Michaelli strode into Prince Terado’s residence, the uncle who once wielded influence as the emperor’s trusted brother. The grand doors crashed open with a force that sent a shiver through the room, a prelude to the chaos that followed. His entourage of crimson warriors entered behind him, their silence only heightening the weight of Michaelli’s arrival. Tonight, the pretense of deference was gone—Michaelli had come to assert his will.
"Search everything," Michaelli commanded, his voice sharp and cold. The crimson warriors moved swiftly, slicing through the palace’s illusion of calm as they searched with practiced precision. The sound of overturning furniture and clattering objects filled the hall like a storm.
Terado appeared moments later, still in his evening attire, the shock etched into his features. The man who once commanded fear now looked small, stripped of his power before the prince. "Your Highness!" Terado gasped, his voice wavering. "What is the meaning of this? I have reported everything, and your men—"
Michaelli’s gaze silenced him, the room falling into an oppressive stillness. The prince advanced with deliberate steps, each one echoing with authority. He spoke with a tone as cold as iron, "Reported everything? Do you think I trust reports, Your Grace?" The way he uttered the title dripped with disdain, a reminder that Terado’s rank meant nothing tonight. "Words can be twisted, masked, like the intentions of those who speak them. I prefer my own eyes."
Terado’s eyes darted around, searching for allies that would not come. His power, once formidable, now faltered under the prince’s relentless scrutiny. Before he could muster a response, a crash sounded from the adjoining room. A warrior stepped forward, holding a bundle of papers with an expressionless face but an air of gravity.
Michaelli’s lips curved into a smile devoid of warmth as he accepted the documents, eyes never leaving his uncle. The moment he glanced at the contents, the air seemed to crackle with a newfound tension. "Tell me, Your Grace," he said, mock curiosity lacing his voice, "how many lives have been bought and sold under your watch?"
Terado’s face blanched, the last remnants of defiance draining away. "I—I had no idea… this must be some mistake—"
Michaelli raised a hand, cutting off his stammering. "A mistake? No, an oversight at best. But rest assured," he leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper that sent a chill through the room, "you will answer for it." With a flick of his wrist, he signaled the warriors. They moved to detain Terado, who sputtered protests that fell on deaf ears.
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The prince turned on his heel, the papers clenched in his fist. The regent’s shouts echoed down the halls as he was dragged away, reduced to the pitiful sound of a man who had lost everything. Michaelli’s gaze shifted to the underground chamber below, where his warriors were freeing prisoners. Amidst the terrified faces, a frail boy stood out, meeting the prince’s eyes with an expression that stirred something in him—something old, buried deep.
Michaelli’s face hardened once more. Tonight, power had shifted irreversibly, and the true reckoning was only beginning.
The prince stood on the platform overlooking the secret underground chamber, his sharp eyes scanning the terrified humans being freed by his warriors. Amidst the crowd, one figure caught his attention—a frail boy who dared to stand before him, his clothes tattered, his face pale with exhaustion. The sight of the child stirred something deep within him.
Michaelli stood still, his golden eyes narrowing as he watched a woman shield the boy, her arms wrapped protectively around him. The scene unfolded like a ghost from his past, awakening memories he had long buried—of his own mother’s desperate embrace, shielding him from a world full of cruelty.
His hands clenched into fists at his sides, tension radiating through his body. The dim light of the underground chamber cast long shadows across the stone walls, but none were darker than the one now festering in his heart. The memories clawed at him, threatening to drag him back to a place he had vowed never to return.
The woman trembled before him, her fear palpable as she held the boy tighter. She bowed deeply, her voice shaking with desperation. "He didn’t mean to offend, Your Highness. Please, spare my son… he’s all I have."
For a brief moment, Michaelli’s gaze softened. His eyes flicked to the boy’s hollow stare, and in that gaze, he saw a reflection of his own past—fear, helplessness, and the same anguish he once carried. The sharp, metallic taste of bitterness filled his mouth, the weight of his mother’s death pressing down on him once more.
His jaw tightened further, a flicker of raw pain flashing behind his golden eyes. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by the cold mask of the prince who now ruled an empire built on strength, not sentiment.
"Stand up," Michaelli ordered, his voice low but commanding, no room for weakness in its tone. The woman hesitated, clutching the boy tighter. Her defiance in protecting the child mirrored the stubborn love his mother had shown him. But he could not—would not—relent.
"You have nothing to fear from me," he continued, forcing the steel back into his voice, though the battle within him was far from won. "But this… this, this wretched suffering," his words grew darker, each one seething with barely restrained fury, "ends tonight."
The woman slowly rose to her feet, though her grip on the boy did not loosen. She looked up at the prince, her tear-streaked face filled with disbelief and hope. Michaelli’s eyes remained fixed on her for a moment longer, as if searching for something in her face—some proof that the world had not completely taken everything from them, as it had from him.
Turning sharply, Michaelli addressed his warriors. "Take them all to safety. They will receive proper care." His voice grew cold again as he added, "Make sure the prince and those responsible for this... are dealt with."
The warriors nodded and dispersed. Michaelli lingered for a moment on the platform, his back turned to the woman and the boy. He couldn’t face them any longer. The pain of seeing that motherly embrace—one he could never feel again—was unbearable.
As he walked away, the flickering torchlight playing across his face, Michaelli whispered to himself, barely audible even to his own ears, "If only love had saved me too."