A month had passed since the death of Empress Lamaine, and the weight of the tragedies that followed hung over the empire like an unshakable shadow. Emperor Atticus, once a formidable force, had succumbed to illness shortly after Lamaine's death. Some said it was the grief that killed him, the emotional toll of losing the woman he loved coupled with the decades of bearing the weight of the empire. Regardless of the cause, his death left a void not just in the empire, but in the hearts of his sons.
Axel had just returned from the battlefield, victorious but hollow. The northern empire was embroiled in an ongoing war that required his leadership, and as a general, Axel had done what he was trained to do—win. The war was over, and his enemies had been crushed. But as he rode through the gates of the imperial palace, the familiar landscape felt foreign to him. Victory tasted bitter when the people he wanted to return to were gone.
He stepped down from his horse, covered in dirt and remnants of the battle, and walked through the palace halls in silence. Servants moved out of his way, bowing their heads in respect, but Axel barely noticed them. His mind was elsewhere. The memories of his father's stern but caring presence, the moments of strained conversation, and the burden of his crown played on a loop in his head. Emperor Atticus was gone, and now Axel had to take his place.
"The emperor is dead."
The words felt surreal, even now, a month later. Axel had been in the middle of a battlefield when the news had reached him. His sword had been raised in victory when a messenger whispered the words that would change his life. The war had ended, but for Axel, it felt like everything had been lost. He was no longer just a general—he was now the emperor of the northern empire.
He stood in the throne room, the seat that had once been his father's now empty. The weight of his new title pressed down on him like an iron mantle. It wasn't supposed to be like this. The years of preparing to lead the empire under his father's watchful eye had been nothing compared to the reality of standing alone.
Axel walked up to the throne, his fingers grazing the armrests, feeling the cool, smooth surface of the seat he now had to fill. His heart clenched. His father's shadow was everywhere, in every decision he had to make, every order he gave. But Emperor Atticus was no longer there to guide him, to challenge him, or to offer his quiet wisdom.
"You won the war," Theo's voice broke through his thoughts.
Axel turned to see his younger brother standing at the entrance of the throne room, his face pale, still haunted by their mother's death. Theo had always been the more sensitive of the two, the one who carried his emotions openly, and it showed. The loss of their parents had hit Theo hard, and despite the victory in the war, Theo's eyes reflected the same emptiness Axel felt.
"Did I?" Axel's voice was cold, detached. "I won the war, but I lost everything else."
Theo looked down, his hands clenched into fists. "Father's death—"
"It changes nothing," Axel interrupted, his tone sharper than he intended. "Father is gone, and it doesn't matter how or why. I am the emperor now. The empire needs me."
Theo stepped forward, his voice softer. "And what about you, Axel? What do you need?"
Axel looked away, his jaw tightening. He didn't have an answer to that. He had spent his entire life preparing to lead armies, to command men in battle, to serve the empire. But no one had ever prepared him for the quiet moments when all the fighting stopped, and he was left alone with his thoughts.
"I need…" he hesitated, his mind racing. What did he need? The empire needed him strong, unyielding, capable. But Axel couldn't deny the hollow ache inside him, the feeling of loss that no victory could ever fill.
He exhaled, turning back to Theo. "It doesn't matter. What I need is irrelevant. This is my duty."
Theo didn't argue, but the look in his eyes was one of sadness. "You don't have to carry this alone, you know."
Axel gave him a brief nod, but the words felt empty. Alone was all he had ever known. Alone was what it meant to be emperor.
As Theo left the room, Axel stood there for a moment longer, staring at the empty throne. His father's death marked the end of one era and the beginning of another, and though Axel had won the war, he felt as though he had lost a battle far more important. He had lost his family. His mother, his father—now it was just him and the empire.
With a deep breath, Axel sat down on the throne, the weight of the empire finally pressing down on him in full force. He stared straight ahead, his mind already racing with the decisions he had to make, the wars he had to avoid, the alliances he needed to secure. There would be no time for grief, no time to mourn. Not for the emperor.
But deep inside, Axel knew that no matter how many battles he won, no matter how strong he became as a ruler, he would never shake the feeling of having lost something far more important.
Raul entered the throne room, his presence unannounced but expected. He was one of Axel's most trusted commanders, a man known for his loyalty and efficiency. As he walked in, his expression remained stoic, but there was a subtle tension in the air. The room, thick with the weight of Axel's new responsibilities, seemed colder.
"Your Majesty," Raul greeted, bowing with respect.
Axel, seated on the throne, barely glanced at him. His face was a mask of indifference, emotions buried beneath the surface. "Raul," he acknowledged curtly, his voice devoid of warmth.
There was no need for pleasantries between them. Raul had served under Axel for years, and their bond was forged in battle and shared duty. Yet, in this moment, Axel's mind was elsewhere—preoccupied with something far darker than the empire's affairs.
Without another word, Axel rose from the throne, his steps deliberate as he made his way out of the room. Raul watched him go, not questioning where he was headed. He knew better than to pry into the emperor's personal dealings. Raul had seen the shift in Axel over the past month—the man had become more distant, colder, and more ruthless, especially since his father's death.
Axel descended into the basement of the palace, the air growing heavier with each step. The dimly lit corridor led him to a room that was far removed from the grandeur of the imperial chambers. It was a place hidden from the eyes of the court, a room where secrets were buried and vengeance was carried out.
As he entered, the stench of blood and sweat hit him, but Axel was unfazed. His eyes fell on the figure chained to the wall—Mateo, his once-proud rival, now reduced to a near-lifeless shell of a man. The former prince of Azro, who had plotted and schemed to take everything from Axel, was now nothing more than a broken body, ravaged by days of torment.
Mateo's head hung low, his face bruised and swollen from repeated beatings. His clothes were torn, stained with his own blood. Each breath he took was labored, a reminder of the pain he was enduring.
Axel stood in front of him, his gaze cold and unyielding. There was no sympathy in his eyes, only a quiet rage that had simmered for too long.
"Still breathing," Axel remarked, his voice devoid of emotion.
Mateo didn't respond. His body twitched slightly, as if trying to muster the strength to speak, but the beatings had left him too weak to even lift his head.