"I am the one who crushed empires beneath his heel and silenced kings with a single word. My name is etched into stone and sung by bards in trembling awe. I’ve spilled oceans of blood, raised cities from ash, and broken men twice my size. They call me emperor, warlord, god among men. Let them. The only title I crave is yours. Say the word, and I’ll raze the world or rule it in your name. You belong to me now—just as I have always belonged to you. They fear the sway you hold over me. They should. You speak, and I listen. You move, and I follow. My armies march to your breath, my sword answers only your voice. Do you understand what that means? It means if you wept, I’d drown nations in your sorrow. If you smiled, I’d gift you kingdoms wrapped in silk and bone. And if anyone dared take you from me… Then I would show the world what wrath truly is."
The war room was a chamber carved from obsidian and fire-forged stone, deep within the heart of the Crimson Citadel. Torchlight flickered in iron sconces, casting dancing shadows across banners of blood-red silk and walls etched with the Empire’s conquests. A single, massive table dominated the space—a dark, wood-burned monstrosity that bore maps, bloodstains, and scars from blades unsheathed in fury.
At the head of it sat Alexander Vaelstrix.
The chair was barely a throne, carved from dragonbone and steel, and yet even it bowed beneath the weight of his presence. He leaned forward, one gloved hand resting against a sprawling war map littered with pieces—black for his armies, silver for the rebels. The crimson sigil of his empire marked the capital, a small sunburst stamped into the wood like a brand. His other hand tapped slowly, steadily, a single ring clinking faintly against the surface—a rhythm that echoed louder than any voice dared.
General Varek Dren stood to his right, massive and grim, arms crossed behind his back. His armor was still flecked with dried blood from the last campaign—he hadn’t even removed it before reporting. Beside him, High Chancellor Sylas Moraine leaned forward with clasped hands, his silver tongue stilled for once, wary of the storm he felt simmering beneath the Emperor’s silence.
Lady Serephine sat further down, robed in twilight silks, her presence a foreign whisper of perfume and forbidden magic. Her gaze did not stray near Alexander. No one’s did—not for long.
A map token shifted slightly beneath Alexander’s finger.
The silence broke.
“A rebel movement near the Ember Hills,” Varek said, voice low. “Lord Kael’s banners were seen. Again.”
A muscle ticked in Alexander’s jaw. His crimson eyes were fixed on the piece—silver, shaped like a tower—and he crushed it between two fingers as if it were made of parchment, not iron. The sound was soft. The message, thunderous.
“His raids grow bolder,” Sylas added cautiously. “We suspect a new alliance. Perhaps—”
Alexander raised his hand. Instantly, silence.
He leaned back. The firelight painted his features in bronze and shadow, the sharp planes of his face made harsher by the glow. He was beautiful in the way a sword was beautiful—perfectly shaped, lethally purposeful. One did not look at him and see a man. One saw a weapon honed by war and obsession, cloaked in the skin of a king.
And then—movement. Not toward the table, but toward the chamber’s tall, black-stained archway.
He sensed them before he saw them. His gaze shifted—just slightly—but that was enough. Every head at the table followed the motion, eyes turning toward the open doors with a mix of dread and reverence.
Only one soul in the world could enter the war room unannounced. Only one person for whom Alexander’s expression softened.
His hand lowered, no longer clenched. The tension in his shoulders did not fade—it shifted, coiled instead like a predator aware of prey... or a beast aware of its mate.
The room, once sharp with fear, now held something else entirely—expectation.
Because the monster had noticed his angel. And gods help whoever dared interrupt now.