Paris stood beneath the palace and looked up at the stone that held too many of his memories, its terraces like layered waves under a cold moon. Ostos had raised those halls long ago and, in idle hours, would take the young him and Elyu to play among cypress shade and echoing corridors.
He’d often joke that once he abdicated, he’d die here—stubborn as an old pine rooted in palace rock. Now, he’d gotten his wish. Whether he felt joy or regret, Paris would never know. That answer lay buried like a sealed tomb.
“Ring the bell. Stick to the plan.” His voice was a flat lake at dusk. He turned away without a ripple.
Heads nodded. This was the “god” they’d chosen to follow—cold light, steady flame. The crowd scattered like ants under rain, laying out corpses and “evidence” with crisp hands; with a royal regiment’s help, their speed was a drawn bowstring.
THOOM—BOOOOM— The whole royal city shuddered, as if a wrathful deity stomped across its spine.
Sleep snapped like brittle ice. The bell answered with terror in its iron throat.
Dong—dong— The ancient, bright toll rolled over the island of the Royal Capital, a mountain-temple bell that hadn’t rung in thirty-five years.
Back then, the Eastern Nation churned in its fiercest storm—the Royal Capital Blood War.
The elders never forgot that sky. Hippo’s single shot shattered the former Erene Commander’s “loyalty,” and opened the gates for Ostos to charge like a river in flood, cutting down the Fool-King Osnath before the throne.
And now…
People stared toward the rear of the Royal Capital, where flames speared the heavens like burning spears. A bad premonition rose like black mist in their chests.
As if answering that dread, a rain of fire fell from the sky, beating on tall buildings around the palace like molten drums.
Thud-thud-thud— Bang— Aaaah— The earth trembled; houses broke and folded like wet paper; screams scattered like flocking birds. Fear spread across the city like a tide at spring flood.
Beeo—KRAK-THOOM! With a single colossal crash, the main hall of the palace—symbol of the Eastern Nation—took a boulder to its heart. Fire ran like a red river down its bones.
Stacks of important papers—recent tracks and analyses on Paris—went up like dry leaves, ash rushing into night.
When the timing felt right, Paris tore his golden robe like split sunlight and hurled himself against a stone pillar. Then, with a few burly men and hundreds from the Erene Guard, he staggered out of the palace, supported like a wounded stag.
…
March 25th would brand itself into the Eastern Nation’s memory, a date like a scar.
Last night’s event was fermenting. Fear and wailing seeped through every alley of the Royal Capital.
“How could this happen?”
“No—Grand Duke Ostos, Emperor Aelius—”
Countless people cried until their throats were gravel. Paris’s head was swathed in thick gauze; his face wore grief and anger like storm clouds.
The Palace of Pleasures where Ostos had stayed was rubble. Under the eyes of nobles and commoners, the Erene Guard turned out three bodies of shattered bone.
Flesh had evaporated like mist under sun; bones were splintered; charred remains hid in rubble like blackened roots. Nearly a thousand people worked for hours, piecing together those broken frames with trembling hands.
From the ruins, Paris found a crown almost melted into golden syrup and the ring Ostos always carried, a last spark in ash.
The rest had evaporated so cleanly not even a shard remained. Nearly fifty people in that palace—none survived.
Velledo arrived slick with sweat, already braced for this view. She went straight to Paris and murmured in his ear like a quiet knife. Paris signaled it was fine, then threw a concealed glance. Velledo understood, took two hard men, and slipped away on quick feet.
In grief that dense and chaos that loud, almost no one saw them go. All eyes were filled by the three blackened skeletons.
It had to be the ones Paris named: the old butler, Ostos, and Elyu.
Venus and Penero, for their own reasons, hadn’t been in the palace and survived like leaves spared by fire.
March 26th, the news rippled across the island of the Royal Capital. The whole city flinched, like a horse smelling smoke.
March 30th, swarms of prepared messenger pigeons scattered the word across the continent like a gray storm.
Medith had her horse and gear ready. She saw the scattered flyers and lowered her gaze like a shutter, grief weighing it down. “Abort the mission. The Eastern Nation’s finished.”
People clutched walls as if the stone could keep them upright. The sentence “the Eastern Nation will fall” had been spoken for decades; when it truly arrived, who could believe the sky had finally cracked?
Medith sat her warhorse and looked far, pain and turmoil braided in her eyes. In that misted view, old grand streets seemed to bloom back around her—lanterns, banners, laughter. But she knew the ones who ruled them would never return to that brave, unguarded largeness.
…
In Xurenxus City, the Queen held a palm-sized envelope that trembled like a leaf. Trade lines had just opened, ties had only just set—and now this.
…
Talant rode without rest to a point still half a month from the Eastern Nation. When letters rained from the sky and slapped her beautiful face like wet petals, she broke. She knelt and wailed, a cry so chilling it stirred heaven and earth, shaking the souls of all things.
…
Paris grabbed the crown they’d rushed to finish these past days, and walked toward the high dais where Ostos had once proclaimed Elyu’s succession. Everything spun from that pivot. Standing on that wheel of fate, what sight would it give him?
Blood? Sin? Or joy—the world he’d chased like a star?
Only he knew.
