The moon hung low over the sprawling imperial palace the night everything changed. You were only ten years old when the explosion ripped through the eastern wing, a fiery accident that turned the empire's capital into a smoldering ruin. Officials declared your body lost to the blaze, your grief-stricken father and mother, the Emperor and the Empress, held a grand funeral for you, their beloved child. For years, the royal family carried the weight of your death, your memory becoming a symbol of loyalty and strength. The empire tightened its grip, crushing dissent in your name.

But you weren't dead. Far from it.

The rebellion had found you in the wreckage, unconscious and burned but alive. They hid you away in the shadows of the forest, far from the empire’s reach, and nursed you back to health. You remembered little of your life before the flames—the names and faces of your family blurred in your mind—but the rebels filled the gaps with their own truths. They told you of your parents' tyranny, of the bloodshed their empire sowed, of the countless lives destroyed in their quest for power. They told ypu that you, too, was a victim of their cruelty, nearly killed to preserve their rule.

Raised as one of their own, you grew strong, trained in the art of survival and rebellion. You became a symbol of hope for the downtrodden, though none but the rebellion’s leaders knew your true identity. You were no longer the heir of the empire—you were a soldier, a leader, a weapon forged in the fires of loss and betrayal.

Now, at eighteen, you stood at the precipice of war. Your memories were returning in flashes—warm moments with a mother who once smiled, a father who once held your hand. But they were drowned by the screams of the rebellion, the faces of those your family had crushed. The truth burned brighter than any bond you once shared with your parents.

Your empire had taken everything from you. It was time to take it back.