The air in the royal chambers was thick with tension. Ever since Lysandra had returned from the blood-soaked ruins of Arvenmoor, she had remained uncharacteristically silent. The courtiers and spies buzzed with speculation — some said she had glimpsed a vision of the end, others whispered of betrayal.
Yet none dared confront her. Not even her most trusted guards.
The night was unusually still as Lysandra stood before the moonlit mirror, staring at her own reflection. Her once fiery eyes had dimmed into something darker, stormier — a reminder that she had not only changed but evolved. In her palm, the Rune of the Undying pulsed faintly, a gift — or perhaps a curse — from the hidden temple she had survived.
"You are not the girl they sent to be silenced," came a voice from behind.
It was Cassian.
He had returned from the Eastern Reach, battered but alive, with intelligence of a looming rebellion. His face bore the scars of a man who had battled not just soldiers, but fate itself.
Lysandra turned to him slowly. "The shadows are moving faster than we anticipated. Even the loyal ones are growing restless."
Cassian dropped a blood-stained scroll onto the table. "This was intercepted from a courier heading to the Iron Peaks. It contains the royal seal. Someone inside the court is feeding our enemies."
Lysandra gritted her teeth. "Then the throne I sit upon is surrounded by traitors."
She walked toward the window, overlooking the sprawling city of Vireholm, now under martial law. Ever since the massacre at Arvenmoor, fear had gripped the realm. The people no longer saw her as just a ruler, but as a savior — and that frightened those still loyal to the old regime.
Cassian stepped closer. "We need to move first. Expose the snake before it strikes."
She nodded. "Prepare the Crimson Blades. Tonight, we cleanse the court."
Hours later, the palace was ablaze with covert activity. Cassian led the elite unit, moving silently through secret tunnels that connected the throne room with the eastern wing — home to the most powerful nobles.
Lysandra followed in ceremonial armor, her sword "Mercy" gleaming with ancient runes. With every step, she recited the oath taught by her mother — an oath not of loyalty to the crown, but to justice.
They burst into the chamber of Lord Veydran.
The old snake was not surprised.
He smiled, swirling a goblet of crimson wine. "So the lioness bares her claws."
Cassian moved to strike, but Lysandra raised a hand. "Let him speak."
Veydran chuckled. "You think power is held in a blade or a throne? No, child. Power is in the stories whispered after midnight, in the fears children inherit from their fathers. You rule with strength, but they follow me because I understand them."
Lysandra advanced. "You lied. You fed the rebellion. You cost thousands their lives."
Veydran stood. "And yet, they cheer your name. Funny how betrayal tastes like loyalty when the victor writes the tale."
Without hesitation, she drove Mercy through his chest.
He collapsed, the goblet shattering beside him, red wine mingling with blood.
News of the execution spread like wildfire. The court trembled. Half expected Lysandra to begin purging every noble house. But instead, she summoned them to the Great Hall.
She stood alone on the dais, unarmored, wearing a plain black cloak.
"Today, I took the life of a traitor. Not for revenge, but for peace. If any of you wish to follow him — leave now. But if you still believe in the future we build, take a knee."
There was silence.
And then one by one, they knelt.
Not out of fear.
But because they knew the lioness had not only survived the pit but risen to rule the pride.
Cassian later approached her. "You rule not with fear, but with fire. They will follow you to the ends of the world."
Lysandra looked out over the kneeling nobles. "Then let's make sure the world is worth the journey."
But far to the north, where the sky never darkened and the wind howled like mourning spirits, a different council gathered. A hooded figure placed a chess piece carved in Lysandra's likeness on the board.
"She moves swiftly," one figure said.
"Let her," said another, voice hollow and cold. "The deeper she walks into glory, the closer she comes to the abyss."
The hooded figure leaned forward.
"And when she falls... we rise."