Heinz laughed as he and Astrala strolled through the palace gardens, enjoying a rare moment of peace together.

Astrala paused to admire a flowering bush, smiling radiantly. "We should collect seeds to plant a garden back home in Talheim," she remarked.

"Excellent idea, my dear," Heinz agreed, walking over to join her. "Once Aeron is firmly established, we can--"

Heinz's words were cut off by Astrala's choked gasp. To his horror, he saw a crimson stain spreading rapidly across her chest. Time froze as she crumpled wordlessly to the ground.

"No!" Heinz cried hoarsely, racing to her side. Her eyes were closed, breath coming in weak rasps. Wildly looking around, Heinz spotted a dark figure vanishing over the garden walls.

"Guards!" He bellowed desperately. "Assassins!" He clutched Astrala close, willing her to hold on.

Chaos erupted as armored men converged on the scene. Gideon pushed through, kneeling to examine Astrala urgently. "Poisoned blade," he said grimly, placing his hands over the wound. A soft glow emanated from them.

Heinz barely processed this, focused only on Astrala's shallow breaths. After tense, agonizing moments, the bleeding finally ceased. But she remained frighteningly still and silent.

"I extracted the toxin, but damage was done," Gideon said solemnly. "We must get her to the physicians immediately."

Heinz lifted his wife's limp body with infinite tenderness. The assassin's blade had failed to take her life, but cruelly stolen her voice. Silently, Heinz wept, praying fate would one day exact justice for this wicked act. For now, he simply cradled Astrala close, willing his strength into her. By the gods' grace, they would endure this blow as they did every trial - together.

He would hunt down those responsible for this cowardly attack. But first and foremost, his place was at Astrala's side, helping her heal. They had walked through shadowed times before. Though darkness pressed in, their light endured if they but held onto hope. And each other

***

Amara hurried through the shelved archives, searching frantically for any scrap of knowledge that could help the stricken Lady Astrala regain her voice. As Imperial Scholar, it was Amara's duty to uncover whatever eldritch remedies or mystical healings the Imperial libraries might hold.

She had combed through dozens of crumbling medical tomes already to no avail. The physicians seemed baffled by the precise nature of the dark poison used. Without understanding the toxin's origins, formulating a cure seemed impossible.

Amara cursed her useless scholarly disciplines. What good was ancient history or theoretical alchemy now when the Emperor's own mother suffered? Her studies always seemed so abstract until brutally weighed against a life hanging in the balance.

Reaching the section on enchanted weaponry, Amara hesitated. Dangerous knowledge resided within these banned books. But didn't such desperate times warrant disregarding rules? What if the answer lay within their forbidden pages?

Hands trembling, Amara lifted down an ominous leather-bound tome titled "Arts of Death and Darkness." She had sworn never to open it, but surely noble purpose justified using its evil wisdom for good? Fighting her ingrained revulsion, she cracked open the ominous book.

Immediately, Amara felt an icy malevolence radiating from the pages. Strange whispers swirled around her, invading her mind with sickening allure. Amara's stomach turned with dawning horror - foul rites and demonic pacts filled every page.

Slamming the book shut, she shoved it away, gagging. What had she been thinking? No matter how urgent the cause, some knowledge was too dangerous ever to touch. She had nearly fallen over the abyss into obsessive madness.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Shaken, Amara sagged against a bookshelf breathing heavily. She had lost sight of right action in her desperation. Duty was to help Aeron and Astrala through compassion, not forbidden arts. Moral clarity mattered more than any dusty text or facile solution.

Straightening, Amara hurried from the archives. She would keep searching tirelessly for some ethical remedy. But it must be one Astrala herself would accept, not achieved through darkness. Wisdom resided in compassion, not coercion. Amara clung to that faith as she continued her vigilant quest

***

Neonatal paced his chambers anxiously. Reports from the capital spoke of a marked deterioration in Aeron's temperament and leadership. The once earnest boy now reportedly lashed out vengefully at all perceived slights or disobedience.

This troubled Neonatal deeply. He had hoped Aeron's innate goodness would elevate the Imperium. But unhealthy influences seemed to be twisting the Thorneborn's judgement toward tyranny and paranoia.

A knock interrupted his brooding. His servant Lily entered, looking grave. "Urgent word, my lord. Aeron has declared himself supreme authority over all local rulers. The Imperial Houses stir uneasily."

Neonatal swore under his breath. This rash overreach would only incite the nobility against Aeron's reign. The boy was unraveling faster than he could guide.

"Has Lord Heinz attempted to counsel caution or temperance?" Neonatal asked, though he suspected the answer.

Lily shook her head sadly. "Since Lady Astrala's injury, he reportedly refuses all contact. Aeron grows ever more isolated."

Neonatal sank into a chair heavily. Would he never stop failing his imperial charges? First the devastating loss of Heartline, now watching Aeron's spirit curdle before his very eyes.

Lily glided over, compassion on her face. "You carry impossible burdens alone, my lord. But perhaps together, we may yet steer Aeron aright."

Neonatal smiled thinly. "Your faith heartens me as always, dear Lily. But Aeron slips further daily down perilous roads. I fear the worst if current darkness continues spreading its pall."

Rising with renewed resolve, Neonatal straightened his robes. "Ready my entourage at once. I ride for the capital before all hope of reconciliation is lost."

Lily bowed. "Your will shall be done, Regent. There are still those who fight for Aeron's light against the gathering gloom."

Hardened by past griefs, Neonatal's heart had learned caution. But he could not stand idle when goodness faltered. Whatever lay ahead, he must try to redeem the Imperium's course before night fell completely. Beacons still shone against the dark if only one knew where to look. For Aeron's sake, and the realms', he would seek them out tirelessly.

***

Ben lurked in the dingy tavern, keeping his head down. Going rogue and abandoning Lord Cyron was proving more complicated than anticipated. Now Ben was a fugitive with elite Imperium forces undoubtedly hunting him. But his conscience had given him no choice.

Ben had embraced Cyron's cynical worldview once, thinking morality and ethics for the naive. Serving dutifully as Cyron's agent, he had justified terrible acts as necessary to advance their aims.

But his cold heart had begun thawing ever since he was tasked with befriending and betraying the kind Priestess Ceils. Her gentle wisdom eroded Ben's icy pragmatism, awakening guilt for his countless past sins.

When the order finally came from Cyron to destroy Ceils's reputation and end Lady Astrala's life, Ben could stomach no more evil. Risking Cyron's lethal wrath, he had vanished and sent the targets discreet warning. It offered some small atonement for his multitude of sins.

Now marked for death himself, Ben wasn't sure where to turn. He never realized how utterly Cyron's schemes had compromised him, poisoning his own soul. There seemed no way forward but futilely running.

The tavern door creaked open, making Ben tense. But it was only a weary looking farmhand, likely just off his morning shift. The man trudged to the bar and ordered plain bread and broth.

Watching him stoically eat the modest meal, Ben was struck by the honest simplicity of the scene. When was the last time he had known such contentment with so little? In Cyron's service, Ben had gained the world, but lost his soul. This plain farmer seemed richer than emperors, needing no lies or dark deeds to sustain him.

As the man departed with a nod to the barkeep, Ben felt something shift inside. He could not erase his past or Cyron's wrath. But perhaps by embracing an upright common life again himself, Ben might rediscover the goodness that once dwelled inside him before ambition and evil took root. There yet remained a chance, however fragile, of redemption if he but had the courage to change course and walk the humble path once more.

Rising slowly, Ben left a few coins on the counter and headed out into the bustling street. He had no grand plan anymore, only a sputtering hope to start anew seeking honest work among decent folk. Away from Cyron's toxic grandeur, Ben might reclaim his humanity.

***

Aeron sat rigidly upon his obsidian throne, struggling to keep his emotions contained as he presided over the unruly council session. The insolent nobles seemed determined to question his every edict, oblivious to the growing unrest threatening to fracture the Imperium.

"Sire, be reasonable," Lord Cyron implored with obvious condescension. "Deploying imperial forces risks escalating regional conflicts. Diplomacy may yet calm tensions."

The patronizing tone ignited Aeron's simmering temper. "You forget yourself, Cyron," he snapped. "I did not convene this council for your endless debate. The troops will mobilize swiftly to crush these uprisings."

Cyron bristled. "My liege, we only wish to advise prudence and restraint..."

"Enough!" Aeron roared, rising from the throne as ripples of energy pulsed through the hall. "Must I remind you all that I am the supreme Thorneborn authority?"

He glared around furiously as the shocked nobles quailed. "The Imperium hangs by a thread because you dither and question while the people cry out for swift justice! But no more. My rule shall be obeyed, or else."

Leaving the thinly veiled threat hanging ominously, Aeron swept from the hall, fuming at their continual resistance. Weak minds refused to understand that order must be imposed by force if subjects repeatedly proved unruly and untrustworthy.

Skulking in the shadows, doubting his capability - Aeron was done suffering such insolence. If the nobility wanted a tyrant, so be it. They would kneel soon enough once his full power was unleashed upon any remaining dissent.

Glaring coldly ahead, Aeron strode toward the training yard where his abilities could be honed into true weapons, not parlour tricks. The time had come to embrace his destiny as unconquerable Thorneborn Emperor and teach in no uncertain terms the cost of defiance. Then they would see if any still dared question his supreme authority over the Imperium