On April 1st, Paris stood with a grave face; grief pooled like ink in his eyes. Sunken lids and near-black rings showed nights of sleepless sorrow.

“Everyone—” Paris’s voice fell like a stone. The plaza was so still a pin could sing. Ash lay over every face like cold dust.

Faith had fled them. Their eyes were hollow, as if Death had hooked out their souls, leaving husks that shuffled on.

Ten days ago, when the calamity began, Heaven’s will had already been cast. We, mortal-eyed, failed to read it—and tragedy followed.

This is Eunomia’s great disaster, a wave meant to drown us.

It shattered not just seven thousand elite soldiers, not just homes and lives; it cracked Eunomia’s foundations, shook the nation’s fate.

Every omen warned of upheaval. On March 23rd, we lost Grand Duke Ostos and Emperor Aelius, and more than a thousand brave Dike soldiers.

It was an ending written long ago—and our careless watch let it happen.

The King’s most trusted Inner Cohort turned blades on itself, even orchestrated the Sya City Incident, clawing at our roots and shaking our faith.

Such deeds are monstrous, the cruelest in our history.

Paris shouted, anger raw. His rage tugged at their embers; the crowd’s pent-up grievance flared all at once.

By Paris’s “efforts,” the evidence was scrubbed clean. Every spearpoint now aimed at the dead-and-can’t-testify Inner Cohort—Pullman, Delaia, Wald.

Even the “Brain”—Ostos himself. No one had ever seen the true head. Who but the King could fit that role? It was a front for outsiders.

Delaia ran the Sya City Incident, threatened Powell, silenced him, staged his wife’s hanging, then raised troops. Today he mutinied, stormed the Royal Capital, and reached for the throne.

That was the tale the people heard—faces swapped, shapes shifted—but the story still fit.

Delaia’s rank and reputation spoke for themselves. A man like him could steer any storm’s course.

He was there when the walls were stormed, and he walked away whole.

Segireneto knew when he arrived. After that his trail flickered; no one knew his path but him.

With Delaia’s death, the Aelius ring clenched in his fist and the bodies felled under the Erene Soldiers’ Black Spears became iron proof.

And there were corroborations piled like mountains. Someone had set the tiles neat and tight; every accusation pointed at Delaia and his lot.

Paris lowered his lashes, grief carved deep. “They framed me. I was trapped in the castle, yet I smelled the danger and moved in time.

“We fought in blood, paid with too many lives, and finally cut down the chief culprit beneath the palace.

“But… Heaven would see Eunomia perish… even the star river… took aim at His Majesty…”

His voice broke; tears fell with his words. The crowd’s anger caught the grief like a cold; sobs rose. The whole nation sank into mourning.

“But!” Paris wiped his tears. His golden pupils flashed a blade of light, bright as silver spilled from a vast star river. “Eunomia is not dead!

“As long as I breathe, no one touches her.

“Whether it’s the Southern Kingdom, Mountain Bandits, those curs of a bygone age—

“Or any wolves and tigers who want to rise amid chaos—I, Paris, sole heir of royal blood, of Ostos Ogathas the Tenth and Aelius Ogathas the Eleventh—

“I will shoulder this broken wheel of fate. One day, Eunomia’s radiance will light the continent. None will match us—”

Paris screamed until his throat tore. Grief blew away like mist. A tidal roar surged, drowning the Royal Capital, louder than seas, and carried far.