The Great Hall of the Aetheris Imperial Palace stood as the beating heart of the Empire—a vast expanse of marble and gold where sunlight fractured through crystal domes, casting shimmering constellations across polished floors. Banners bearing the crests of noble houses—emerald wolves, silver suns, crimson serpents—hung in silent testament to centuries of power.
Today, the air thrummed with warmth. The announcement of the Aetheris Imperial Academy's opening had gathered the great families of the Empire beneath one roof. Here, alliances would be whispered into being, rivalries rekindled beneath veiled smiles, and the future of Aetheris would be quietly shaped behind silk-draped conversations.
Silver trays floated through the crowd, laden with spiced wine and honeyed fruits. Laughter chimed like distant bells. The future of the Empire was bright.
"The Solenvyre twins will attend this year," remarked the Duchess of Varyn, tapping her fan lightly against her chin. "Both prodigies, if the rumors hold."
"And the Morrigan heir—barely fourteen," a viscount added with a languid smile. "But sharp as a blade, they say."
"A new generation," murmured another voice, half-lulled by wine. "One that will see Aetheris flourish."
The Imperial Court was at ease, their worries tucked behind velvet smiles. Even the Imperial Princess—Selene Everchosen—dark-haired and bright-eyed—moved among the nobles, her laughter soft and unguarded. Beside her, the Imperial Prince—Kaelen Everchosen stood like a golden statue, his smile practiced but distant.
Hope hung thick in the air.
But hope was always the easiest thing to break.
It began as a ripple.
"What of the Duskthrone heir?"
The voice carried sharper than the others—too bold, too careless.
Heads turned. The warmth in the hall seemed to falter, bleeding out into something colder.
Lord Caine of House Merival leaned lazily against a marble pillar, eyes bright with wine and mischief. The name had slipped from his lips with the ease of one who did not know its weight—yet the silence it left behind carved through the room like a blade.
No one answered.
It was the name no one dared to speak.
The Duskthrone Dukedom—the House of Night.
A power on par with the royal family itself.
A bloodline older than the Empire.
A family that had rewritten the laws of reality... and left behind legends carved in fear.
"They say he's the only heir," Lord Caine pressed, his smirk widening. "Surely they'll send him to the Academy? Or do they plan to keep their little wraith locked behind black walls forever?"
Someone laughed—short, brittle.
But the laughter died quickly.
"No one's seen him."
"They say he doesn't exist."
"They say he's inherited the Eidolic Curse."
"Worse... they say he's something new."
The whispers gathered, curling between velvet folds and gold-gilded masks.
Even the nobles of Aetheris—creatures steeped in power—did not speak lightly of the Duskthrone bloodline. They had seen what that family could do. They had watched cities erased from maps, names burned from the mouths of the living.
And now there was a child—an heir—hidden behind black gates.
A thing wrapped in silence and secrets.
By the dais, Princess Selene's smile had faded. Her dark eyes flicked toward her brother, seeking some unspoken answer.
Prince Kaelen's amber gaze remained fixed on his glass, the faintest curve lingering at the corner of his mouth.
"Every generation births a monster," he murmured—so soft only those closest to him could hear.
"Perhaps this time... the gods have made something worse."
The lights flickered.
Just once.
Barely enough to be noticed.
But when they flared back to life—he was there.
A figure stood at the heart of the court.
No one had seen him enter.
No footsteps had marked his arrival.
He simply... was.
Silver hair swept back from a weathered face. Eyes pale as winter. His black cloak hung heavy, the edges embroidered with red so deep it seemed to bleed into the shadows.
At first, the gathered nobles did not know him.
But the oldest among them—the ones who had fought in the wars—grew pale.
It was not the first time Lucian Duskthrone had walked these halls.
It had simply been long enough for the Empire to forget.
Lucian's footsteps echoed as he approached the dais. The guards did not move. Perhaps they could not.
He stopped before the Emperor—close enough that lesser men would have been struck down for the insult.
For a long breath, the court waited.
Then Lucian inclined his head—just slightly.
"Aldric."
The room rippled.
A thousand murmurs swallowed in a single breath.
The Emperor's name—spoken without title. Without reverence.
It was an insult that should have ended with steel drawn.
Yet the Emperor only smiled—thin and knowing.
"Lucian."
A different kind of fear slithered through the court then—one older than crowns and titles.
Lucian Duskthrone had stood at the Emperor's side when the throne was won. He had disappeared when peace settled—but his name still haunted the Empire's wars.
Now he had returned.
With Duskthrone business.
Without another word, Lucian drew a black-sealed letter from his cloak and placed it on the marble floor between them.
The sigil of the Duskthrone Dukedom marked the wax—a shattered sun eclipsed by a crescent moon.
None reached for it.
None dared.
Lucian's pale gaze swept the court—lingering on those who had mocked the name that night.
"You speak of shadows as if they cannot hear you." His voice was soft—almost kind.
"Perhaps you have forgotten... shadows listen best when they are not seen."
No one breathed.
Lucian turned without waiting for dismissal.
He had nearly reached the doors when a bold voice called out—half-drunken, half-brave.
"What message does the Duskthrone family send, old ghost?"
Lucian paused.
He did not look back.
Only his voice drifted through the hush—quiet, but heavy enough to crush the room beneath it.
"The moon does not ask if the sun will rise... only what will remain when it sets."
As the heavy doors closed behind Lucian, silence wrapped the court like a funeral shroud.
No one dared move until the Emperor's steady hand reached for the letter.
The black wax broke with a brittle snap.
A single parchment unfurled—ink scrawled in elegant strokes.
The Emperor's amber eyes flicked across the message, the faintest curve touching his lips.
He will attend.
The words fell like a blade.
Some nobles turned pale. Others clutched their goblets tighter—knuckles white against glass.
Whispers rose again—faster now, sharper.
Asher Duskthrone would step from the shadows.
A child wrapped in the love of monsters.
"Heir to that bloodline... The child must have inherited something."
"But what? The Eidolic Curse? Or something worse?"
"Worse? Is that even possible?"
A baron's wife pressed gloved fingers to her lips.
"They say no one outside the Duskthrone estate has ever seen him."
"No one sees what the Duskthrone does not wish to be seen."
Others murmured of the boy's eyes—rumors that they bore the weight of forgotten gods.
A silver-haired Duke leaned close to his peer.
"They kept him hidden this long... not out of love."
"Then why?"
A pause.
"Because even gods fear what waits behind that name."