The imperial throne room was quiet—too quiet.
Once a grand theater of power, where sycophants clung to robes and nobles sang praises for favor, it now resembled a tomb. The great pillars, once polished obsidian, bore cracks like veins. Dust clung to the faded red-and-gold banners that had once proudly declared dominion.
The air was still. Oppressively still.
Emperor Castiel sat upon the obsidian throne, alone in a chamber meant for a thousand witnesses. His hands gripped the carved armrests with a force that had turned his knuckles white. His long silver hair was tied immaculately, his robe flowing with dignified restraint.
But his eyes twitched—constantly.
Behind them: a storm of fear, fury, and the slow collapse of a dream that had defined him.
His Empire had once stood unchallenged—its legions unbreakable, its church divine, its nobility synchronized in ruthless harmony. He had forged it with vision and fire.
And now?
Now they whispered another name.
Kael.
The thought alone sent a pulse of rage down his spine.
"I made him. I raised him above the worms. And now he dares rise above me?"
The room answered only with silence.
Until—"Your Majesty."
The heavy doors creaked open. General Alistair entered with solemn steps, armor still splattered with the blood of crushed rebellions. The steel of his ceremonial uniform gleamed dully in the fading sunlight bleeding through the high stained-glass windows.
He knelt, but it lacked the devotion it once held.
"My lord," Alistair said, voice gravelly. "The rebellion at Wyrmspire is quelled. But…"
He hesitated.
"But what?" Castiel's voice was sharp as broken glass.
"They chant Kael's name even in conquered cities," Alistair said at last. "The people believe he's their savior. Not you. Not the throne."
The Emperor's fingers curled tighter. Small fissures cracked beneath his hands.
"And the Archons?" he asked.
Alistair looked up, his face grim. "Silent. They ignore our summons. Even Eryndor has withdrawn."
Castiel rose slowly, his black and crimson cloak trailing behind him like a bleeding shadow.
"They dare defy me?"
"No, sire." Alistair swallowed. "They claim they await the final struggle… and will align with the one who proves worthy."
Castiel stood before the massive stained-glass window behind his throne. Once, it depicted the divine ascension of the First Emperor—a symbol of heaven's blessing.
Now it looked like mockery.
"Then we will give them something worth witnessing," Castiel whispered.
He turned sharply. "Summon the Crimson Tribunal. Prepare the Ritual of Dominion. If the gods will not favor me…"
A slow, terrible smile spread across his lips.
"…then I shall become a god."
Beneath the palace, in the Chamber of Whispers…
Kael stood alone within ancient walls. The room swallowed sound like a tomb. Runes glowed faintly along the stone—wards of secrecy, spells of silence. Purple flame danced atop black candles, casting shadows that refused to follow logic.
Across from him stood Empress Seraphina.
She was regal even in secrecy, clad in silk so dark it seemed woven from night itself, crimson gems glinting like blood in the firelight. Her usual air of elegance was sharpened now, transformed into something cold and calculating.
No longer a survivor.
Now, a queen of knives.
"You knew he'd reach for ritual," she said.
Kael's reply was a whisper coated in certainty. "Desperation births prophecy. And Castiel is bleeding belief."
She stepped closer, her fingers tracing the arcane mark etched into Kael's wrist—a binding rune, subtle yet potent, that had turned a third of the imperial guard into silent allies.
"With it, the palace is yours," she said softly.
"And Elyndra?" she asked, her voice probing—not jealous, but strategic.
Kael's eyes glinted like dying stars. "She teeters. All it takes is the right push."
"Will she fall?"
Kael tilted his head, thoughtful.
"She will rise. But not toward heaven."
In the Crimson Tribunal's sanctum…
A forgotten hall deep beneath the imperial chapel, lit only by the fire of ancient sins.
Seven robed priests stood around a burning sigil, etched into the floor in a language long abandoned by man. Each held relics from noble bloodlines—flesh, bone, crowns—symbols of empire and sacrifice.
In the center, Castiel stood bare-chested, arms raised, eyes glowing with unnatural light. Around him, runes pulsed with stolen life.
The Ritual of Dominion—forbidden even among emperors. Last attempted five centuries ago. That time, it failed.
But Castiel had gone further.
He had fed the spell not with volunteers, but with blood. Hundreds—rebels, criminals, traitors, innocents. Their screams still lingered in the stones.
"I am the last divine blood!" he roared into the void. "The chosen of heaven! Crown me, gods—crown me in flame!"
The sigil erupted.
A column of gold light shot skyward, slicing through stone, through ceiling, through the palace itself—visible for miles.
For a moment, the Empire held its breath.
Then the light cracked.
And shattered.
The explosion roared like divine wrath. The Tribunal was vaporized in an instant—priests reduced to ash, their relics torn from existence. Castiel was hurled into the far wall, bones breaking on impact.
Smoke filled the sanctum. Flames danced in cursed patterns.
Castiel coughed, blood pouring from his mouth.
The gods had answered.
With rejection.
Later that night…
Kael stood on the balcony of his private chamber, high above the capital. The city was alive with flame and unrest. Rebellions. Riots. Crackdowns. All part of the plan.
Behind him, Seraphina stepped out from the shadows.
She wrapped her arms around him, her touch ice and fire.
"It's falling into place," she murmured.
Kael didn't respond at first. He watched the chaos below, like a god pondering creation.
"Not yet," he said.
"What remains?"
Kael lifted a finger.
A single drop of blood floated in the air—dark red with a shimmer of abyssal black.
Lucian's blood.
"I left him alive for a reason," Kael said. "Either he becomes my blade…"
He turned, eyes burning.
"…or Castiel's executioner."
Far away…
In an abandoned chapel at the edge of the Empire, beneath a sky without stars—
Lucian awoke.
His body was bare, scarred with runes that pulsed with a faint demonic glow. Chains once bound him, now broken. Around him, shattered glass, twisted altars, and echoes of forgotten gods.
His breath was ragged.
His hands trembled.
His eyes flickered between gold and black.
And then he screamed.
Not in pain—but in rage.
A new fire had awakened within him.
One born of betrayal. Blood. And the Abyss.
To be continued…