The night fell like ink spilled across parchment—slow, thick, and inevitable.
Black Rose Palace lay hushed in shadow, the air thick with the kind of silence only the deep hours of night could carry.
Its stone walls were bathed in silver moonlight, the rain from earlier having cleared, leaving the skies clean and sharp. The roses in the garden—midnight-black with glistening petals—stood still, their scent damp and heavy.
A pale glow dripped through the latticed windows, bathing Evelyn's room in silver. No breeze stirred the drapes. No footsteps echoed in the corridors.
Evelyn slept in her chamber, curled beneath soft quilts, her breathing slow and even. The candle at her bedside had long since flickered out, leaving only the cool light of the moon to spill across the floor.
Her tiny form shifted beneath the embroidered quilt, brows furrowed, lips parted slightly as she twisted in her sleep. The stillness around her was deceptive, for within her slumber, a storm raged.
But her mind was not at peace.
A dream clung to her like the scent of blood on silk.
———
Blood.
It marred the marble like molten rubies—thick, hot, and unforgiving.
A girl no older than sixteen stood amidst chaos.
Screams echoed faintly, as if from a great distance. The clash of steel had long died down, replaced by the silence of death. The great throne hall lay ruined, corpses scattered like discarded dolls, the crimson trail of slaughter leading to the foot of the dais.
Upon the throne, a lone figure still sat.
A man.
With a crown on his head.
Aging but proud, his crown sat heavy on his brow, eyes locked onto the girl who had become death incarnate.
He did not tremble. Did not call for mercy.
He was injured, his robe torn, his crown tilted. Yet he smiled.
A low, humorless chuckle escaped his lips as she approached, sword gripped tight in her hand.
"So,"
he said, voice low, tired, almost fond.
"It ends with you, then."
The girl stepped forward slowly, sword dragging behind her with a metallic hiss. Her eyes, cold and unblinking, never left his. She said nothing.
Armored guards lay strewn across the hall—none spared, none standing.
"A pity…" he rasped, voice tinged with both weariness and pride.
"But... I always knew this day would come eventually."
He slowly raised his gaze to meet the girl's eyes, not with fear—but recognition.
"I expected no less from my blood."
A pause.
"This throne," he murmured, "is not given... it is taken."
With one final step, she raised her blade. It gleamed, red and wet, under the flickering light of dying flames.
And then—
A single, clean stroke.
—and his head fell to the floor with a soft thud.
His crown rolled from his head with a hollow clang, coming to a rest near her blood-soaked feet.
She stood alone—surrounded by death.
Soaked in red.
———
Evelyn's eyes flew open. She jolted upright, her chest heaving.
She sat up sharply, her breathing shallow. Her white hair clung to her temple with sweat, and her fingers clutched at the sheets, knuckles pale. She remained motionless for a while, listening—to the night. To the nothingness. To the past that refused to let her go.
For a long moment, she sat still in the darkness, her pale hair damp against her forehead. The room was quiet—too quiet. Only the wind whispered past the shutters.
She reached up, pressing a hand to her chest.
The heartbeat beneath her ribs was too fast, too loud. She could still smell the iron tang of blood.
But there was no blood here.
No blood.
Only the distant howl of wind and the moonlight pooling on the rug like pale silk spread across the floor.
She exhaled slowly, letting her shoulders fall.
Then, with practiced ease that belied her years, she slipped out of bed and padded barefoot to the tall window that overlooked the garden.
Her feet made no sound as she moved. She pushed open the window just enough to let the cool air kiss her cheeks. Her small hands trembled slightly as she rested them on the frame.
Outside, the moon hung low and full, casting silver light upon the world below. The black roses, drenched from the earlier rain, glittered like obsidian under moonlight. Not a soul stirred in the garden. The world seemed asleep.
But Evelyn was not.
She pressed her palm to the cold glass, resting her forehead beside it. Her eyes—those hauntingly mature blue eyes—stared not at the moon, but through it. Beyond it.
Her breath slowly steadied, but sleep would not return.
She dreamed about it again.
She didn't expect it to.
It's really tiring.
Even after so many years...
It's still haunting.
She didn't speak aloud. There was no need to. The moon was her only audience.
She closed her eyes slowly.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. The girl stood still, watching the stars move ever so slightly across the sky. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled quietly, marking the fifth hour.
She didn't move.
——————
Morning came.
Far from Black Rose Palace, in the heart of the palace, the Grand Hall of Cristiane awakened to a formal gathering.
Sunlight poured in through the tall stained-glass windows, painting the chamber in hues of ruby and gold. The murmur of courtiers filled the air—nobles in rich garments, scribes with scrolls, and guards in polished armor all taking their places.
At the far end of the hall, beneath the twin banners of the Empire, stood the imperial thrones.
Empress Florina De W. La Cristiane sat upon the higher seat, sovereign of the land, cloaked in the finery of her station. Her posture was sharp, regal, commanding the chamber without uttering a word. Her gaze swept across the court—cold and discerning, missing nothing.
At her side sat Emperor Curtis Rosenberg, her consort, a figure of calm and elegance. Auburn hair fell in soft waves to his collar, catching faint traces of light. His expression remained inscrutable, green eyes flickering with unread thoughts.
Guards aligned the perimeter with steel discipline. Robed officials shuffled scrolls. A guard stepped forward to announce the arrival of the High Priest Harven.