Once a respected lord in the Kingdom of Ellis, Leonardo Eleonor was a childhood friend and confidant to Princess Seraphina, a woman of rare vision and kindness who dreamed of a more just world. Her ideals inspired Leon, who became her devoted protector and unwavering ally. But when the Emperor of Elthor, a man whose appetites knew no bounds, noticed Seraphina's beauty, her fate took a dark turn. To secure their standing, her family sacrificed her to become the Emperor’s concubine, shattering her dreams and ideals.
Desperate to remain by her side, Leon disguised himself as a woman and took on the role of her silent guardian—a royal servant helplessly watching as Seraphina’s life devolved into a cycle of torment and confinement. Each night, he bore witness to the brutal consequences of the Emperor’s attention. The worst blow came after a miscarriage, an event that stripped her of hope and left her pleading with Leon for an escape from her waking nightmare.
“Leon, I see no freedom left in this world—only chains, each link heavier than the last. Can you still call this a sacrifice for the kingdom?” Her voice cracked, a painful symphony of resignation and trust.
Leon’s heart clenched at the words. Time dragged on, each day weighed down by unspoken sorrow. Night after night, Seraphina begged Leon for freedom. Finally, a chance emerged—a desperate plan to flee back to Ellis. But home offered no salvation. Terrified of incurring the Emperor’s wrath, her family deemed Seraphina a liability and prepared to send her back, sealing her fate. Despair broke her final defenses, and she turned to Leon with one last plea: Leon, please kill me...
As they made their way in a carriage, fate intervened. Ambushed by none other than Prince Michaelli of Marceau, a young leader whose name is well known for his ruthless intellect, Seraphina seized a final opportunity. She offered him an ancient piece of Arcanographica—a relic of immense and mysterious power—in exchange for his help in destroying the kingdom that betrayed her.
With calculated interest, Michaelli accepted. The very defense of the Empire of Elthor is helping him achieve his goal rather easily. Under his strategic hand, Ellis fell, its leaders annihilated, and its legacy reduced to ruins. In the ensuing chaos, Seraphina wielded her newfound fury as her only weapon.
When the time came to fulfill their bargain, Seraphina revealed that only through her death could the Arcanographica’s power be transferred to Michaelli, freeing him from his burden temporarily. In return, she made one final request: that he take Leon under his protection. Michaelli, aware of Leon’s ability to decipher the relic’s mysteries, agreed to honor the princess’s wish with a solemn nod.
Seraphina met Leon’s eyes, a quiet smile trembling on her lips, carrying the weight of unsaid words. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice a fragile thread binding them one last time. Gratitude and memories flickered in her gaze—shared laughter, late-night whispers, and lessons that were now ghosts. Michaelli’s jaw clenched.
The act was swift, merciless. Seraphina's life slipped away like the last note of a mournful song, leaving the air thick with silence. Power surged into Michaelli, searing through his veins, but the room’s newfound brilliance only deepened the hollow darkness left behind.
Leon fell to his knees as grief consumed him, a raw, tearing agony that twisted inside his chest. Memories of Seraphina’s laughter echoed like taunts in the stillness, each one striking harder than any blade. He reached for her lifeless hand, fingers trembling, the room spinning as the void she left swallowed him whole.
The room was now empty, an echoing shell where warmth once lived. And as Michaelli stood, power pulsing within him, he glanced at Leon—now a broken man defined not by purpose but by the aching, irreparable loss.
Leonardo Eleonor, relinquishing his title of Marquis of Astoria, became Leon Eleonor, Head Historian to Prince Michaelli. Hardened and relentless, he devoted himself entirely to Michaelli’s cause—to dominate the land and conquer the world. His grief crystallized into unwavering loyalty, as he vowed to continue Seraphina’s twisted legacy. Where his heart was once tender, it was now a fortress; his resolve, an unyielding blade. With Michaelli intent on conquering the land, Leon’s service was driven by a single aim: to uphold the vision of the princess he could not save.
Leon watched the dark sky at the window, his eyes shimmering with unspoken promises. “For you, Seraphina, I would help burn this empire to the ground if it meant your peace.”
--
At the Prince’s Quarters, a figure emerged from the shadows, a lone sentinel whose presence dominated the room with lethal precision. This was no mere warrior of the crimson ranks—this was their commander, known only by the title The Veil. His armor was a seamless blend of shadow and crimson, forged from metal so dark it seemed to swallow the light around him. Each piece fit like a second skin, etched with arcane symbols that had become synonymous with fear across the empire, whispering of battles that never reached a public record.
A mask of polished obsidian covered his eyes, granting him an unnerving anonymity and a silence that masked not just his gaze, but his very intentions. Yet he moved without hesitation, every step carrying an authority that kept even the most hardened warriors of his command in thrall. His gauntlets were sleek and understated, revealing hands that bore no visible scars, suggesting a precision in battle that bordered on unnatural. Around his waist, a single, long blade hung in an intricate scabbard; its hilt was wrapped in dark leather, bearing no adornment except a single, barely perceptible engraving—the great royal ape emblem, marking him as a weapon of the prince’s elite.
He stopped a few paces from the prince’s seat, bowing deeply. His voice, when it came, was low and coarse, reverberating through the chamber like a quiet storm. “Your Highness,” he intoned, his words measured, reverent yet unyielding. Though the prince’s gaze rested on him, it was clear The Veil required no sight to perceive his ruler’s will. Each breath he took seemed in sync with the prince’s own, as if he were not just a man, but an extension of the prince’s most dangerous commands—a weapon in human form, honed, loyal, and waiting only for a signal to strike.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
As he rose, his head inclined slightly, an indication of his complete attention. Here stood a man unbound by sight, yet fully attuned to the empire’s pulse, a harbinger of secrets and shadows, ready to lead the crimson warriors into the empire’s unseen battles.
"Everything is ready. The crimsons are stationed and awaiting your command." A menacing smile curled across the prince's lips. His eyes gleamed in the flickering light.
"Who is it?" he asked, his voice cold yet filled with deadly intent. The warrior raised his head slightly devoid of emotions.
"Terado, from the southern region." The prince stood up, his movements smooth yet filled with purpose. He reached for his coat, preparing to leave, when his trusted advisor, Nixon, hesitated by the doorway. "Your Highness," Nixon spoke with cautious concern, "are you going yourself?"
Michaelli's golden eyes flickered in the dim light, narrowing ever so slightly at Nixon's question. His hand paused on the coat's fabric, tension coiling in his movements. He straightened up, casting a glance at the veil, which silently nodded, understanding his command, before he left and disappeared.
"I will," Michaelli replied, his voice smooth but with an undercurrent of impatience. "Do you think I would leave something this important to anyone else?"
He draped the coat over his shoulders, the soft rustle of fabric breaking the silence. The prince's gaze sharpened as he stepped closer to Nixon, who shifted slightly under the intensity of his stare.
"You hesitate. Why?" Michaelli’s voice was quiet but demanding, each word carrying a subtle weight. He loathed hesitation, especially from those who should understand the precision with which he moved.
Nixon swallowed, bowing his head. "It’s not my place to question, Your Highness. I only fear for your safety."
Michaelli’s lips curled into a faint, humorless smile, his fingers brushing the hilt of his dagger as he passed Nixon.
"Fear?" he echoed softly, his voice a quiet but lethal edge. He stepped past Nixon and into the hallway, his presence growing darker with each step. "If there’s anything left to fear in this world, Nixon, it’s not for my safety." He paused, his gaze cold and unwavering as he glanced back.
"It is me."
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.
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."