The imperial chambers were steeped in silence, broken only by the faint creak of the heavy door as it opened. A servant stepped inside, his movements cautious yet deliberate, the faint flicker of torchlight from the hall casting long shadows across the ornate room.

Both Emperor Valen and Empress Anya stirred at the sound. Valen’s dark eyes opened first, sharp and calculating even as sleep released its hold on him. Anya woke a moment later, her silver hair tumbling over her shoulders as she pushed herself upright. Her piercing gaze locked onto the intruder, her tone curt. “What is it?”

The servant immediately dropped to one knee, bowing deeply. “Your Majesties, forgive the intrusion,” he began, his voice trembling just enough to convey urgency. “A letter has been discovered on the castle grounds… stained with blood and bearing Princess Vanya’s name.”

Valen’s gaze sharpened, his expression betraying nothing but cold focus. “The letter,” he said, his voice low and commanding. “Where is it now?”

“It has been secured in the imperial vault, as per protocol,” the servant replied, his head still bowed.

Anya’s eyes narrowed. “Secured in the vault?” she echoed, her voice rising. “And you come here empty-handed, expecting us to wait while our daughter is mentioned in some bloodstained missive? Bring it to me immediately.”

The servant hesitated, glancing toward Valen as though seeking approval.

Valen’s expression remained calm, but his tone left no room for argument. “The letter will remain in the vault until it is brought before the council. This matter is not to be handled rashly.”

Anya turned to him, her silver eyes blazing. “Rashly? Valen, our daughter’s name is on that letter! We don’t even know what it says, and you expect me to sit idly by?”

Valen met her gaze with cool detachment. “It is precisely because we do not know what it says that we must proceed with care. I will not allow emotion to dictate our actions.”

Anya opened her mouth to retort, but Valen raised a hand, silencing her. He turned back to the servant. “Summon the high officials and order them to assemble in the council chamber immediately. Have the letter brought from the vault under heavy guard.”

The servant bowed deeply. “At once, my Emperor.”

As the servant rose and moved toward the door, Valen’s sharp eyes followed him, catching the brief flicker of something unspoken in the man’s expression. A fleeting glance passed between them—a silent acknowledgment of a plan in motion—before the servant disappeared into the shadows.

Anya did not notice the exchange, her focus entirely on Valen. “You’re too calm, Valen,” she said, her voice tight with frustration. “If this letter is a threat against Vanya—”

“I am calm because I must be,” Valen interrupted, his tone clipped but steady. “The council will convene within the hour. Until then, we wait.”

Anya rose to her feet, her posture rigid, her voice rising. “Wait? You would have me wait while some coward hides behind parchment and blood, threatening our family?”

Valen’s expression softened, but only slightly. “Do you think rushing into this will protect her? We need clarity, not chaos.”

Anya’s jaw tightened, her fury barely contained, but she nodded curtly. “Fine. But when the council convenes, I expect answers.”

“You’ll have them,” Valen replied smoothly, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before turning toward the door. “Prepare yourself. This will require your full composure.”

With a sharp exhale, Anya stormed toward her dressing chamber, her crimson gown trailing behind her like a river of fire.

Valen remained where he stood, his fingers lightly brushing the edge of the bedside table. His lips curved into the faintest of smirks as he murmured to himself, “Let the pieces fall where they may.”

The Council Chamber

The heavy oak doors groaned open, and the imperial guard announced, “Their Majesties, Emperor Valen and Empress Anya.”

The council members rose in unison, their faces taut with apprehension. Valen entered first, his imposing silence amplifying the tension in the room. His sharp features were unreadable, his dark eyes scanning the council with cold precision. Anya followed close behind, her silver hair glinting like a blade in the flickering torchlight.

Despite Valen’s looming presence, it was Anya who commanded the room. She moved with deliberate grace, her gown of deep crimson shimmering like blood in firelight. The empress’s sharp gaze swept across the gathered officials, dissecting each one as though they were a puzzle she was intent on solving.

“Sit,” she ordered, her voice cutting through the room’s silence like a whip.

The council members obeyed immediately, the sound of chairs scraping against stone echoing in the chamber. Anya remained standing, her posture straight, her expression imperious. Valen settled into his throne beside her, his piercing gaze fixed on the officials, though he remained silent.

“Bring me the letter,” Anya demanded, her voice steady but edged with steel.

A stout man in a fur-lined cape hurried forward, clutching the bloodstained parchment. His hands trembled as he placed it on the table before her, his eyes avoiding her piercing gaze.

Anya hesitated, her fingers tightening around the parchment. Then, with a deep breath, she unfolded the letter. Her voice, steady but laced with fury, echoed through the chamber as she read silently:

To Their Imperial Majesties,

The Emperor and Empress of the Everlasting Throne,

We greet you in the shadow of truth, from the devout circle of The Boundless.

Your secrets are not as hidden as you believe. The armor of the Everlasting Throne—the artifact known only within these walls—must be delivered to the coordinates detailed below. You will bring it, unguarded, to the clearing beneath the Hanging Stone by nightfall on the seventh day.

Failure to comply will result in your daughter, Princess Vanya, enduring a fate too horrific for words. Each day you delay will bring her closer to unthinkable torment.

Do not seek us. Do not test us. The Boundless has eyes where you cannot see, and ears where you cannot whisper.

Deliver what we demand, or the crown will bear the weight of her screams.

The Boundless

“This… Boundless,” she began, her eyes flicking up from the letter to the council. “How do they know of the armor? How did this reach the palace grounds without being intercepted?”

The council members exchanged uneasy glances, none daring to speak.

Anya’s voice rose, each word like a hammer striking stone. “Answer me!”

A wiry man near the end of the table cleared his throat nervously. “Your Majesty, we—we are investigating the matter. The guards—”

“Investigating?” Anya snapped, cutting him off. “While my daughter’s life hangs in the balance?” Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “Do not insult me with platitudes.”

The man shrank back into his chair, visibly withering under her glare.

Anya turned her attention to the fur-cloaked official who had brought her the letter. “And what of Eryndor, the servant who reported to us this morning?” she demanded. “Where is he?”

The man stammered, beads of sweat forming on his brow. “He… He has not been seen since early this afternoon, Your Majesty. We believe—”

“Find him,” Anya interrupted, her tone final and unyielding. “He may hold the answers we need.”

Her gaze swept the room again, daring anyone to speak without her permission. When no one did, she leaned forward, placing her palms flat on the table. “The palace will be sealed until further notice. Double the guards on every gate, every corridor. Search the grounds thoroughly. If Eryndor is within these walls, I want him brought to me—alive.”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

The council murmured their assent, their voices barely above whispers.

Anya straightened, her cold gaze moving to each member of the council in turn. “You are dismissed. You will reconvene when I summon you, and not a moment before.”

The council members scrambled to their feet, bowing deeply as they hurried to leave the chamber. The guards saluted and filed out after them.

As the room emptied, Anya finally turned to Valen, her expression softening just slightly. “We will find her,” she said quietly, as if to reassure him—or perhaps herself.

Valen nodded once, his face unreadable, though his eyes glinted with something unspoken.

With one last glance at her husband, Anya swept from the room, her crimson gown trailing behind her like a pool of blood.

Only Valen and Alaric remained, the silence between them heavy. The emperor rose slowly, his movements deliberate as he turned to his adopted son.

“Follow me,” Valen said, his voice low and commanding.

Without another word, he strode toward the door, his dark robes billowing behind him. Alaric hesitated for a brief moment, his gaze flicking to the bloodstained letter still on the table, before following his father into the shadowed hallway.

A Father's Deception

The chamber was dimly lit, with only a pair of ornate sconces casting flickering shadows across the gilded walls. The room reeked of power and secrecy, its opulent decor a stark contrast to the heavy tension hanging in the air. Emperor Valen stood near an intricately carved table, his dark robes pooling around his feet like liquid night. On the table rested a single goblet, the liquid inside glimmering with an unnatural crimson hue.

Alaric entered hesitantly, his expression a mixture of confusion and wariness. “You summoned me, Father?”

Valen turned, his sharp features softening into an unreadable expression. “Yes, Alaric. There is something I must share with you—something that concerns Vanya.”

At the mention of his sister, Alaric’s brow furrowed. “What about her?"

Valen gestured for him to sit, his tone heavy with feigned sorrow. “I brought you here because you may be the key to finding her.” He paused, his piercing gaze locking onto his son. “I know you’ve felt her resentment toward you—her coldness.”

Alaric hesitated, his jaw tightening. “She hates me,” he muttered, his voice strained. “Ever since—”

“She loves you,” Valen interrupted sharply, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. He stepped closer, his tone softening as he continued. “You’ve misunderstood her, my son. She confided in me once, long ago. She admitted that her anger wasn’t truly with you, but with herself.”

Alaric’s eyes flickered with confusion and disbelief. “What are you talking about?”

Valen placed a hand on his son’s shoulder, his grip firm but seemingly reassuring. “When her lover fell in battle—when he followed your orders—it broke her. She blamed you because it was easier than facing the truth. She only wished it hadn’t been you in command that day.”

Alaric’s expression darkened, his fists clenching at his sides. “So she blamed me for doing my duty?”

“She was grieving,” Valen replied smoothly. “But she has come to terms with it. Before she disappeared, she spoke of wanting to make amends with you. She wanted to tell you she forgave you and regretted the years of estrangement. But now…” He trailed off, his voice heavy with implication. “Now she may never get the chance.”

Alaric’s shoulders slumped, the weight of his sister’s supposed regret and the unknown fate pressing down on him. “Why are you telling me this now?”

Valen stepped back, gesturing toward the goblet on the table. “Because time is no longer on our side. The forces that have taken her—those that threaten our empire—are beyond mortal strength. You need power, Alaric. The kind of power that will allow you to protect this family and bring her back.”

Alaric’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the goblet. “And this… will give me that power?”

Valen nodded solemnly. “This is a gift, forged in secrecy and born of ancient knowledge. It will make you stronger, faster—unstoppable. It will give you the ability to protect those you love and strike down those who seek to destroy us.”

Alaric hesitated, his gaze flickering between the goblet and his father. “This won’t turn me into the kind of creature that killed her lover, will it?”

Valen’s expression remained calm, his voice steady. “Of course not. That beast was chaos, mindless and unrestrained. This—this is controlled power. You will not lose yourself. You will become more than you are.”

The hesitation lingered for a moment longer before Alaric reached for the goblet. He lifted it, his fingers trembling slightly as he stared into the swirling liquid. With a deep breath, he tipped it back and drank.

The transformation began almost immediately.

Pain lanced through Alaric’s body, a searing heat that spread from his chest to every limb. He staggered, clutching at the table for support as his veins darkened beneath his skin, twisting like blackened roots. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his fingernails began to lengthen into sharp, obsidian claws.

“What… what is happening?” he choked out, his voice thick with panic.

Valen remained calm, watching the transformation with a measured gaze. “Your body is adjusting, my son. The power is taking root.”

Alaric’s reflection caught his eye in a nearby mirror. His pale skin, the dark veins, the faint elongation of his teeth—it was unmistakable. “You lied to me!” he snarled, his voice a guttural growl. “You said this wouldn’t make me like them!”

“This is necessary,” Valen replied coldly, stepping closer. “You will see that in time.”

But Alaric’s anger surged, and with the last vestiges of his strength, he lunged at his father, drawing his weapon. Before he could reach him, his body convulsed violently, and his vision went black.

The Awakening Below

The cold, damp air seeped into Alaric’s skin as he stirred, the rough stone beneath him a stark reminder of how far he had fallen. The dim crimson glow of runes etched into the cavern walls pulsed faintly, casting jagged shadows that seemed alive.

He pushed himself upright, his movements fluid yet unfamiliar, his body betraying him with its unnatural strength. His memory swirled like a storm—his father, the goblet, the searing pain—and then… his weapon. He had drawn it, his fury driving him to the brink.

His hand moved instinctively to his side, but his weapon was gone.

“I must have dropped it,” he muttered, his voice low and bitter. The thought only fueled his anger.

Before he could dwell on it, a soft hum caught his attention. From the shadows, a woman emerged, her silver hair shimmering in the faint light. She moved with a predatory grace, her crimson eyes gleaming with curiosity and something else—something almost playful.

“You’re awake,” she said, her voice smooth and melodic. She stopped a few paces away, her gaze sweeping over him. Her lips curled into a faint smile, lingering just long enough to suggest more than mere amusement. “You must be Alaric.”

He stood slowly, his stance wary. “And you are?”

“Nyssa,” she replied, tilting her head slightly, as though studying a work of art. Her eyes lingered on his claws, the faint lines of darkened veins beneath his pale skin. “You’re… different already. It suits you.”

Alaric narrowed his eyes. “What is this place? Why am I here?”

Her smile deepened, and she gestured to the shadows behind her. “This is where you belong now. Welcome to the Nightshade Sentinels.”

As if summoned by her words, figures began to materialize from the darkness. Their glowing crimson eyes and deathly pale features marked them as kin to the creature he was becoming. They moved silently, parting as a large, broad-shouldered man stepped forward.

The man’s scarred face twisted into a sneer as he looked Alaric up and down. “So, this is him? The great General Alaric,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery.

Alaric met the man’s gaze evenly. “And you are?”

“Malrik,” he replied, puffing out his chest. “And unlike you, I’ve earned my place here. You? You’re just Valen’s pet General.”

The insult struck like a blow, but Alaric’s expression remained stoic.

Malrik wasn’t finished. He stepped closer, his sneer deepening. “You’ve spent your whole life playing soldier for an empire that doesn’t even see you as its own. You think wearing a title makes you one of them? Makes you worthy of any of this?”

Alaric’s jaw tightened, his claws flexing at his sides.

Malrik laughed, a harsh, grating sound that echoed in the cavern. “Everyone knows the truth, Alaric. You’re not Valen’s son. You’re nothing more than a convenient tool he plucked from obscurity to do his dirty work.” He leaned in, his voice lowering but no less venomous. “And you’re still a tool. You think he made you stronger because he cares about you? Please. You’re just another pawn in his game. You always have been.”

The words hit harder than Alaric expected. His mind flashed to the goblet, the pain of transformation, and the cold way Valen had watched him collapse. A part of him wanted to dismiss Malrik’s taunts, but another part—the part still reeling from his father’s betrayal—found bitter truth in them.

Malrik saw the flicker of doubt in Alaric’s eyes and pressed on. “You’ll never be a true heir to the throne. You don’t have the blood. You don’t have the right. And deep down, you know it.”

Alaric’s anger surged, his breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts. “Say that again,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

Malrik grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “Which part? That you’re not Valen’s real son? That you’re nothing more than a placeholder for a throne you’ll never sit on? Or that your precious father will throw you away the moment you’re no longer useful?”

Alaric took a step forward, his claws flexing. “I said, say it again.”

Before the situation could escalate, Nyssa moved between them with startling speed. She placed a hand on Alaric’s chest, her touch cool and steadying. “Enough,” she said, her voice soft but firm.

Malrik’s grin faltered, but he crossed his arms, his gaze still locked on Alaric. “What’s the matter, General? Can’t handle the truth?”

Nyssa turned her head slightly, her silver hair catching the faint light as she cast Malrik a warning glance. “You’ve made your point, Malrik.”

Malrik scoffed but stepped back, though his eyes never left Alaric. “This isn’t over,” he muttered.

Nyssa’s focus returned to Alaric, her expression softening. She let her hand linger on his chest for a moment longer before stepping back. “Ignore him,” she said, her tone gentler now. “He likes to push buttons. It doesn’t mean he’s right.”

Alaric’s fists unclenched, though his anger simmered just below the surface.

Before he could respond, a deep, commanding voice echoed through the cavern. “He is not wrong,” Valen said, his tone smooth and unyielding.

Alaric turned sharply to see his father stepping out of the shadows, his dark robes billowing like smoke. His piercing gaze swept the room, silencing the murmurs of the other Sentinels.

“You were not born to this throne,” Valen continued, his voice calm yet cutting. “But that does not mean you are unworthy of it. Your strength, your resolve—these are what define you. Not blood.”

Alaric’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Valen stepped closer, his presence suffocating. “You will lead them, Alaric. Whether they respect you now or not, they will follow. And when the time comes, you will prove your worth—to them, to this empire, and to yourself.”

The room was silent, the tension thick enough to cut. Nyssa stepped back, her expression unreadable as she watched Alaric and Valen.

Alaric held his father’s gaze for a long moment before finally nodding, though his anger and doubt still churned within him.

Valen’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Good.”

As he turned and disappeared into the shadows, the rest of the Sentinels began to disperse, their whispers echoing in the cavern. Alaric stood alone for a moment, the weight of his father’s words—and Malrik’s taunts—pressing down on him like a crushing tide.

“Welcome to the darkness, Alaric,” Nyssa said softly, her voice carrying a strange mix of warmth and warning.

He said nothing, his mind a storm of fury and doubt.