The palace bells tolled a deep, mournful sound that rolled through the city like distant thunder.
Adrian Valos jerked upright in his chambers, his breath catching in his throat. The world outside his window was still drenched in the amber glow of festival torches, the drunken laughter of revelers echoing in the distance. But within the palace, something was wrong.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, shoving aside the silken sheets. The cold marble floor sent a sharp chill up his spine as he reached for the dagger beneath his pillow—a habit learned not from fear, but from necessity.
Then came the voices.
Shouting.
Hurried, frantic footsteps.
The heavy doors to his chamber burst open, revealing Ser Alric, captain of the Imperial Guard. His armor was hastily fastened, his expression grim beneath his steel helmet. The candlelight cast harsh shadows over his weathered face.
"Your Highness…" Alric hesitated, as if unwilling to speak the words.
Adrian knew before he heard them. He felt it in his bones, in the weight that settled over his chest like a phantom hand squeezing the breath from his lungs.
"The emperor is dead."
For a moment, the world stood still.
Adrian's fingers tightened around the dagger's hilt. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out everything except those four words.
"How?" His voice was steady, but it felt like someone else had spoken in his place.
Alric's jaw clenched. "Murdered. In his chambers. The assassin is… gone."
A breath. Slow. Calculated.
"Who else knows?"
"The palace is stirring. The nobles will learn soon enough. The council is already assembling."
Adrian nodded, rising to his feet. His mind was moving too fast, calculating the implications, the dangers. His father was dead. That meant the throne—
A thought struck him like a blade to the gut.
"Where is Cassius?"
The hesitation in Alric's gaze was all the answer he needed.
"Find him," Adrian ordered, sheathing his dagger. "Now."
Because if there was one thing he knew, one truth that had been hammered into his soul since childhood—
It was that his bastard brother would not let an empty throne remain empty for long.
Adrian moved swiftly, his mind racing as he left his chambers and strode through the dimly lit corridors of the palace. The scent of melted wax and cold stone filled the air, mingling with something darker—an unease that settled over the halls like a creeping shadow. Servants and guards whispered in hushed tones, their gazes darting toward him before quickly looking away.
He clenched his jaw. The fear in their eyes told him all he needed to know. The empire had lost its master, and now, like a wounded beast, it was vulnerable to the vultures that circled above.
The throne was his by right.
But rights meant little in the face of ambition.
As he turned a corner, the grand doors to the council chamber loomed ahead—already open. The voices inside were tense, clipped with urgency. Adrian took a steady breath, schooling his expression into one of composure before stepping through.
Inside, the High Council was gathered, their richly adorned robes flowing as they murmured amongst themselves. At the head of the table stood Lord Verrin Dain, the Emperor's most trusted advisor, his weathered face lined with years of service. Beside him, robbed clerics of the Holy Order muttered prayers under their breath, as if seeking divine guidance amidst the storm.
But it was not Verrin or the clerics that drew Adrian's gaze.
It was the man seated at the far end of the chamber, draped in black and gold, his gloved fingers tapping idly against the table.
Cassius.
His bastard brothers. His rival.
Their eyes met across the room, and for a moment, neither spoke. The silence between them was more deafening than the tolling of the bells outside.
Then Cassius leaned back into his chair, a slow, measured smile curving his lips.
"Brother," he said smoothly, his voice like the edge of a blade. "I was wondering when you'd arrive."
Adrian stepped forward, his posture rigid. "You sit too comfortably for a man whose father was just murdered."
Cassius chuckled. "And you stand too stiffly for a man who now wears a crown."
A muscle in Adrian's jaw twitched. "The crown is mine."
Cassius tilted his head, the firelight dancing in his cold, calculating gaze. "Is it?"
The tension in the chamber thickened, like the calm before a storm. Outside, the bells continued to toll—marking not just the death of an emperor, but the beginning of a war.
A heavy silence settled over the chamber, thick with unspoken threats. The gathered nobles and councilors shifted in their seats, some glancing between the two brothers, others keeping their eyes cast downward, unwilling to betray their allegiances so soon.
Lord Verrin cleared his throat, his voice breaking the charged quiet. "This is neither the time nor the place for such disputes. The emperor's body is barely cold, and the empire teeters on the edge of chaos. We must act swiftly."
"Act?" Adrian turned toward him; his eyes sharp. "There is only one course of action. My father is dead, which means the throne passed to me. This is not a matter for debate."
Cassius exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "So sure, of yourself, brother. You always did like to think of the world in such simple terms." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the polished wood of the council table. "But allow me to remind you—our father had many enemies. His death leaves more than just a throne behind; it leaves a power vacuum."
Adrian's hands curled into fists at his sides. He could feel the tension in the room, the way some of the lords hesitated, the way others avoided his gaze. Doubt. Fear. The scent of treachery clung to the air like damp smoke.
"You speak as if you are not part of the problem, Cassius," Adrian said coolly. "Where are you tonight? While our father bled out in his chambers?"
A flicker of something unreadable crossed Cassius' face—too quickly to catch, but enough to set Adrian's instincts on edge.
"Careful, brother," Cassius murmured, his voice velvet over steel. "Accusations have consequences."
Adrian took a slow step forward. "So does treason."
A murmur rippled through the room. Verrin raised a hand to silence them, his face an impassive mask.
"Enough," he said firmly. "The council will convene at dawn to determine our next steps. Until then, I suggest both of you retire. This night has claimed enough blood already."
Adrian held Cassius' gaze for a long moment before turning sharply on his heel. He knew this battle was far from over. His father's murder was just the beginning, and if he wanted to claim what was rightfully his, he would have to be ready for the war to come.
And war, he suspected, was exactly what Cassius wanted.
Adrian stalked through the palace halls, his mind ablaze with fury. His brother's smugness, the council's hesitation—everything about this night reeked of conspiracy. The marble corridors, usually symbols of the empire's strength, felt like a labyrinth of shadows, hiding whispers of treachery behind every pillar.
His boots echoed against the polished floors as he turned a sharp corner, his thoughts spiraling. He needed answers. Someone had dared to assassinate the emperor within the walls of the palace itself. That meant one of two things—either their enemies had grown bolder than ever before, or the killer was inside these very halls.
"Your Highness," a voice called from behind him.
Adrian turned, his hand instinctively drifting toward the hilt of his sword. A man stepped from the shadows—a tall figure in dark armor, a heavy cloak draped over his shoulders.
"Commander Aldric," Adrian acknowledged. The captain of the Imperial Guard. A veteran warrior, known for his unwavering loyalty to the crown. "Tell me you have news."
Aldric's expression was grim. "The assassins slipped through the palace defenses with unnatural ease. The guards stationed outside your father's chamber were found dead throats slit, no sound made."
Adrian clenched his fists. "Who was responsible?"
The commander hesitated before answering. "That is where things grow... complicated, Your Highness."
Adrian narrowed his eyes. "Speak plainly."
Aldric glanced around as if ensuring they were alone. Then, in a low voice, he said, "We found something near the emperor's body, marked with the sigil of the Shadowborn."
The breath left Adrian's lungs in a rush. "The Shadow born? That's impossible. They haven't been seen in decades."
"And yet," Aldric said, pulling a cloth-wrapped object from within his cloak, "this was buried in his heart."
Adrian took the bundle and unwrapped it with steady hands. A black steel blade gleamed in the dim torchlight; its hilt was adorned with the mark of a serpent coiled around a burning eye, the unmistakable symbol of the Shadowborn assassins.
"If they've returned..." Adrian whispered, gripping the dagger tighter.
Aldric met his gaze, his expression unreadable. "Then the empire is in greater danger than we ever imagined."
Adrian turned the dagger in his hands, its dark blade cold against his fingers. The Shadowborn. Assassins of legend, spoken of in hushed tones to frighten children and warn fools. Their last recorded act had been the assassination of King Torvan of Eldoria nearly forty years ago. After that, they vanished—like whispers carried off by the wind. If they had truly returned, then this was no mere power struggle between brothers. Someone had awakened an ancient force, one that had no allegiance to the crown or kin.
"Where was the dagger found exactly?" he asked, his voice sharper than steel.
"Still embedded in the emperor's chest," Aldric replied. "It was as if they wanted us to know it was them. No attempt to hide it, no subtlety. A statement, not a secret."
Adrian felt the weight of those words settles on his shoulders. A statement. This was not just an assassination—it was a declaration of war. But from whom? And why now?
His mind spun through the possibilities. The Shadow-born never acted without a reason. They were blades in the dark, selling their services to the highest bidder, but their loyalty could never be bought—only earned through cause or conviction. Which meant someone, somewhere, had a purpose so dire that they had summoned death itself to accomplish it.
"Has Cassius seen this?" Adrian asked suddenly.
Aldric hesitated before shaking his head. "No. Only a handful of us know about the dagger. If Prince Cassius learns of this, he may use it to justify seizing the throne before the council can rule."
A sharp breath escaped Adrian's lips. That was exactly what Cassius would do. Use fear as his weapon, the way he always had. If the council believed the empire was on the brink of destruction, they might grant him emergency powers under the guise of defending the realm.
"We keep this between us for now," Adrian said, wrapping the dagger back in its cloth. "Not a word to the council, not yet. I need time to uncover the truth before my brother turns this into an excuse for tyranny."
Aldric nodded. "As you command, Your Highness. But know this—if the Shadowborn are truly involved, then we are all standing in the dark, waiting for the blade to strike again."
Adrian met his gaze, his jaw set with determination. "Then we must light the fire before they do."
The weight of responsibility pressed against Adrian's chest like an iron gauntlet. His father lay dead, his empire stood on the precipice of war, and the council whispered behind locked doors, plotting their next move. Every step he took down the grand hallway of the palace felt heavier than the last, each flickering torch casting elongated shadows that seemed to dance with unseen malice.
He needed time—to think, to act. But time was a luxury he did not have.
"Your Highness."
A voice, low and smooth, called from the shadows. Adrian's hand instinctively moved toward his sword, but he forced himself to relax as a figure emerged from an alcove between two great marble pillars. It was Lady Evelyne Durnhart, the head of his father's intelligence network. Dressed in a deep crimson gown embroidered with gold filigree, she looked every bit the noblewoman she pretended to be, but Adrian knew better. Behind her elegant poise was a mind as sharp as any dagger, and a heart as ruthless as any sellsword's.
"Lady Evelyne," Adrian greeted her cautiously.
"A tragic night," she said, stepping closer. Her dark eyes gleamed with something unreadable. "The empire mourns its fallen emperor. And yet, even in grief, the game does not stop."
"This is no game," Adrian muttered.
Evelyne tilted her head, her lips curving into the ghost of a smirk. "No? Then what would you call it, Your Highness? A noble war for justice? A fight for honor?" She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "We both know how this will end. The council will not give you the throne easily, and your brother will not wait for their blessing. He will strike, and when he does, you must be ready."
Adrian studied her carefully. "And where do you stand in this, Lady Evelyne?"
She laughed softly. "Where I have always stood—beside the one who will rule. The question is… will that be you?"
Adrian felt the weight of her words settle in his mind. Evelyne was a dangerous ally, but an even more dangerous enemy. If she was offering her support, it meant she saw potential in him. But it also meant she had likely already made similar offers elsewhere.
"If you truly stand beside me," he said, testing her, "then prove it. Find out who hired Shadowborn. I want names, I want motives, and I want them before my brother makes his move."
Evelyne's smirk widened. "Oh, Your Highness… you will have your answers soon enough. But be careful what you wish for. The truth is rarely kind."
With that, she turned, disappearing into the darkness of the corridor, leaving Adrian standing alone, the weight of the empire pressing down on him.
Adrian exhaled slowly, steadying himself against the cold marble wall. The scent of burning incense still lingered in the air, mixing with the faint metallic tang of blood that seemed to have soaked into the palace stones. The weight of the empire sat heavily on his shoulders, but there was no time to grieve. No time to mourn. His father's body was barely cold, yet the vulture's wings had already begun to beat in the halls of power.
He turned sharply and strode down the hallway, his boots striking against the polished stone floor. He needed answers, and he needed them now.
At the far end of the corridor, two royal guards stood at attention before a great iron-bound door. Beyond it lay the emperor's private study—now Adrian's, though he could not bring himself to think of it as such just yet. The guards saluted as he approached, their expressions carefully neutral.
"Has anyone entered?" he asked.
One of the guards, a grizzled veteran with a scar running down his jaw, shook his head. "No one but you, Your Highness."
Adrian nodded and pushed open the heavy door.
Inside, the study was just as if his father had left it. A grand desk of black oak sat beneath an enormous tapestry depicting the empire's founding. Shelves of ancient times lined the walls, their spines worn with age. A single candle flickered on the desk, its wax pooling onto scattered parchments. His father's chair remained slightly pulled back as if the emperor had just risen from it.
A chill crept down Adrian's spine. How many times had he stood in this room as a boy, listening to his father's lessons on ruling, on war, on the burdens of kingship? And now, all that remained was silent.