The world of Valthoria had known both splendor and suffering, forged in the fires of war and tempered by the cold steel of ambition. For centuries, the great empires of the land had risen and fallen like tides, their legacies etched into stone and sung by the boards of old. Yet, beneath the towering castles and sprawling cities, the whispers of fate wove a tale to be fully told—a tale of betrayal, of blood, and of a throne that would ignite the flames of war.
The empire of Sythralis stood at the heart of this realm, its banners of crimson and gold unfurled upon every fortress, its armies marching in lockstep beneath the gaze of a thousand statues of its mighty ancestors. The capital city, a jewel of marble and iron, was the beating heart of civilization, where nobles plotted in candlelit halls, and common folk toiled beneath the weight of their rulers' ambitions.
Beyond its borders, the world was vast and untamed. To the north, the frozen wastelands of Vermont stretched endlessly, where warriors clad in furs and steel worshipped the gods of old and spoke of omens carried on the winter winds. In the east, the lands of Eldaria shimmered with arcane power, their scholars and mystics guarding the secrets of magic with an iron will. The southern deserts of Karazan burned beneath an unforgiving sun, where merchant princes and assassins walked the same streets, and knowledge was as valuable as gold. And in the west, beyond the known world, lay the Shadowlands—a realm whispered about in fear, a place of ancient horrors long forgotten.
For years, the balance had been tenuous. Emperor Rhaegar II, a man of steel and fire, had ruled Sythralis with unwavering might, his hand steady on the reins of power. He had crushed rebellions, forged alliances, and ensured that the empire remained unchallenged. But power, no matter how absolute, could not silence the whispers of fate.
On the eve of the Festival of the Crimson Moon, when the empire celebrated its conquests with feasts and revelry, the stars themselves seemed to flicker with unease. And as the great bell of the Imperial Palace tolled midnight, a shadow moved through the halls—a shadow that would change the course of history forever.
The grand halls of the Imperial Palace in Sythralis stood in haunting silence. The glow of a thousand torches flickered upon marble columns, casting elongated shadows that danced across the polished floors. Outside, the city roared with celebration—music, laughter, and the distant clang of goblets toasting to the Festival of the Crimson Moon. But within the palace walls, another kind of gathering was taking place. One that would be remembered in blood.
Beyond the golden gates of the throne room, Emperor Rhaegar II stood alone, gazing upon the vast map of his empire. The candlelight illuminated the deep lines of his face, etching his years of rule into sharp relief. He was not a man given to sentiment, yet tonight, a strange weight pressed against his chest. His empire was at the height of its power, his armies unmatched, his enemies crushed beneath his iron will. And yet, power was a fickle thing—one moment, absolute: the next, slipping like sand through one's fingers.
The doors creaked open.
A figure stepped inside, clad in the black and gold of the Imperial Guard. The sigil of the twin-headed eagle gleamed upon his breastplate, but his face was obscured by the deep hood of his cloak. He moved with purpose, each step measured, and precise. The emperor did not turn.
"Is it done?" Rhaegar's voice was low, a rumble like distant thunder.
"Yes, Your Majesty," the man said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Everything is in place."
The emperor exhaled slowly, his fingers tracing the edges of the map before him. His gaze settled upon the western reaches—where the Shadowlands began. A chill ran through him, though the room was warm.
"And my sons?"
The hooded man hesitated.
"Prince Adrian remains unaware. He has retired to his chambers after the feast." A pause. "Prince Cassius… has been seen speaking with Lord Valen."
Rhaegar's jaw tightened. Valen Darrow—a name that carried the stench of ambition. The emperor had long tolerated the nobleman's hunger for power, keeping him close enough to watch, but never enough to allow him a true seat at the table. If Cassius had aligned himself with Valen, then the seeds of discord had already been sown.
The emperor turned, at last, his piercing gaze settling upon the figure before him. "Do you believe in fate, commander?"
The man in black did not flinch. "I believe in the will of the strong, Your Majesty. Fate is merely a story told by those too weak to shape their destiny."
Rhaegar allowed himself to smile. "Good. Then let us see who among us is strong enough to claim the future."
But even as he spoke, the shadows along the walls seemed to deepen. Outside, the revelry of the city continued, oblivious to the storm brewing within the palace walls.
And in the darkness, death sharpened its blade.
The scent of burning incense filled the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of steel. Hidden within the depths of the Imperial Palace, far from the drunken revelry of the city, a lone figure moved like a specter through the corridors. Cloaked in black, their presence was a whisper in the grand halls, a shadow that did not belong.
The assassin had studied the palace for months, memorizing every corridor, every blind spot in the patrols of the Imperial Guard. The Festival of the Crimson Moon provided the perfect cover, too many distractions, too many faces, and too many moving parts for anyone to notice one more masked figure slipping through the cracks.
Their target was nearby.
Beyond the towering double doors, the emperor awaited his fate.
A lifetime of conquest had led Rhaegar II to this moment. His enemies had fallen before him, his empire had flourished under his iron rule, and yet—like all rulers before him—he had made enemies. Some lurked in the shadows, others wore masks of loyalty. But treachery, the most ancient of blades, always struck from where one least expected.
The assassin reached into their cloak, fingers brushing against the hilt of a dagger forged in secret. The blade had been dipped in the venom of the viperfish, a poison so potent that even the gods themselves would feel its sting. There would be no mistakes.
A whisper of movement. A breath held.
With practiced ease, the assassin pressed a gloved hand against the door, easing it open just enough to slip inside.
Rhaegar II stood with his back to the intruder, still watching over the vast map of his empire, oblivious to the death that stalked him.
A heartbeat passed.
Then another.
The assassin moved.
The assassin glided forward, each step as silent as falling ash. The flickering candlelight cast erratic shadows upon the walls, elongating the dark figure's silhouette as if the very room conspired to bear witness to this moment.
Rhaegar II did not turn. His shoulders were stiff, his posture that of a man accustomed to command. Yet there was a stillness in him now, a quiet that felt almost… resigned.
The assassin hesitated.
Something was wrong.
This was meant to be simple. A single thrust of the poisoned blade, a moment of struggle perhaps, then silence—eternal and absolute. But the air felt thick, charged with something unseen, something ancient.
Then, the emperor spoke.
"You've taken your time."
The assassin froze.
Slowly, deliberately, Rhaegar II turned to face his would-be killer. His gaze, sharp as a blade honed by war, met the assassin's masked face. There was no fear in those imperial eyes. No panic. Only cold, measured understanding.
"Did they promise you riches?" he asked, voice as steady as the foundations of his empire. "Or was it power?"
The assassin remained silent.
Rhaegar took a step forward. "Perhaps revenge, then. That is always the most dangerous kind of motive."
Still, the figure did not speak. Instead, the dagger was raised, poised to strike. The emperor exhaled, almost as if in relief.
"Then let it be done."
With a swift, practiced motion, the assassin lunged.
The blade arced toward the emperor's chest—fast, precise, inevitable.
And yet, in that final moment, Rhaegar moved.
With the reflexes of a man who had survived a dozen battlefields, he twisted to the side, his hand shooting up like a viper striking prey. Fingers of iron closed around the assassin's wrist, stopping the blade merely inches from his heart.
"Not yet," the emperor whispered.
With a sudden burst of strength, he wrenched the assassin forward, twisting their arm behind their back in a brutal hold. The dagger clattered to the floor.
The assassin struggled, but Rhaegar was not a man easily undone. He spun them around, forcing them into the candlelight.
And then, for the first time that night, his expression faltered.
"You…?"
Beneath the mask, the assassin's lips curled into a cold smile.
"Did you truly think your sins would remain buried, Father?"
Rhaegar's breath hitched. In that instant of shock, the assassin moved.
A hidden blade, small but deadly, flashed in the dim light.
This time, the emperor did not stop it.
The dagger slid between Rhaegar's ribs with precise, lethal intent. A sharp exhale escaped his lips—a sound that was neither pain nor surprise, but something colder. Acceptance.
The assassin held the blade firm, twisting it just enough to ensure there was no coming back from this. Even an emperor, even a conqueror, was still just flesh and blood in the end.
Rhaegar's grip loosened, fingers trembling as they reached for the assassin's arm. Not in attack, not in defense—but as if trying to understand. As if trying to see through the years, through the choices, through the past that had led them both here.
"You… were never meant to know," he rasped, blood seeping between his lips.
The assassin pressed closer, their breath a whisper against his ear. "But I did."
With a final, savage pull, the blade was yanked free.
Rhaegar staggered, knees buckling beneath him. The strength that had once bent kingdoms to his will was gone, drained with each crimson drop that spilled onto the marble floor.
The assassin stepped back, watching as the mighty emperor of Valthoria, the man who had built an empire with steel and fire, collapsed at their feet.
A silence fell over the chamber. The weight of history shifted.
The assassin removed their mask. Beneath it was a face carved from the same bloodline as the dying man before them. Eyes that mirrored his own, sharp and haunted, stared back at him.
Rhaegar managed a breathless chuckle. "The gods… are cruel indeed."
His body trembled once, twice—then lay still.
The emperor was dead.
And with his death, the first ember of war was lit.
The assassin stood over the lifeless body of Emperor Rhaegar II, their chest rising and falling in controlled breaths, though the weight of the moment pressed upon them like an iron gauntlet. The flickering candlelight cast jagged shadows across the chamber, illuminating the crimson pool that spread beneath the fallen ruler.
A conqueror, a tyrant, a father—dead by the hand of his blood.
For a fleeting moment, the assassin felt an unfamiliar pang in their chest. Not regret. Not sorrow. Something colder. A strange emptiness, like the hush that follows a storm before the world realizes what has been lost.
Then, the spell broke.
A distant sound—a footstep, muffled yet unmistakable—sent a surge of urgency through the assassin's veins. The Imperial Guards. They would come soon, drawn either by instinct or fate.
It was time to vanish.
With practiced efficiency, the assassin wiped the blood from their blade and slid it back into its sheath. They knelt beside the emperor, pressing two fingers to his throat. No pulse. No deception. The great Rhaegar II had drawn his last breath.
A slow inhale. A steady exhale.
Then, with one final glance at the fallen ruler, the assassin turned and disappeared into the darkness.
Beyond the palace walls, the city of Eldoria burned with life. The Festival of the Crimson Moon was reaching its peak, and the streets were a chaotic sea of revelers, dancers, and masked figures adorned in rich silks and golden embroidery. Firelight flickered against the towering spires, casting a warm glow upon the sprawling city.
No one knew that their emperor was dead.
Not yet.
But when the sun rose over Valthoria, the empire would awaken to a world forever changed.
The war for the throne had begun.