In the warm amber glow of hanging lanterns, the ornate chambers of Sultan Amin shimmered like a mirage from an age of gold. Tapestries from ancient wars hung heavy on the walls, bearing the symbols of past conquests, and the scent of oud and burning jasmine filled the air like the memory of a thousand nights. Sultan Amin, the Lion of the South, sat on a low cushioned divan, a rare moment of stillness as he quietly knitted a crimson scarf. It was a humble act from a man who commanded armies—but then, kings had their rituals too.
"Father! Father, where are you?"
The grand doors burst open with a clang, and a young man, sharp-eyed and tall, strode in with unrestrained urgency. The sultan raised one thick brow, still looping the yarn through his fingers.
"What is it, son?" he asked, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Why are you shouting like the palace is under siege?"
"I heard you're going to conquer Constantinople," the boy said, panting slightly, his robes disheveled from running.
Amin paused, one stitch midway. "Oh?" he said slowly, setting down the needles in a porcelain bowl. "So you heard, huh?" He chuckled, shaking his head. "Mouths are running faster than horses these days. Yes, I am. What of it?"
The prince stepped forward, brushing sweat-damp hair from his brow. "I wish for you to hear me out."
Amin leaned back, the light from the bronze sconces casting shadows over his weathered face. "Speak."
"I wish to go on an official visit to the Empire. Diplomatically. Under a banner of goodwill."
The sultan arched a skeptical brow. "Diplomatic visit?" he echoed. "To a land we are about to march our armies against? Do you mistake this palace for a court of jesters?"
"No, Father," the prince said. "Hear me out—please."
There was a pause. A long one. Sultan Amin's gaze became piercing, searching, testing.
"Why," he said at last, "shall I allow it?"
The prince stood straighter, pride anchoring his voice. "You have heard of the Emperor's daughter."
Amin tilted his head slightly. "So I have. A girl cloaked in jewels and cloistered in marble. And?"
"I wish to propose a marriage."
The room went dead silent.
Then, the sultan burst out laughing, loud and long, the sound echoing through the vastness of the chamber. "Oh my son," he roared, tears glinting in his eyes, "you wish to wed the daughter of an empire we are about to scorch in fire and steel? You think they would hand her to a tiger's cub—one still sharpening his claws?"
"Because," the prince said firmly, not backing down, "we are the only empire that has the power to challenge them in this entire continent. The only ones who stood tall when others bowed. If they allied with us, it would be beneficial to them. They would have southern grain, gold, silk, and sea access to Arqaban's ports. And we—"
"And we would get a crown princess and legitimacy in the eyes of a continent that fears us more than it respects us," the sultan finished, his smile now thin and thoughtful.
He stood slowly, pacing to the wide balcony where the desert wind howled beyond, tugging at his royal robes like the breath of ancient kings. "You are not wrong," he said after a moment. "Such a union would bind swords in velvet. But make no mistake—this path is treacherous."
"I am not afraid," his son said, stepping beside him.
"Nor should you be," Amin replied. "You are my blood. But do not think marriage alone will win peace. You will be walking into the lion's court, where daggers speak more than diplomacy. If the girl is clever, and her father wise, they may see the storm behind your silken words."
The prince bowed slightly. "Then I shall speak like a storm, Father."
Amin smirked and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Very well. You shall go. I'll dispatch a letter under seal. Go as my son. Return as either a diplomat—or a corpse. But remember… if she says yes, then the heavens have begun to move."
And so it began—beneath stars unfamiliar to the northern skies, the prince of Arqaban set his eyes not on conquest, but courtship, wielding politics as his sword and romance as his spear.
War, after all, had many faces. And love… was often the deadliest of them.
The glass panes of Sonya's chamber fogged slightly with her breath as she stared out at the horizon. The sun had begun its descent, setting fire to the skies in hues of crimson and gold, the last remnants of day bleeding into night like a slow wound. Beneath her, the stone spires of the Royal Academy stood like ancient sentinels, cold and unmoving. The wind stirred the trees below, rustling the golden leaves into a quiet chorus—almost like whispers, like voices urging her to act before it was too late.
Her thoughts twisted tighter than the braid hanging down her back.
"If Ravenclaw thinks I'm behind the assassination…" she muttered, her voice low and bitter, "then he'll never let me breathe freely again."
She could see it clearly—how he'd play it. Not through confrontation, no. He wasn't a fool who rushed with rage. Ravenclaw would wait. He'd watch her every step, listen to every word, tear through her networks until she had nothing left but paranoia. And if she made even one misstep, if she stumbled for even a breath… he'd strike.
Not to kill. No, he was too pragmatic for that.
He'd break her. Quietly. Cleanly. Like a chessmaster removing a rival queen with nothing more than a pawn's move.
She turned from the window and began pacing. The floorboards beneath her heels creaked faintly. She had tried to stay calm, tried to believe she could keep control of the situation. But the explosion had changed everything. Someone had tried to kill him—and she was the most convenient suspect.
"Damn whoever planted that rune," she hissed. "And damn Ravenclaw for thinking it was me."
She needed to speak with him. Not through letters. Not through shadows. Face to face.
Even if it meant walking straight into a lion's den.
Elsewhere, in the Duke's Study
Austin Ravenclaw sat alone in the heart of his family estate, buried in the depths of an ancient keep carved from black stone. His study was dim, lit only by a few flickering lamps and the glow of coals smoldering in the hearth. The scent of smoke, wax, and old books filled the air. A clock ticked somewhere in the distance, its rhythm marking the silence like the slow tolling of a bell.
The map lay before him on the desk—burnt at the corners, its surface blistered and scarred by flame. Blood had stained it once, his blood, where the shard of glass from the detonated box had cut into his palm. He had stared at this damned piece of parchment for hours now, reading the words over and over again as if they would change.
"The clue lies where the Serpent of Destruction rests."
A riddle. But one he recognized. He remembered the old myths—tales of a creature so terrible, so monstrous, that it took all the great mages of a forgotten age to seal it away beneath the earth. A thousand names had been given to it: the Deathcoil, the Sun-Eater, the Great Maw. But most called it the Serpent of Destruction. And according to ancient records stored in the Ravenclaw archives—sealed beneath the Academy itself.
He exhaled slowly, steepling his fingers in thought.
"The Orb of Nemesis," he whispered. "It was never a legend, was it?"
He'd dismissed it once. Like many. A relic spoken of in half-mad prophecies. But someone believed in it enough to kill for it. The explosion hadn't just been a warning. It was a message—one written in fire and blood: Stay away.
But he wouldn't.
Ravenclaw stood, rolling the map with practiced ease, slipping it into a leather tube. His hand trembled slightly—not from fear, but from something colder. Anticipation. He didn't know whether Sonya had truly tried to kill him. But whether she was enemy or pawn, it didn't matter. She was involved now.
And if she thought she could play this game better than him… she'd learn.
The Palace of the Third Prince
Far from both the Academy and the Ravenclaw estate, in a palace gilded with marble and madness, the Third Prince played his violin beneath a stained-glass window. Music floated through the air like smoke—light, whimsical, and hauntingly discordant. The notes echoed off the high ceilings, twining around the flickering chandeliers like spirits dancing to the rhythm of his chaos.
He played for no audience but himself, his pale fingers moving with grace no one had ever taught him.
A servant entered silently, kneeling with head bowed.
"Sire," the man said, "things proceed as you predicted. The explosion has shifted the court's attention. Ravenclaw survived… barely. But he's moving. As is the girl."
The violin halted mid-note.
The prince turned his head slightly, one eye gleaming with sharp amusement.
"Ah," he said softly. "So the pieces are moving."
He rested the instrument gently on a velvet stand and walked toward a mirror framed in gold and bone. He looked at his reflection as if seeing something else—someone else. Then, with a casual flick of his hand, he spoke.
"Let's begin the next act, shall we?"
The servant waited.
"Send invitations," the prince said, stretching his arms as if waking from a dream. "A grand banquet. No, a birthday celebration—mine. Invite every duke, every general, every petty noble and scheming sibling. Let the halls burst with flattery and wine."
He turned, eyes gleaming now.
"And make sure to invite Selen. I want her at the center of it all."
"Yes, my prince."
The Imperial Palace, so often a place of silence and restraint, trembled with the rustle of urgent footsteps. Servants moved like shadows, each carrying scrolls, missives, and rumors. And in the heart of it all, behind a wall of golden dragons carved into obsidian, sat the Emperor.
He was old—older than many assumed. The years had left their weight upon him, not just in the silver strands in his once-coal black hair, but in the slowness of his movements and the haunted silence behind his eyes. He sat upon a throne of polished moonstone, surrounded by a dais of advisors, but none dared speak when the sealed envelope arrived.
The seal was unmistakable—black wax shaped into the sigil of a lion with a star-shaped eye. The royal mark of the Third Prince.
The Emperor held the letter in one hand, long fingers tracing the wax absentmindedly. For a moment, he stared, not at the seal, but at the meaning behind it. A message from him was never just a message. It was a calculation. A move in a game whose board none of them could fully see.
He broke the seal.
The paper inside was thin, perfumed with violets and inked in the Prince's meticulous, almost beautiful handwriting.
"To His Imperial Majesty, from your faithful son, I invite you to my birthday banquet, to be held in the Western Palace during the Blue Moon week. Nobles from every province will attend. I also have the immense pleasure of announcing that a guest of high regard, Prince Mustafa of the Arqaban Sultanate, shall arrive on that day to discuss diplomatic opportunities. The sands have shifted, Father. The desert winds now blow toward our Empire. Let us open our gates before they are broken open."
The Emperor read the letter three times. Slowly. Carefully. Each word pressed into his mind like nails. When he finished, he lowered the letter and rested it on his knee, his fingers curling with unease.
"Prince Mustafa?" he said aloud, voice distant. "Why is he coming here? Without warning? Without diplomacy?"
None answered.
And he did not expect them to.
He looked beyond the glass pane behind his throne, toward the Empire's banners waving in the wind. Something was coming. And not just war. Something colder. Deeper.
Third was moving again.
Later that Evening – Ravenclaw's Chambers
Ravenclaw returned to his estate after several days of treatment. The explosion had left his side tightly bandaged, and while he hid the pain well, it clung to every breath. Yet what troubled him wasn't his injury. It was what lay on his desk when he entered.
A letter.
Wax-sealed in red, bearing the unmistakable sigil of Princess Sonya.
He closed the door behind him, removed his gloves, and approached. He didn't open it immediately. He stared at it for a while, the firelight flickering across his face, as if trying to read between the folds of paper.
Then he broke the seal.
Inside, her handwriting—neat, slightly slanted. Confident.
To Professor Ravenclaw,
I request your presence at the Royal Opera House, 18:30 sharp, Seat A6.Please be there.
—S.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the short message.
"So," he murmured to himself, "now you want to talk."
He turned the letter over, inspecting the back for runes or poisons. Nothing. Still, he couldn't trust it. Couldn't trust her. She was too clever, too bold. And yet… too desperate to be faking this much concern.
He rose slowly, ran a hand through his dark hair, and whispered, "What are you playing at, Princess?"
The Royal Opera House – 18:30
The orchestra had already begun when he arrived. Not fashionably late, not early—exactly on time.
The Royal Opera House gleamed with obsidian pillars and velvet drapes the color of blood. Gold chandeliers hung like upside-down trees dripping crystal leaves. Nobles were seated in plush rows, masked and murmuring, their laughter light, artificial. The stage glowed, dancers moving like living flame in the haze of candlelight.
Ravenclaw moved through the rows with a predator's poise, black cloak trailing behind him like a shadow stitched from midnight. He spotted Seat A6.
She was already there.
Princess Sonya.
She wore no extravagant gown. Just a sleek, simple black dress with silver embroidery running down the seams like veins. Her blonde hair was swept up in a loose coil, a single blue sapphire pinned at the base of her neck. No guards. No entourage. Just her. A lone figure amidst the masquerade of music and lies.
For a moment, she wondered if he would come. If her note would be ignored. But then, she felt him before she saw him—the weight of his presence cutting through the crowd like a blade.
"You don't strike me as someone who enjoys opera," Ravenclaw said as he sat beside her.
"I don't," she replied, not turning to him. "But I needed a place where no one would dare eavesdrop."
He chuckled once—quiet and humorless. "You've chosen well. The vultures here only pretend to listen."
A beat of silence passed before he added, coldly, "So? What is there to talk about?"
Her eyes met his at last—steady, unwavering.
"What you're thinking," she said. "It isn't true. I didn't place the rune. I would never try to assassinate you."
He raised an eyebrow. "Why should I believe you?"
"Because," she said slowly, "if I wanted you dead, you'd be dead."
A pause. Ravenclaw studied her face, searching for the telltale signs of deception. But she wasn't bluffing. Not this time.
"Bold claim," he murmured.
"It's the truth."
"And what if I told you," he said, voice low, "that I found evidence to the contrary? That the rune used in the explosion bore markings only found in your family's archives?"
She blinked. That was unexpected. Her throat tightened.
"I don't know who did it," she said, more urgently now. "But it wasn't me. You know I'm being targeted. Factories, caravans, informants. Everything I've built is under attack. I don't have time for petty games."
"And yet," he whispered, leaning slightly closer, "you still chose to meet me here, tonight, of all nights."
"Because I knew you'd be planning something," she said. "You always do."
A flicker of a smile danced on his lips—dark, amused, bitter. "Careful, Princess. You're starting to sound like me."
"I don't need to be like you," she said. "But I do need your help. Or at least, your silence."
"Help?" he echoed. "After someone tried to kill me, and the world believes you did it? And you still want help?"
Ravenclaw leaned back, the polished wood of the opera seat creaking faintly beneath him. He kept his gaze forward, but his mind was a tempest of calculations. She was asking for something now—he could feel it coming like a shift in wind before a storm.
Sonya didn't flinch beneath the orchestra's rising crescendo, nor did she lower her eyes. Her voice came soft, measured. A whisper laced with purpose.
"I want your help with something," she said.
Ravenclaw turned his head slowly toward her. "Please," he replied with a sardonic edge. "Do speak."
She didn't delay.
"Why don't we merge as one?"
He went very still.
The words hovered in the air like smoke above a candle. The soprano on stage struck a note so high it pierced the soul, but the true tension was in Seat A6—between the princess with a wounded empire and the noble professor with bloodied hands.
Ravenclaw's voice, when it came, was low and careful. "What… do you mean?"
"I mean," she said, folding her hands in her lap, "someone wants you dead. I believe someone will want me dead too. And soon. Whoever set that rune against you may not stop there."
His eyes narrowed. "Go on."
Sonya tilted her head slightly toward him. Her voice remained steady, but her throat betrayed a dry swallow—just a flicker of hesitation.
"You and I have been rivals," she said. "In trade. In influence. In politics. Even in the Academy. Your Ravenclaw Merchant Company runs ships, caravans, and the lucrative salt routes from the northern mines. My routes connect the steelworks of the west to the markets of the south. Our networks overlap, but we keep undercutting each other."
He didn't deny it. In fact, he smirked.
"And yet," she continued, "in the last six months, both our companies have suffered unusual losses. Sabotaged shipments. Poisoned food. Caravan guards who were bribed or found dead. Warehouses burned in the night."
Now Ravenclaw's eyes sharpened like drawn blades. She had his attention.
"I reviewed the ledgers," she said. "Yours and mine. Whoever is doing this is striking both of us. Intentionally. Precisely. They're not trying to ruin just one of us—they're trying to hollow out the entire merchant class, starting with the most powerful."
"You believe it's the Third Prince," Ravenclaw said flatly.
"I don't believe," she replied. "I know. And I think you do too."
Silence hung between them as the orchestra shifted into a mournful interlude.
"Which is why," she said at last, "I'm proposing an alliance."
He blinked. Once. Slowly.
"Your trade company. And mine. A full merger. Not just in paperwork. I'm talking about shared routes. Shared profits. Shared intelligence. We protect each other's shipments. Cross-cover bribes. Combine networks. Act as one."
He turned toward her completely now, ignoring the performance entirely.
"That's bold," he said. "You're asking for the kind of merger that makes enemies. Not just among nobles—but among the merchant guilds, the landowning dukes, even the navy. You know what they'll say?"
She didn't flinch.
"They'll say a princess and a black-blooded Ravenclaw have formed a private empire within the Empire."
"And let them," she said. "Because while they squabble, we'll own every gate through which gold flows."
Ravenclaw's expression was unreadable. His fingers tapped idly against his leg, mind moving like a strategist across a battlefield.
"And what do you want in return?" he asked. "Because no one makes such an offer unless they're already drowning."
There it was—a slight twitch in her eyes. A blade pressed softly to truth.
"I'm being watched," she admitted. "Not just my company. Me. My inner circle is thinning. Some of my most trusted lieutenants have disappeared. One of them… I found dead last week. Strangled with a wire. No trace left behind except a single coin marked with a crescent."
Ravenclaw stiffened.
"A crescent?"
She nodded.
"That's not the Third Prince," he said grimly. "That's the Order of the Crescent Moon. A death cult from the southern provinces. Mercenaries. They serve whoever pays more. If they've taken an interest in you, then this isn't just a trade war. Someone wants to erase you. Slowly. Efficiently."
"I know," she whispered. "Which is why I need you."
He studied her.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. On stage, the heroine had been betrayed by her lover and now wandered a field of white lilies, her voice trembling with grief. But in that balcony seat, the real play unfolded.
"I have influence," Ravenclaw finally said. "I have ships. Espionage. Smugglers. Spies. Assassins on retainer. You already know this."
"I do," she replied.
"And you," he said, "you have royal immunity. Access to archives I'll never touch. The ability to move men and goods through any checkpoint in the empire. You're protected by name, even if not by blood."
She nodded.
"So this alliance of yours," he said slowly, "isn't built on trust."
"No," she agreed. "It's built on mutual danger."
He exhaled through his nose, dark laughter flickering at the edges of his mouth. "Now that sounds like a deal worth considering."
Then, he leaned closer, voice barely audible above the music.
"But if we do this, Sonya, understand something. We will become a threat. Together, we'll be watched, hunted, feared. The nobles will whisper that the princess has betrayed her bloodline, and I…" He paused, his eyes shadowed. "I will have no allies left. Only you."
"And me," she replied, her voice no longer soft, but steel-wrapped silk. "I'll have only you."
Their eyes met. For a heartbeat, something more than strategy passed between them—something buried deep beneath the layers of masks and iron resolve.
He reached into his coat pocket, produced a thin scroll bearing the Ravenclaw crest.
"One-time use," he said. "An emergency cipher key. Write a message, send it through any merchant relay. It'll reach me, no matter what."
She took it gently, fingers brushing his.
"Then we're agreed," she said.
"For now," he replied. "Let's see how long we survive."
The opera reached its finale—a final gasp, a last betrayal, a blood-red curtain falling over dying eyes.
And in that crimson light, the alliance was forged.