely the thread seemed to catch light like liquid metal.
Asimi stood near the side of the hall, Alaric held close against her shoulder. The prince was bundled warmly, his tiny face visible above the folds of cloth. His eyes were open, watching, and though his body could not understand politics, the mind inside him drank in the tension like a man thirsting after a long walk.
Gina Othel remained behind Asimi, positioned subtly between mother and the flow of the room. She wore her black maid uniform, hands folded neatly, expression blank in the way competent servants perfected. Yet her amber gaze missed nothing.
Emperor Tuare sat at the dais, upright and still, his golden hair gleaming faintly even in the dimmer light of the hall. His expression was calm, almost severe—law made flesh.
Below him stood several figures of authority: a minister of coin with ink-stained fingers, a stern magistrate in dark robes, and—nearest the Emperor—two of the great nobles who had remained in the capital after the announcement rite. Duchess Herith Regnium sat with composed elegance, eyes thoughtful. Duke Reginald Othel stood like a wall, arms at his sides, presence steady.
The atmosphere was controlled. Quiet.
Then the doors opened.
A herald's voice rang out. "A messenger from the Kingdom of Holtzen."
The man who entered wore travel-stained garments beneath a cloak bearing Holtzen's colors. His boots were scuffed with road dust. His jaw was tight, as though he had rehearsed arrogance to hide fear. Two guards escorted him, though he walked with the stiff pride of someone who believed himself protected by the power of the message he carried.
He stopped in the center of the hall and bowed—barely, and only because protocol demanded it.
"Emperor Tuare Wulfric Ecthellion," the messenger said, voice ringing with rehearsed formality. "I bring word from King and Council of Holtzen."
Tuare's gaze did not shift, yet the room felt as though it had narrowed around the messenger. "Speak," the Emperor said.
The messenger drew a sealed letter from within his cloak. The wax was stamped with Holtzen's crest, and beneath it was an additional mark—an ecclesiastical sigil that made Alaric's mind stir: Valion's longsword emblem, familiar from the Axium Church's iconography. Yet as the messenger lifted the letter, his posture carried something that was more than religious certainty.
It was threat.
He stepped forward to present it. A palace guard took it from his hand with careful neutrality and carried it up to the dais. Tuare broke the seal without ceremony and unfolded the parchment.
For a long moment, he read in silence.
The hall waited.
Alaric watched his father's face, searching for any flicker of emotion. Tuare did not give it. He could have been reading a trade ledger for all the expression he showed.
Finally, he lowered the letter.
"Your king demands," Tuare said, voice even, "that the Almeric Empire banish worship of Lune and Aurora."
The words fell like a stone into still water. Ripples of reaction moved through those gathered: a sharp inhale from a minister, a tightening of shoulders, the faint rustle of cloth as someone shifted in their seat.
Asimi's arms tightened around Alaric, just slightly.
Tuare continued, each word measured. "He further demands that the Gadreonic Faith be instituted in its place."
Duchess Herith's eyes narrowed thoughtfully, as though already calculating the political reasoning behind such a demand. Duke Reginald's jaw hardened.
"And," Tuare said, gaze lifting to the messenger, "he threatens invasion should we refuse."
The messenger's chin lifted, as if pleased to hear the ultimatum spoken aloud. "Holtzen does not make empty demands," he said. "The Axium Church and Holtzen's council stand united. And—" He allowed himself the smallest smile. "The Dwarven Kingdom of Hammerdeep stands ready to join us as ally."
Alaric's mind snagged on the absurdity of it for half a heartbeat. Holtzen—a kingdom that welcomed all races—threatening holy war against an empire for its faith. Hammerdeep—pragmatic dwarves—aligning for invasion on religious grounds.
But in politics, religion was often a banner more than a belief.
A pretext. A blade given a holy name.
Tuare's voice remained calm. "Does Holtzen believe itself strong enough to dictate another sovereign nation's worship?"
The messenger's eyes glittered. "Holtzen believes heresy invites calamity," he replied. "Your Imperial Faith is an affront. Valion the Just does not tolerate false goddesses."
Tuare's gaze sharpened imperceptibly. "And yet Holtzen demands the Gadreonic pantheon—six deities—rather than Valion alone."
The messenger hesitated, the slightest stumble. Then he recovered. "The Gadreonic Faith includes Valion," he said stiffly. "It is the proper compromise for lesser peoples. A path to lawful worship."
A compromise that still erased Lune and Aurora.
Asimi's expression remained serene, but Alaric could feel her tension like a taut wire.
Tuare leaned forward slightly, and the room seemed to lean with him.
"Tell your king," Tuare said, "that the Almeric Empire is vast."
The messenger blinked, clearly not expecting that angle.
"Our cities stretch from the northern marches to the southern academies," Tuare continued, voice steady. "Our villages dot the plains and the coasts. Our people are of many races and many tongues. To change the worship of an empire is not the work of a week, nor a month."
The messenger's mouth tightened. "Then you refuse."
"I have not said that," Tuare replied, and his calmness was suddenly more dangerous than anger. "I am telling you what is lawful, what is practical, what is true."
He lifted the letter slightly, as though it were not a threat but a petition to be processed.
"If Holtzen's demand is conversion," Tuare said, "then Holtzen must accept the timeline such conversion requires. Edicts must be written. Temples must be built. Priests must be trained. Populations must be instructed. Records must be updated. Tax structures tied to existing faith institutions must be revised."
The minister of coin shifted, eyes widening as if already imagining the bureaucratic nightmare.
Tuare's gaze remained fixed on the messenger. "I will not pretend that such a transformation can be accomplished instantly. I will not lie to my people with a decree that cannot be enacted. That would be unlawful."
The messenger's brows furrowed. "So you stall."
"I proceed," Tuare corrected. "Methodically."
Duchess Herith's lips curved faintly, as though she appreciated the elegance of it. Duke Reginald looked almost relieved—stalling meant time. Time meant preparation.
The messenger's voice sharpened. "Holtzen will not wait forever."
"No," Tuare agreed. "Nor would I ask you to. But Holtzen will wait long enough for a lawful transition, or Holtzen will expose itself as what it truly is: not a protector of faith, but an aggressor seeking dominion."
The accusation hung in the air like a drawn sword.
The messenger's face flushed. "You—"
Tuare lifted one hand, and silence fell as though the gesture carried weight beyond mere authority.
"Here is my answer," the Emperor said. "I will convene an Imperial Synod. I will appoint officials to oversee conversion policies. I will begin the process of restructuring state faith institutions."
Asimi's fingers tightened around Alaric again, almost imperceptibly. Her gaze flicked to Tuare—controlled, searching. Alaric could not see his father's private thoughts, but he could guess at the strategy taking shape.
Promise compliance.
Buy time.
Use time to prepare for war—or to fracture the alliance threatening it.
The messenger's eyes narrowed. "And during this 'process,' the worship of Lune and Aurora will cease?"
Tuare's expression did not change. "During this process," he said, "the Empire will maintain order. No riots. No unlawful persecution. No sudden burning of temples that would destabilize the realm. Transition will be… managed."
It was a masterful answer because it was technically responsive and yet refused the most dangerous part of the demand: immediate suppression.
The messenger looked unsettled, as though realizing he had come expecting either defiance or surrender, and instead had been given a net of law he could not easily cut.
He bowed stiffly. "I will carry your words to Holtzen."
Tuare inclined his head once. "Do so. And tell your king this as well—"
The Emperor's voice deepened slightly, carrying the weight of doctrine.
"The strong must protect the weak," Tuare said. "If Holtzen chooses to march armies against civilians under the banner of faith, Holtzen will be the one standing against justice."
The messenger's jaw tightened. "Valion will judge you."
Tuare's gaze remained unwavering. "Let him," the Emperor replied.
The messenger turned and was escorted out, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. When the doors closed, the hall exhaled in a wave of murmurs.
Asimi did not move. Her face remained composed, but her eyes had darkened with thought.
Duchess Herith spoke first, voice calm and analytical. "A stall buys time," she said. "But Holtzen's demand is not made in good faith."
"It is made in power," Duke Reginald replied bluntly. "They want to see if we bend."
Tuare leaned back slightly, fingers steepled. "Then we do not bend," he said. "We reposition."
Alaric's gaze drifted to his father's face. There was no panic there. No surprise. Only the quiet readiness of a man who had survived a succession war between siblings and come out the last living son.
A man who understood that threats were invitations to prepare.
Asimi stepped forward, voice soft. "You will not truly banish Lune and Aurora," she said—not as question, but as statement.
Tuare's gaze flicked to her, and something gentler surfaced beneath the legal stone. "No," he said quietly. "Not while I live."
Alaric felt something inside him loosen—only slightly. Not safety. Not comfort. But certainty. The Emperor was not a man who surrendered his faith because another king demanded it.
Then Tuare's gaze shifted to Alaric, still cradled in Asimi's arms.
For a heartbeat, father and son—man of law and infant of hidden systems—held each other in silence.
Alaric could not speak. Could not warn him about prophecies whispered in foreign yards. Could not tell him that somewhere, a nine-year-old prince in Holtzen was training beneath a doctrine of heroes and clocks.
But the notion of "sixteen years" clung to Alaric's mind now like frost to stone.
Sixteen years until something rose.
Sixteen years until the world's hinge turned.
And here, in this hall, the first gears of that turning had begun to grind.
Tuare's voice cut through the murmurs. "Summon the ministers," he ordered calmly. "Draft the synod announcement. Begin preparations along the western routes. Increase patrols near Julian and the highway."
His gaze sharpened. "And quietly request updated reports from Elderkeep. If Holtzen intends to march, it will not march blind."
Duke Reginald inclined his head. "As you command, Your Majesty."
Duchess Herith's eyes gleamed. "I will have my analysts review the political factions in Holtzen and Hammerdeep," she said. "All alliances have seams."
Tuare nodded once.
Asimi turned slightly, beginning to withdraw with Alaric, her posture still perfect. Yet Alaric could feel her heartbeat—steady, controlled, but quicker again.
As they moved toward the corridor, Alaric's gaze drifted back over the hall one last time.
Banners of sun and moon hung in silent defiance.
Ministers murmured like a hive disturbed.
And at the center of it all, Emperor Tuare Wulfric Ecthellion sat like a blade laid across a map, already planning where the next cut would fall.
In Alaric's cradle-mind, the number sixteen ticked like a distant bell.
Not loud enough to frighten a palace.
But loud enough to shape a future.