The cold bite of morning air slipped through cracks in the wooden cottage wall, but Mirelleth barely noticed it. What stirred her instead was the familiar rustle of straw beneath her. Her eyes fluttered open slowly, the remnants of a beautiful dream clinging like mist to her lashes, the dream of him.
Lucien.
For a moment, her heart sank, wondering if the events of the previous night had been just that, a figment of fantasy. But then she turned, and her fingers brushed the dried velvet petal of a rare blue rose upon her modest nightstand. Its ethereal fragrance lingered, and its presence whispered truth into her memory.
It had happened.
She had fallen asleep on Prince Lucien's chest, beneath the stars of Artherion, lulled by the safety of his embrace and the softness of his voice.
But morning that's all past, reality is now.
She rose from the straw bed and slipped into her simple handmaid garments—grey cotton blouse, dull blue skirt, and white apron. She tucked the blue rose between her ear and head with care. Even in its silence, the flower pulsed faintly with magic.
Outside the servant quarters, the castle was still waking. That said, only the castle guards and a handful of servants were awake.
But within the halls of Dravenguard's gothic halls,was another quiet awakening, one made of whispers and rumors.
"That's the one," murmured a kitchen boy to his friend, nodding toward Mirelleth as she walked past with a tray of folded linens. "The one Prince Lucien danced with."
"A mere handmaid? She must've cast a charm on him," a guard muttered as she passed. He didn't bother lowering his voice.
"Or he lost a wager," another laughed.
"What is she that he'd be so mindful of her?"
Servant boys lingered by the halls she walked, feigning chores, eager for a glimpse. One reached out, brushing against her arm. "You dropped something, my lady," he said, though she hadn't. His gaze lingered too long.
I hurried on, i felt my cheeks flush, my heart pounding. But before I could round the corner, another hand brushed my back.
"Mirelleth. That's your name, isn't it?" said a castle squire, stepping in her way.
I bowed my head. "Please, excuse me. I have duties."
"I can give you better duties," he said, leaning in, his breath warm.
She recoiled.
A gust of cool wind passed between them suddenly. The blue rose pulsed, and the squire froze.
He stepped back without knowing why, blinking. I touched the rose with my trembling fingers.
But things only worsened when she entered the royal suite.
Princess Vaeloria's younger siblings, Lady Elwyna and Lord Caedros, stood near the window, the morning sun catching in their perfectly styled hair and gleaming jewelry. Vaeloria needed me and they summoned me. I was going to tell them that I had duties to my princess Vaeloria.
"What's that on your hair, rat?" Elwyna hissed, pointing at the rose.
"It reeks of enchantment," Caedros sneered. "No doubt you snuck into his bed to get it."
"Prince Lucien is too noble to notice a mouse like you," Elwyna added. "Unless he pities you."
"He danced with me," I whispered.
"Exactly!" Caedros snarled. "And now our entire realm is mocked for it. The handmaid who dared reach beyond her station."
They approached her, like jackals. Caedros reached for the rose.
But his hand halted, fingers trembling, caught inches from it.
The blue rose pulsed again. A wave of unseen force rippled outward, filling the chamber with a sudden chill.
He cursed and pulled away. Elwyna gasped.
"You're cursed," she spat. "Keep your foul magic away from us."
Mirelleth said nothing. She held her head down and quickly left the room, her dignity trailing behind her like a threadbare cloak.
Away in the Prince Alaric's chambers, he sat wrapped in dark linens, wounds bandaged, his upper torso exposed to the cold.
The court physician adjusted a salve on his shoulder. "You survived, barely. You've broken five ribs."
Alaric didn't reply. His eyes stared blankly into the fireplace.
Lucien's image replayed in his mind, glowing eyes, effortless dodges, fists that shattered stone. The way his sword had appeared—Themnion.
A name carved into his soul.
"I must surpass him," Alaric whispered.
The physician blinked. "Your Highness?"
Alaric turned his gaze up slowly.
"I must find power. Darker, deeper power. The kind that swallows kingdoms. I will burn Artherion to ashes and make him kneel."
The physician said nothing, but in his heart, he feared what those words could mean.
Meanwhile, in a place between time and breath, far from mortal sight, the Spirit Realm churned.
A vast obsidian throne floated above endless darkness. Its edges were lit by unholy sigils, and its presence exuded despair. Seated upon it, crowned in horns and flame, was King Ashkeroth.
Around him, summoned from forgotten tombs and infernal realms, stood a gathering unlike any the realms had seen.
A host of dark angels, each bearing six black wings. Legions of demons, clawed and armored in voidsteel. Circles of witches and warlocks who would chant ancient curses in tongues never meant for mortal lips. Even spirits of long-dead kings knelt among them, their crowns rusted with time.
The grand hall of shadow pulsed with energy.
"You are summoned," Ashkeroth's voice boomed. "Because I have seen the light. And I desire it."
He stood from his throne, robes of ash trailing like smoke.
"King Elyrion of Artherion reigns over the greatest of the realms. He sits above all. His kingdom does not hunger. His people do not fear. And his power..."
He paused, fists clenched.
"...is beyond measure."
The gathering murmured.
"I will surpass him," Ashkeroth said, eyes glowing. "I will be king above kings, god above gods. We will tear down Artherion, and all who stand with it."
He extended his hand, and a flaming map of the realms appeared in the air.
"Our first targets are the border kingdoms. We shall cripple their alliances. Poison their wells. Fracture their councils. Every realm that bends the knee to King Elyrion shall be brought to heel."
A dark angel stepped forward. "And Lucien?"
"Lucien is the thorn in my vision. His power rivals the dawn. We must strike before he becomes unbreakable."
Demons roared their approval. Warlocks etched blood-sigils in the air. Spirits wailed in agreement.
The plan had begun.
Night in the exaulted castle of Artherion was a portrait of stillness.
The moonlight spilled across the throne room like silver silk, coating the marble floor in quiet reflection.
King Elyrion sat unmoving on his throne, one hand on his chin. His face was like ancient stone carved, unreadable. But his eyes glowed, faintly.
Beside him, the knight who always stood guard remained as ever, a tower of polished silver armor. The moonlight danced on his shoulders, and behind his visor, his eyes glowed the same frosty hue.
They said nothing
Their sight however, saw across all spiritual realms and dimensions. They had a clear viewing of the meeting that was just taking in a certain dimension in the spirit realm.
Ashkeroth's plan.
His ambition.
His summoning.
Elyrion's lips curved, barely.
"It begins," the king said.
The knight nodded.
And in the silence of moonlight, the shadows stirred.