The Grand Hall of Asterion Palace blazed with light and color on the evening of the pardon banquet. Hundreds of lanterns glimmered along gilded walls; beneath the vast domed ceiling, noblemen and women in vibrant silks mingled with high-ranking officers and foreign dignitaries. Laughter and the clink of goblets echoed as servants weaved through, bearing platters of spiced lamb, jeweled rice, and flutes of sparkling arak.
At the head of the hall on a raised dais sat Emperor Arslan, flanked on one side by Soraya and on the other by General Safid and High Priest Basir. The Emperor wore formal attire—a deep blue kaftan with golden thread in lion motifs—and a circlet crown gleaming on his brow. He was the picture of serene leadership, offering smiles and courteous nods to all. Yet beneath the calm, his senses were sharpened to a razor's edge.
Soraya, in a burgundy gown and modest diadem, leaned slightly toward Arslan as a tray of cups passed. "Third course nearly finished," she murmured behind her fan, voice drowned to others by the hall's chatter. "They'll move soon."
Arslan gave the subtlest inclination of his head. His eyes scanned the long banquet tables stretching before him. Near the center, Minister Aru engaged a rebel lord in conversation, face betraying none of the malice underneath. Lord Atash was further down, entertaining a pair of merchants with jokes, though his gaze flickered now and then toward the high table. They were waiting for the moment.
Parissa and Darya stood off to one side of the hall among the musicians. Parissa caught Arslan's eye and lifted her lute slightly—a signal that her special performance was ready. Arslan raised his goblet to her in acknowledgment, though it was still empty. No wine had touched his lips tonight, by design.
The banquet was ostensibly to celebrate amnesty and unity. At Arslan's insistence, the first two courses passed with only water in his cup, under the pretense of cleansing the palate and honoring the new purified fountains. Traditionalists had grumbled under breath, but Basir had publicly praised the gesture as wise temperance. That set the stage for what was to come.
Now, dessert had been served—honey pastries and pomegranate sorbet. It was time for the ceremonial final toast of reconciliation.
Rashid, standing behind the Emperor, smoothly stepped forward and tapped a spoon against a carafe. The clear chime quieted the hall. Liveried servants appeared at the edges with bottles of rich Qarthene red wine—King Karim's Reserve, a famously rare vintage that Lord Atash had "graciously" provided for the occasion. Atash watched keenly as his servants began to pour.
Before any toast, Parissa took center floor with her lute. She bowed to the Emperor and guests. "My lords and ladies, in celebration of peace, I humbly offer a new ode." She strummed a gentle chord and her voice rose, mellifluous and bright:
"In gardens of twilight the lion lays down,
His blood-won victory shading golden crown.
Friends and foes gather, to toast in his name,
A wine ruby-red, a drink of dark fame.
Yet caution abides in the wise ruler's heart,
For venom may lurk where we least see its dart.
He lifts crystal water to lips unafraid,
Its purity certain by crafts we have made.
O beloved country, your future is clear,
No poison of old can instill any fear.
With unity's chalice we shatter deceit,
At dawn, the lion and sun shall meet."
Her poem's words, though flowing to most listeners as a tribute to temperance and unity, carried layered meaning. Certain phrases rang like bells for those in the know: "wine ruby-red… drink of dark fame… venom may lurk" – all hinting at poisoned wine. "Lifts crystal water to lips" – the plan for Arslan to abstain. Safid, Darius (standing with other officers), and a handful of pre-briefed guards around the room picked up on it, tensing subtly.
Arslan hid a proud smile behind a sip of plain water as Parissa concluded to polite applause. Minister Aru's face had tightened at the poem's references; he dabbed his forehead with a kerchief. Lord Atash chuckled lightly to those beside him, but his eyes had narrowed at the mention of poison and the Emperor favoring water.
High Priest Basir, blissfully unaware of the subtext, raised his cup appreciatively. "What a thoughtful ode," he boomed. "Truly, an omen of clarity and purity. Well done, Lady Parissa!"
Arslan rose from his seat. All eyes turned to the Emperor. Servants stepped forward to fill the imperial goblet with Atash's red wine for the final toast.
Aru's gaze sharpened. Atash leaned almost imperceptibly forward. In Arslan's periphery, he saw one of Atash's Qarthene footmen—no doubt the poisoner—hover at the table's edge with a small vial partly hidden in his sleeve as he poured Arslan's drink. The Emperor's goblet now brimmed with red.
Arslan lifted his goblet high. The time had come to turn the tables. "My friends," he began, voice resonant in the hush. "Tonight we celebrate reconciliation and the future of our great empire. In that spirit, I wish to add a personal gesture to this final toast."
He nodded subtly to Soraya and Rashid. Rashid deftly stepped forward with a tall crystal jug of water—the very same purified water from the city's reborn fountains—filling a second cup that sat empty before Arslan.
Arslan set aside the wine and instead took up the cup of water. A ripple of surprise and puzzlement spread through the guests.
"In honor of the sacrifices and hard lessons of this past year," Arslan proclaimed, "I forgo wine and drink water—pure water—symbol of the new life flowing in our city. May our renewal be unmarred by bitterness or deceit, as clean as this water gifted by the grace of the Divine and the ingenuity of our people."
Those who understood the double meaning found it hard not to smile. Leilah, among the attendees as a guest of honor, lowered her gaze to hide her grin. Safid thumped a fist quietly in support. Soraya's eyes flashed with pride.
Aru's jaw tightened; his hand on his goblet trembled just a bit. Atash forced a genial laugh. "What an admirable sentiment, Your Majesty," he called out. "Though I hope you won't mind if we less pious still partake of fine wine on this joyous night."
"Of course, my lord," Arslan replied graciously. "Everyone, please—drink what your heart desires. Tonight we each choose our own toast."
Basir raised his wine, not perceiving any danger. "To unity and long life to Emperor Arslan!" he intoned.
A chorus followed, hundreds of voices: "To unity and Emperor Arslan!"
Arslan lifted his cup of water and drank deeply, eyes never leaving Aru and Atash over the rim. All around, guests drank from their own cups of wine or water, as they wished. Soraya and the other women of the harem matched Arslan, conspicuously drinking only water with serene smiles.
The hall echoed with the satisfied sighs of a good toast. Only a few noticed that Minister Aru had barely touched his wine, setting it down with a look of consternation. Lord Atash drained his cup, face unreadable, then politely excused himself from those nearby and stepped into the shadows by a column, tugging on his sleeve—a signal to someone.
Arslan caught the small gesture. Atash was likely rushing to adjust their plan. The poison gambit had failed; the Emperor yet lived and was even making a point to highlight "no poison of old can instill fear," as Parissa's poem had said. They must be furious.
Moments later, Arslan saw a Qarthene servant—the one who poured his wine—slip quietly out a side door. Rashid gave a tiny nod and two palace guards followed discreetly. They would apprehend the poisoner outside and find evidence on him, if possible.
Soraya leaned in as the music and chatter resumed, the guests none the wiser to the drama under the surface. "They'll likely move to the next phase now," she whispered. Her fan hid her lips, her smile to others seeming like idle banter with the Emperor.
"Agreed," Arslan replied softly. He placed his hand over hers briefly in an affectionate guise. "Be ready. We stick to the routine for now. When the banquet ends, proceed as if retiring to the harem wing as usual."
Soraya's lashes lowered in acknowledgment. "And you, my lion?"
"I will do the same. Let them think complacency has lulled us." He paused, then added with a faint smirk, "Perhaps I'll even appear a bit tipsy on our non-alcoholic libations, to ensure they assume I'm off guard."
Soraya stifled a laugh. "Just not too tipsy, love. We need your balance for what's coming."
Nearby, Basir engaged Arslan in conversation about the day's earlier pardons, oblivious to the silent exchange between Emperor and consort. Arslan answered the High Priest amiably, all the while maintaining peripheral watch on Aru and Atash.
Minister Aru excused himself shortly after Atash, citing fatigue, and left the hall with measured strides. If one hadn't known better, it would seem an innocuous departure. But Arslan knew Aru was moving to the shadows to coordinate the more violent follow-up.
The banquet wound down without incident. The rebel lords thanked Arslan for his mercy, many vowing fealty anew. Music played soft and slow as guests drifted out in high spirits, bellies full and fears of war at ease. It was, to the masses, a triumph of reconciliation.
Behind the curtain of normalcy, however, imperial loyalists steeled themselves. Safid quietly stationed double guards at key corridors. Leilah slipped away to double-check her warding runes on the palace grounds. Darya departed early under pretense of a headache—going to ready her signal drums in the harem quarters. Parissa went with her, arm in arm, as if offering support, but truly to position herself near Soraya for whatever might come.
Finally, Emperor Arslan made a gracious exit, Soraya on his arm, as the last courtiers bowed them out. They walked together down the torch-lit hallway towards the royal private wing, accompanied by Rashid and two eunuch guards with lanterns.
The instant they were out of earshot of lingering guests, Soraya whispered, "Do you think they'll strike while we sleep?"
Arslan's expression hardened. "They will strike before we wake—assuming we sleep at all. Likely in the darkest hours before dawn, when even wary guards might relax."
Soraya nodded. "Our women are ready. Yvara has the younger attendants and less experienced concubines secured in the inner chambers, away from likely entry points. Every eunuch guard has a whistle and weapon."
Arslan's heart swelled with a mixture of anger and admiration—anger that his beloved needed to prepare for an attack under her own roof, admiration at how capable they all were. He squeezed Soraya's hand. "We'll get through this night. Together."
They reached a junction; Rashid split off with one guard to deliver sealed orders to Safid elsewhere, leaving one lantern-bearing eunuch to escort Arslan and Soraya to the Harem wing. The corridor ahead flickered in the low light.
Arslan feigned a yawn and a lazy drape of his arm around Soraya's waist, acting every bit the content, perhaps slightly inebriated husband seeing his partner to bed. Soraya leaned into him with a soft giggle that masked her alertness. They were playing their parts flawlessly.
But when Soraya spoke next, her tone was sober and low, for Arslan's ears only: "Our enemy's mask is off now. I saw hatred in Aru's eyes as he left. They'll be desperate."
Arslan's eyes blazed. For a moment, he envisioned the fight to come in all its violence—and welcomed it. "Desperate animals make mistakes. We'll be ready to end this." He glanced at the eunuch guard who walked a respectful distance ahead with the lantern—one of Rashid's most trusted men, who was discreetly tightening his grip on his sheathed blade. Yes, they were all on edge and poised.
The harem wing doors came into view—a pair of ornate wooden panels carved with flowering vines, currently open and attended by two vigilant eunuchs. Warm light spilled out along with the muted sound of female chatter. Within, presumably, the concubines maintained a facade of evening normalcy—music, laughter—despite knowing danger crept outside.
Soraya briefly touched the small knife she had concealed at her hip beneath her gown, as if to reassure herself it was there. Arslan noticed and gave her a barely perceptible nod. "Stay close to me once it begins," he murmured.
Soraya's dark eyes flashed. "Don't dare suggest I hide behind you, Arslan." Her voice held a tremor of passion. "We stand back to back, or not at all. I'll not cower while you bleed for me."
Arslan felt a surge of fierce love. He knew better than to argue—Soraya's spirit was as unyielding as his own. "Back to back then," he agreed softly.
They crossed the threshold into the harem apartments, the familiar scent of jasmine and lamp oil greeting them. The eunuch guard closed the heavy doors behind them, sliding the bolt. Outside, two more would stand watch and alert at the first sign of intrusion.
Inside, the spacious common chamber was lit by dozens of lamps, throwing dancing patterns on mosaic walls. Leilah sat calmly at a writing desk, quill in hand as if journaling, though Arslan suspected she was tracing one last protective rune into the wood. Yvara lounged on a divan with an embroidery hoop, glasses perched on her nose; she looked the picture of a relaxed elder focusing on needlework, but a short sword lay unsheathed but hidden in the folds of her skirts. Nasrin played a game of chess with one of the younger concubines, murmuring praise or chiding moves—yet Arslan glimpsed the glint of steel spikes strapped to her forearm under her sleeve, tiny throwing knives perhaps. Parissa was tuning a hand harp, while Darya across the room quietly beat a soft rhythm on a goblet drum, a lullaby-like pattern that nonetheless kept everyone's nerves steady.
All eyes flicked to Arslan and Soraya as they entered, relief and resolve in equal measure visible for an instant before the women acted casual.
Yvara rose and bowed her head. "Majesty, my lady, you return earlier than expected. Shall we fetch tea?" she offered, tone perfectly normal.
"Thank you, Yvara," Soraya said, playing along. "Perhaps chamomile, to settle after the night's excitement."
It was a coded message of their own—chamomile being the agreed word to indicate all was proceeding to plan, and they should enact the final preparations.
Yvara nodded and clapped her hands. A pair of young attendant girls—barely teenagers, who had been in the corner with a tray—stood, prepared to actually brew some chamomile tea.
Arslan almost told them not to bother—tonight was no time for the young ones to remain in harm's way—but Yvara caught his eye with a gentle firmness. The semblance of routine would keep everyone calm. And the attendants themselves likely felt safer with a task to do rather than cowering idly.
Soraya moved to stand by Darya, who met her gaze and subtly shifted her drumming pattern—a prearranged acknowledgement that all watchers and signals were set. From outside the walls came the faintest echo of a night bird's chirp: Safid's men assuming posts. Leilah dipped her quill and drew one final sigil on a page, then leaned back, closing her eyes briefly—attuning her magical senses for breaches.
Arslan inhaled slowly, deeply. The air felt thick with anticipation. Somewhere out there in the dark, Aru's assassins were surely slithering closer. But in here, within these walls, he felt the strength of every soul around him. This wing of the palace was known as the Harem, the inner sanctum, often dismissed by outsiders as a place of idle women and soft pleasures. Tonight it was a fortress of loyalty, knowledge, and courage.
He removed his circlet and outer robe, trading the regal attire for more practical readiness. Underneath he wore a light mail tunic—just in case—and his lion-head sword was already strapped at his side. He looked not like a vulnerable emperor ready for bed, but a warrior in waiting.
Soraya similarly kicked off her embroidered slippers and flexed her feet on the cool marble, easier to fight or flee barefoot if needed. Parissa gently set aside her harp and moved closer to Nasrin and the chessboard—where within arm's reach lay a hidden crossbow already cocked beneath the sofa. Darya's lullaby on the drum grew softer, slower, lulling.
Arslan went to each lamp and personally adjusted the wick lower. He left just enough light to see by, but dim enough that sudden darkness would not blind them should the lamps be snuffed by intruders. The women continued their quiet pantomime of a normal late evening, but their eyes followed Arslan, understanding his intent. The shadows grew long and deep in the corners of the chamber.
Midnight approached. Outside, the palace was still, most law-abiding folk abed. But in that hush lay menace. Arslan felt it like a prickle on his skin—the oncoming violence, the final play of the conspirators. He rolled his shoulders, loosening muscles, and settled on a stance near the center of the chamber.
Soraya drifted to his left, ostensibly to admire one of Parissa's tapestries on the wall, but truly to position herself back-to-back with Arslan when needed. Leilah quietly capped her ink and moved nearer to Darya and her drum.
Time slowed to a knife's edge. The last candle fluttered; a breeze slipped under the door—odd, as all windows were shut. Arslan's hand found his sword hilt. The others tensed, though no signal had been given yet. But Arslan knew: the moment was upon them.
Beyond the door, in the silence, there came a muffled thump—perhaps a guard's body dropping. Then a faint metallic scrape as a lockpick probed the outer latch.
Darya's lullaby ceased.
Arslan drew his blade with a steely whisper of metal.
The Night of Knives had come.
Chapter 37: Night of Knives
Midnight's silence shattered as the harem wing's doors burst open under a forceful kick. The ornate wooden panels flew inward, one hanging splintered from a single hinge. In rushed half a dozen figures swathed in black from head to toe, faces veiled save for glaring eyes. Each moved with eerie, predatory grace—assassins of the Daughters of Xesh, armed with curved daggers and short swords that caught the dim lamplight.
They found not cowering women in darkness, but a readied pride of lions.
Darya's lullaby ceased and transformed in an instant. She brought her goblet drum down on the marble floor hard—boom!—and then began pounding out a rapid, pulsing alarm rhythm that echoed through the corridors. The gentle concubine was now a war drummer summoning reinforcements.
The lead assassin hissed, gesturing sharply. Two of her comrades veered toward Darya to silence that drum. They dashed across the room, blades extended like vipers' fangs.
Arslan was faster. With a feral roar, he lunged to intercept, lion-headed kilij arcing. Steel met steel in a burst of sparks as he parried the first assassin's sword so forcefully it jarred the attacker's arm. Without pause, Arslan pivoted and drove his elbow into the second assassin's masked face, sending her staggering back with a muffled cry.
The chamber erupted into chaos and clamor. Eunuch guards, alerted by Darya's drum, sprang from concealed alcoves via hidden sliding panels in the walls—secret passages long used to discreetly service the harem now disgorged armed protectors behind the intruders. Three eunuchs barreled into the back of the group of assassins, scimitars flashing. The ambush reversed—attackers became the surrounded.
An assassin with tattooed wrists whirled to face the new threat and slashed a guard across the thigh; the guard grunted but held his ground, engaging fiercely. Another assassin tossed a throwing knife at Darya's drum. The blade lodged in the instrument's side, narrowly missing Darya's hand. Darya gasped but kept beating with her other hand, rallying more guards from afar.
Soraya snatched up a fallen steel poker from the fireplace and positioned herself at Arslan's flank, eyes blazing. One assassin peeled away from the melee and made for Soraya, twin daggers weaving in a deadly dance. The woman hissed something in Qarthene—perhaps recognizing the prized concubine from her homeland turned imperial power.
Soraya answered with cold steel. The assassin feinted low; Soraya parried clumsily with the iron poker, the clang jarring her arm. The assassin followed with a second blade aimed for Soraya's heart. Soraya sidestepped desperately, the dagger grazing her ribs and slicing through burgundy silk—drawing a bright line of blood.
Before the killer could strike again, a blur of motion slammed into her. Nasrin had launched herself across a chaise and crashed full-force into Soraya's assailant. All three women tumbled to the floor in a tangle. Nasrin yanked a small stiletto from her sleeve and drove it under the assassin's chin with ruthless precision. The woman spasmed once and went limp, Nasrin's blade finding the brain.
Soraya pressed a hand to the shallow cut at her side, already trying to rise. "Thank you," she panted to Nasrin.
Nasrin, breathless and eyes wide with adrenaline, managed a tight grin. "I owed her that," she said, voice shaking only slightly.
Across the room, Parissa ducked behind a pillar as an assassin's sword whooshed by, shaving chips of mosaic. The elegant poetess had armed herself with the only thing at hand—her harp. As the assassin came at her again, Parissa swung the instrument with surprising ferocity. The hardwood frame cracked against the attacker's temple, the strings emitting a discordant twang as they broke. The assassin stumbled, dazed.
From the side, Yvara appeared with uncanny swiftness for her age. In her hand glinted a short curved dagger kept hidden in her embroidery basket. With a resolute cry, Yvara plunged the blade into the midsection of Parissa's staggered assailant. The black-clad woman doubled over, choking. Yvara struck again, decisively, and the foe crumpled at the elder concubine's slippered feet.
Yvara pulled her bloody dagger free, face stern. "No one hurts my girls," she spat at the dying assassin, voice trembling with anger.
Meanwhile, Arslan found himself pressed by two attackers at once. They circled him like jackals, one feinting high with a sword, the other low with twin daggers. Arslan's blade whirled to block and counter—he was a whirlwind of honed muscle and enchanted steel. The lion pommel of his kilij glowed faintly now, ancient runes along the blade igniting as he channeled his will through it.
The assassin to his left lunged, blade aimed for Arslan's neck. Arslan parried and riposted in one fluid motion, slashing across the attacker's chest. His runic blade sheared through leather and the man shrieked as a trail of blue fire burned in the sword's wake, the runes searing flesh beyond the mere cut. He collapsed, smoking and wailing.
The remaining attacker—a tall woman with eyes of cold fury—hesitated at the sight. In that heartbeat, Arslan raised his sword and spoke a word in the tongue of runes Livia the archivist had taught him long ago. The nearest lamp flame leapt to life, drawn along the blade's edge by magic. Arslan swung in a blazing arc. The assassin stumbled back, arms raised too late as the flaming sword cleaved through, sending her daggers clattering to the floor along with the hands that held them. She howled, collapsing in shock and pain.
Sudden quiet fell. Of the six assassins, four lay dead or dying. One was captured by eunuch guards, pinned face-down, hissing curses. The final, the lead who'd been staggered by Arslan's initial blow, tried to limp toward the door, clutching a broken arm.
Captain Darius arrived at that very moment, bursting through the shattered doorway with half a dozen Lion Guards in tow—the reinforcements Darya's alarm had summoned. Seeing the last assassin trying to escape, Darius hurled his lance with unerring aim. It struck the fleeing cultist in the back, pitching her to the floor where she moved no more.
Arslan surveyed the carnage, chest heaving. His sword's flames extinguished now, leaving only the smell of charred flesh, blood and lamp oil in the air. The entire skirmish had lasted perhaps minutes, but the toll was stark. Two eunuch guards lay slain by the door, throats slashed where they'd clearly been ambushed from behind—likely the thump Arslan heard outside earlier. A third guard sat against the wall holding his bleeding thigh, though he offered a thumbs-up when Arslan's eyes met his.
Of the companions: Soraya's gown was stained red at the side, but the cut was shallow. Nasrin knelt by her, already binding the wound with strips torn from a veil. Parissa was unhurt aside from a bruise on her shoulder—and lamenting softly that her harp was destroyed. Yvara offered a steadying hand to Parissa while wiping her own dagger with a silk cloth, her wrinkles set in grim satisfaction. Darya emerged from behind her drum, heart pounding but otherwise fine; she absentmindedly touched the knife embedded in the drum's frame with incredulity. Leilah rushed to the injured eunuch with her satchel of salves, having prepared for the worst; her hands glowed faintly as she whispered a numbing spell to ease the guard's pain.
Rashid, who had arrived just behind Darius's men, barked orders to secure the area. "Captain, post your men at all entries. No one enters or leaves except on His Majesty's command."
Darius saluted, then placed a fist over his chest to Arslan. "My Emperor, are you harmed?"
Arslan wiped sweat—and a streak of someone else's blood—from his brow. "I am well. Thanks to all of you." He looked around at the battered but alive group of loyalists in the harem chamber and felt a swell of fierce pride. This was his family, forged not by blood but by trust and trial.
Soraya stood, Nasrin helping her, and despite the wound at her side she crossed to Arslan and threw her arms around him. Arslan embraced her tightly, mindful of her injury. For a brief moment, neither cared who watched. They had survived, together.
Soraya pulled back and her eyes, bright with unshed tears of relief and rage, fixed on Arslan's. "They wanted to butcher us in our home," she whispered shakily.
"And they failed," Arslan replied, voice steeled. He gently brushed a blood-matted lock of hair from Soraya's face. "It's over."
"No." Soraya's voice hardened. "Not over. Not until the ones who sent them answer for this."
Arslan nodded, a grim smile touching his lips. "Agreed. Dawn is approaching. The final act awaits."
At that, those in the room busied themselves with final preparations. There was an almost military efficiency now—armor donned, weapons cleaned and reloaded, wounds dressed quickly. Basir's acolytes came rushing down the hall in belated alarm; they were halted by Captain Darius, who assured them the Emperor was safe and that they were to remain at their posts.
Rashid peeled back the veil from the face of the captured assassin whom the eunuchs held kneeling. She glared with hate, a jagged wound on her cheek leaking blood down her neck. A young woman—couldn't be more than twenty summers, yet eyes ancient with fanaticism. On her forearm, the tattoo of Xesh's crescent moon was plainly visible.
"Who commanded you?" Rashid demanded. "Which dog do you serve?"
The assassin bared red-stained teeth. "The true Emperor," she spat in accented Asterian. Her eyes flickered to Arslan. "Not this foreign pawn and his whor—" She didn't finish; one of the eunuch guards struck her across the mouth with the hilt of a sword, silencing her with a broken jaw and a moan.
Arslan raised a hand to stop further beating. The assassin's words rolled off him—he'd heard worse. But "true Emperor" lingered in his mind. So, the conspirators had indeed filled these cultists with tales of a different ruler to come.
He stepped toward the kneeling assassin and spoke quietly. "Your true Emperor will never sit the throne. Your cause dies here." She merely glared, hate undiminished even through pain. There would be no useful information from these zealots.
"Bind her," Arslan ordered. "She faces justice at dawn with the rest."
Two guards hauled the assassin away, clamping irons on her wrists and preparing to drag her to the dungeons. The other wounded assassin on the floor had already bitten a poison capsule hidden in a tooth to avoid capture; she lay foaming and still.
Arslan took a deep breath. The horizon outside the windows was still dark, but dawn would come within the hour. Their final confrontation awaited at first light—when Aru and Atash planned to unveil their puppet heir. Those traitors likely thought their assassins had finished the job by now. They would be confidently setting the stage for their false dawn.
Arslan intended to be there to greet them, very much alive and ready to reveal their treachery to all.
Leilah approached, wiping her hands of salve and blood after tending to the wounded guard. "Majesty, we should move soon while the streets are quiet," she advised. "Surprise will be our ally at the plaza."
"Yes," Soraya agreed, rolling her shoulder experimentally and adjusting the bandage Nasrin had tied around her midsection beneath her torn gown. "We'll confront them on our terms."
Arslan sheathed his sword, its runes flickering then going dim as he released his battle-fury. He looked around to each of his allies—women in torn silks with daggers in hand, guards with fresh cuts wiping their blades, mages with smudged ink on their fingers from casting wards, and loyal friends battered but unbowed. In all his wars as John Sullivan or Emperor Arslan, he had never been prouder of a company.
"Daybreak approaches," Arslan said, his voice carrying the weight of command and the warmth of gratitude. "This night, our enemy threw everything at us and we still stand. Now we carry the fight to them."
Soraya stepped to Arslan's side, her eyes reflecting the first faint gray of dawn filtering through the balcony windows. "And we will end this," she declared.
Arslan offered his hand to her, and Soraya clasped it firmly. The others began forming up around them—Captain Darius and his Lion Guard taking point, Safid's soldiers quietly fanning out as protectors, Rashid and Nasrin helping coordinate who would carry which evidence (the forged scrolls they'd taken from Aru's study via an agent, the captured assassin to testify by her mere presence, the birth records Rashid had retrieved). High Priest Basir, awakened and alerted to urgent royal business, hurried to join the procession with confusion on his brow—he knew not exactly what was afoot yet, but he sensed it momentous.
Arslan gazed once more at the ravaged harem chamber—the overturned chessboard, the blood-splattered rug, the broken harp—and felt a surge of righteous anger that these private sanctums of peace had been violated. It steeled him further for what must be done.
"Forward," he commanded.
Like a lion leading his pride, Emperor Arslan Rûmî strode out at the head of his loyalists into the cool pre-dawn air. Behind him came warriors and councilors, concubines and generals, a procession of the united, emerging from the Night of Knives hardened and hungry for justice.
The sky to the east was lightening, a promise of sunrise as they made for the Grand Plaza. In that growing light, the silhouette of the great temple dome and the city's central square came into view. There, Aru and his co-conspirators would soon gather citizens and spring their final lie.
Arslan's hand tightened on his sword hilt as he walked. The darkest night had passed. Now the traitors would face the Lion Emperor in the day— and by day's end, all would know the truth.
Chapter 38: False Dawn & Judgement
A pale gray light bathed the Grand Plaza of Asterion as dawn neared. A modest crowd of early risers had gathered—drawn by whispers of a special announcement at first light. Temple acolytes in white robes lit the last of the dawn candles around the plaza's perimeter while curious townsfolk, traders, and night-watchmen off duty milled about, rubbing sleep from their eyes. The city was waking to what promised to be an historic morning, though none yet knew why.
On the broad marble steps of the Sun Temple stood Minister Aru, flanked by Lord Atash and a small cadre of palace guards bearing the royal sigil. In front of Aru, raised on a step for all to see, was a young man in his twenties dressed in an ornate white robe trimmed with gold. He looked nervous but determined, a circlet of lesser gold on his brow. The rising glow of dawn silhouetted the group, lending them an almost haloed aspect to onlookers below.
High Priest Basir was present as well, standing at Aru's other side. He held his staff of office and wore a baffled expression—he had been summoned urgently under the pretense that Emperor Arslan had an important decree but Arslan was nowhere in sight. Basir's uneasy glances at Aru and the unfamiliar young man went unanswered.
Aru raised his hands to the gathering crowd. His voice, usually silken, rang out with a forced resonance. "People of Asterion! Loyal citizens of the Empire! Hear me."
A hush fell. Those words carried an ominous weight delivered in the breaking dawn.
"As senior minister of the Imperial Council," Aru continued, "it falls to me this day to bring you grave news and, with it, renewed hope."
Whispers rippled through the crowd. Lord Atash folded his arms, eyes hooded, scanning the plaza edges and the faces in the growing assembly.
Aru's voice caught slightly before he steeled it. "Our beloved Emperor Arslan Rûmî is... absent." He chose his word carefully, implying much without outright lying. "Through misfortune and dark machinations in the night, he can no longer lead us."
Gasps and murmurs. Basir's eyes widened. "What are you saying, Aru?" the High Priest interjected, his voice quavering. "Where is His Majesty?"
Aru pressed on, talking over Basir. "Do not despair! The Light of Heaven provides. When one lion falls, another rises." He gestured to the robed youth beside him. "Long has the blood of emperors safeguarded this realm. Unbeknownst to many, a rightful heir of the Rûmî dynasty has lived in secret, protected from enemies until this very dawn."
The youth lifted his chin nervously, attempting regal composure. The crowd's confusion sharpened into shock. A rightful heir? Secretly alive?
Atash stepped forward smoothly, picking up the narrative. "People of Asterion, I present to you Prince Taimur Rûmî, firstborn son of Emperor Arslan's late father, the true-blood heir long thought lost!" His trained diplomat's voice lent a flourish of credibility to the wild claim.
Prince Taimur—if that was the name they'd given the puppet—raised a hand in awkward greeting. He had Aru's same dark hair and something of the old Emperor's profile; clearly chosen for a passing resemblance to the Rûmî line.
Aru unraveled a scroll bearing a cracked wax seal. "Here are the testamentary proofs from the imperial archives," he declared. "Birth records, a midwife's attestation, and our late Emperor's own secret decree recognizing his elder son, hidden for safety during the Turanic Wars."
He held the parchment aloft dramatically. "With Emperor Arslan... unable to reign, the mantle passes by right of blood to Prince Taimur. On this new dawn, we secure the continuity of leadership and the stability of our empire!"
Some of the gathered guards—those bribed to the conspirators—pounded spear butts to flagstones in measured support. A few uncertain cheers sputtered from paid instigators in the crowd.
But most citizens looked on in stunned, skeptical silence. They had only days ago cheered Arslan at the fountain unveiling. Could he truly be gone overnight? And who was this sudden prince?
High Priest Basir was visibly agitated. "This is highly irregular... I have never heard of such a child," he protested, eyes darting, half in denial, half in fear that if true, the Church had not anointed the rightful heir all this time.
Aru turned to Basir, voice low but carrying. "Yet it is true. Were it not for dire need, this revelation might have waited. But the empire must not be without an Emperor at dawn's light."
Basir's knuckles whitened on his staff. He looked at the young man claiming to be a prince and seemed unconvinced, but also unsure. "If... if Emperor Arslan truly cannot lead," Basir stammered, "the Sun Church would of course bless any legitimate heir... but I must—"
Before Basir could finish, a commotion at the back of the crowd drew all eyes. A voice, strong and unmistakable, echoed off the plaza's columns:
"Who says I cannot lead?"
The crowd parted as if the sea itself split. Striding forward was Emperor Arslan Rûmî, alive, unbowed, and flanked by Lady Soraya and Captain Darius. Behind them came General Safid with a score of Lion Guards fanning out to secure the plaza edges. Parissa, Nasrin, Leilah and others of the harem followed close, their clothes torn and stained with the night's ordeal but heads held high. Rashid carried a bundle of scrolls under one arm and a captured assassin's crescent-blade in the other—a silent exhibit of treachery.
Gasps and cries erupted. "The Emperor!" "He lives!" Citizens dropped to their knees or reached out in awe. The paid instigators who had been primed to cheer the pretender prince fell silent or slipped away, unsure what to do now that their narrative had shattered.
Aru went sheet-white, stumbling back a step. "Impossible," he breathed. On his other side, Lord Atash's face twisted in a mix of shock and fury, realizing their carefully laid plan was collapsing.
Prince Taimur blanched, eyes wide at the sight of the very man he was meant to replace marching towards him like an avenging specter.
High Priest Basir nearly dropped his staff. Relief and confusion warred on his features. "Emperor Arslan!" he exclaimed, voice reverent and trembling. "By the Light, we were told—"
Arslan came to a stop at the foot of the temple steps and cast his gaze upward at the tableau of conspirators before him. Dawn's first rays cleared the horizon, painting the scene in hues of gold. It lit Arslan from behind, a lion's mane of light framing his figure as he pointed an accusatory finger at Aru and Atash. "You were told lies, Basir," he said, tone ringing with righteous anger. "Lies by those who would usurp the throne in the dark."
Shouts of outrage came from the crowd now, many realizing what must have transpired. "Treachery!" "They said he was dead!" The common folk were not slow; they saw a beloved Emperor very much alive and the minister who tried to convince them otherwise.
Minister Aru's composure cracked. "Seize him!" he shrilled to the few guards still ostensibly under his command. "Seize the impostor!"
But none moved. The palace guards present looked between Aru and Arslan in uncertainty. Seeing Arslan alive had shaken whatever loyalty bribes had bought. Moreover, Safid's soldiers had now surrounded the fringe of the plaza, weapons ready. The tide had turned.
Atash swiftly placed a restraining hand on Aru's shoulder, trying to regain some control. "Emperor Arslan," Atash called genially, though a vein throbbed in his temple. "We are relieved to see you well. There were... disturbing reports this morning, clearly erroneous. A thousand pardons—"
"Spare us, Atash," Soraya cut in, voice sharp as a dagger. She stepped forward at Arslan's side. Though pale from her wound, she stood tall and imperious, addressing the crowd. "These men attempted to murder the Emperor last night and have the gall to stand here and present a puppet in his place."
A roar of disbelief and anger rippled through the onlookers. Basir looked horrified, staff clutched to his chest. "Murder? Minister Aru, what is the meaning of this?!"
Aru bared his teeth, realizing the game was up. In a sudden motion, he grabbed the young "prince" by the arm and yanked him backward, nearly behind him, as if shielding him—or more likely using him as a buffer. "All I have done was for the good of the empire!" Aru cried out. "This charlatan claiming to be Emperor has bewitched you all with sorcery and foreign wiles! He endangers the realm with his radical ways!" Desperation laced each word, and it rang hollow to those who had seen Arslan's deeds.
Arslan advanced one step at a time up the temple stairs. Each step was measured, controlled fury evident in the set of his jaw and the blood on his sleeve (still stained from the night's fight, which only made him look more formidable). "You dare call me charlatan, Aru? After you wove this entire fiction of a lost heir and tried to poison me like a coward?"
At that, Rashid stepped forward and held up the curved dagger and a small vial. "This blade was found on an intruder in the royal chambers; this vial contains poison brewed in Qarth," he announced, his clear voice that of a meticulous record-keeper providing evidence. "We captured one of the assassins sent by these traitors. She lives, and will confess whom she serves." Rashid gestured; two guards dragged the bound, wounded cult assassin forward for all to see. She glared up at Aru and Atash with hate, but said nothing, jaw swollen.
The crowd recoiled at the sight of the black-clad killer. They knew the rumors of the cult. Now to see one here spoke volumes.
Lord Atash raised both hands in protest. "This is absurd! Yes, I provided a security detail—how was I to know one might be a rogue cultist? And poison? If such was used, we knew nothing of it—"
"Enough!" Soraya's voice cracked like a whip. "Your lies unravel with each breath. We have evidence of letters bearing your seal coordinating with Minister Aru to fund mercenaries and bribe officials." She nodded to Nasrin, who triumphantly held aloft a stack of ledger pages—the fruits of the Moon-Market sting and other investigations. "False ledgers, covert payments—your signature, Lord Atash, appears frequently."
Atash's face blanched as if slapped. He quickly masked it with anger. "Do not lecture me, harlot," he snarled at Soraya, dropping diplomacy. "Qarth will not be judged by—"
But he was cut off by Basir of all people. The High Priest, regaining his wits, stepped forward between the two groups, raising his golden sun amulet. "Peace! By the authority of the Sun, I demand order!"
Both sides quieted, though tension crackled in the air. Basir looked at Arslan beseechingly. "Majesty, I am confused... but if what you say is true, we must handle this lawfully. This young man—" he glanced at Prince Taimur who stood trembling on the step above him "—if he is a pretender, we must know. You claim evidence. Let it be examined properly."
Arslan gave a curt nod. "That is just. Rashid?"
Rashid stepped up to Basir and calmly passed him a different scroll from his bundle—the genuine imperial lineage record from the archives. "Your Holiness, compare that document with the one Minister Aru holds."
Aru, his hand trembling on his forged scroll, saw the net tightening. Reluctantly he surrendered it to Basir when the priest beckoned.
The plaza watched in dead silence as Basir cross-checked lines. The rising sun illuminated the two parchments. Basir's lips moved as he read names, dates.
After a tense moment, Basir raised his face, stricken. He held out Aru's scroll. "This... this is a forgery." His voice was pained. "I recall now—the true elder son of Emperor Jalal died still a babe. I myself presided over his funeral rites. This record—" he shook the genuine one from Rashid—"confirms it clearly. There was no secret survival, no Prince Taimur alive. Aru, you—what have you done?"
Outrage and betrayal trembled in the old priest's voice. Basir had been used by them, and he realized it now.
Aru's carefully cultivated demeanor shattered entirely. With a roar of pure fury, he shoved the false prince—who tumbled to the ground with a yelp—and drew a slender dagger from within his ministerial robes. "Damn you all!" he cried. With surprising agility, the aging vizier lunged down the steps, not at Arslan, but at the scrolls Basir held—as if to destroy the evidence even now.
Basir stumbled back, eyes wide behind his spectacles. Soraya shouted a warning. Aru slashed at the priest's hand, sending both parchments scattering, then made a mad dash down the side of the temple steps, shouldering past Safid.
Arslan surged forward, sword ringing free. "Stop him!" he commanded.
But Aru moved with desperate speed fueled by panic. He plunged into a side doorway of the temple leading to the adjacent Archive Hall—a grand library of records next to the temple—perhaps intending to lose pursuers in its maze or grab some hidden cache.
Without hesitation, Arslan sprinted after him into the yawning archway of the Archive Hall. Two Lion Guards followed, but Soraya held out her arm. "No—Arslan has him. Form a perimeter!" She knew Arslan wanted Aru himself.
Inside the Archive Hall, dim morning light filtered through high windows, illuminating dust motes in the vast space lined floor to ceiling with shelves of scrolls and codices. Aru fled through the rows, knocking over a lectern to hinder pursuit. The heavy oak piece crashed onto the marble tiles.
Arslan kicked it aside and advanced into the cavernous library. "Aru!" his voice echoed in the vaulted chamber. "There is nowhere to run. Surrender!"
Aru's figure skidded to a halt at a dead-end alcove where ancient genealogies were stored. Finding himself cornered, the vizier whirled around. His hair had come loose from its tidy binding, eyes wild behind his dignified beard. In his hand, the slim dagger trembled but stayed pointed at Arslan.
"Surrender?" Aru hissed, chest heaving. "To you? The usurper who ruined everything?"
Arslan tightened his grip on his sword and slowly approached along the narrow aisle between shelves. "I usurped nothing. I took the throne when its rightful occupant—your puppet king—failed his people. And I've done more good for this city in weeks than you did in decades of whispering in emperors' ears."
Aru barked a humorless laugh. "Good? You think sewing anarchy is good? Upending tradition, debasing the court with whores and sorcery—!" He spat on the floor. "You were an accident of fate, John Sullivan. Yes, I know what you really are. I saw it from the start—an interloper wearing Arslan's skin."
Arslan's blood went cold for a moment. The admission hung between them. Perhaps Aru had only guessed or perhaps truly known, but it hardly mattered now. "Call me what you will," Arslan growled. "It changes nothing. You plotted to kill me, kill Soraya and the others, and sell this empire's future to foreign backers. That is treason in every tongue."
Aru snarled and lunged, dagger aimed at Arslan's midsection with surprising skill. Arslan parried with his blade, metal screeching on metal in the dusty silence of the archives. They exchanged swift blows—Aru striking with the precision of a much-practiced duelist, Arslan countering with his heavier sword.
"You were never more than a trained dog playing at king!" Aru seethed, slashing low. His dagger nicked Arslan's thigh, drawing blood.
Arslan hissed at the sting and retaliated with a powerful overhead chop. Aru darted aside; the sword bit into a wooden shelf, splintering it and sending scrolls cascading. "And you were a snake in the garden," Arslan retorted, wrenching the blade free. "Poisoning every chance at progress with your 'caution' and deceit."
Aru feinted left then struck at Arslan's sword arm. The dagger scraped Arslan's forearm, drawing a crimson line. Arslan bit back a curse. The old vizier fought with a manic ferocity that belied his years.
"You should have died with the previous Emperor!" Aru spat, thrusting again. "We could have managed the realm—no radical experiments, no empowered concubines—"
Arslan roared and swung an upward cut. The lion pommel glinted as if reflecting his anger. Steel met flesh. Aru cried out as Arslan's kilij sliced across his dagger hand. The bloody dagger clattered to the marble.
Aru stumbled back against a shelf, clutching his maimed hand. Scrolls tumbled around him. He stared at his own blood as if in disbelief.
Arslan leveled his sword at the fallen vizier's chest. His breath came hard. Now, at last, the mastermind of so many ills was at his mercy.
Aru panted, looking up at the victor looming over him. His face twisted in hate and something like bitter regret. "Go on then," he croaked. "Finish it. You've taken everything else."
Arslan's blade hovered. The rage in his heart, stoked by nights of treachery and the sight of Soraya bleeding, screamed for justice—perhaps even the final justice of steel. He raised his sword slightly.
Aru sneered through his pain. "Weak," he taunted hoarsely. "You don't have it in you to do what must be done. That's why I tried to remove you—because you won't make the hard choices."
Arslan's eyes blazed. For a moment, he envisioned it: a single thrust ending the threat forever.
Yet in that moment, another vision cut through—Soraya's steady gaze, Parissa's odes of unity, Leilah's gentle idealism, Darius's pledge of loyalty. The better world they were trying to build—one not stained unnecessarily with blood vengeance.
Arslan exhaled slowly. His sword arm lowered. "No, Aru. That's where you're wrong." His voice echoed softly. "I will make the hard choice. And the right one."
With a swift motion, he reversed his grip and slammed the pommel of his sword into Aru's temple. The vizier crumpled unconscious amidst the scattered records, his fate now to be decided not by execution in anger, but by judgment in the light of day.
Arslan stood over the fallen traitor and felt a strange calm wash over him. The lion inside him was not cowed by sparing this serpent—it was strengthened. Mercy, not cruelty, would mark this new dawn.
He bent and tore a strip of cloth from Aru's robe, quickly binding the man's bleeding hand to prevent him bleeding out. He would live to face consequence.
Footsteps echoed as Soraya and Safid, hearing the fight's end, rushed into the archive hall.
They found Arslan alive, Aru unconscious at his feet. Soraya's eyes darted from Arslan's bleeding arm to Aru's state. "It's done?" she asked breathlessly.
Arslan nodded. "He lives. I will not have his blood staining this day more than it already is."
Safid grunted in approval, hauling the limp Aru up and shackling his wrists with iron cuffs. "We'll see him securely to the plaza, Majesty."
Arslan allowed himself a long breath. "Let's go. The city awaits its judgment."
As they emerged back into the sunlight, the Grand Plaza erupted in cheers at the sight of Aru's unconscious body in Safid's grip and Arslan—bloodied but unbowed—escorting Soraya down the temple steps. Atash, seeing the fate of his co-conspirator, had dropped to his knees in surrender, surrounded by Nasrin, Rashid, and a half-dozen soldiers. The false prince cowered off to the side, already forgotten and trembling as Basir stood over him, looking equal parts sympathetic and angry at the young man's foolish part in all this.
High Priest Basir raised both arms and boomed, "Behold, justice comes with the dawn!" His voice carried a mix of relief, awe, and renewed faith as the first full sunlight spilled into the plaza, illuminating the true Emperor and his circle of unlikely champions.
Arslan handed Soraya up to the dais, then mounted it himself, surveying the crowd of citizens—many in tears of joy or rage, guards restraining the last plotters, his friends standing tall despite cuts and bruises. He sheathed his sword with a finality.
"People of Asterion," he called out, voice clear and carrying in the morning air. "Your Emperor stands among you. The traitors who sought to break our unity are defeated. Their deceit is laid bare for all to see."
A thunderous cheer answered him, rolling through the plaza and down the streets, echoing off the marble and mosaics. It was a sound of catharsis, of a city that had held its breath and could breathe again.
Arslan took Soraya's hand in his and lifted it high, turning to Basir. "Holiness," he said, meeting the High Priest's eyes, "the sun has risen on a new day. Will you bless it with me?"
Basir, tears at the corners of his eyes, stepped forward and raised his staff. "The Light of the Divine shines not on one gender alone, nor on one people alone. I... I bless this new covenant of leadership." He looked around as if daring any to contradict, then smiled, raising his voice in prayer. "May the Sun bless our Emperor and guide his hand in mercy and wisdom this day, and all days to come!"
It was the final imprimatur needed. Any doubter among the conservative ranks found themselves nodding along with Basir's acceptance. The crowd bowed as Basir intoned a benediction over Arslan and all gathered.
To the side, Rashid wiped a proud tear. Safid thumped a fist to his chest in salute. Magister Salim beamed as though witnessing a prophecy fulfilled. Captain Darius—his own secret at peace—clapped along with the throng, secure in the knowledge he had chosen his true liege well.
Soraya gazed at Arslan, love and pride shining unabashedly in her eyes. He squeezed her hand once more, then both of them turned to face their people.
On that day, beneath a radiant sun, the City of Light truly earned its name. Emperor Arslan Rûmî and those he had elevated stood arm in arm before a united populace. The conspiracies and shadows had been dispelled, and in their place a brighter, fairer future spread its wings.
The dawn verdict soon followed: Aru and Atash would live out their days in remote exile, their power broken but their lives spared. It was a display of strength through mercy that Basir praised as divine guidance. And before the cheering masses, Arslan made a final, bold pledge. With Soraya's hand in his, he proclaimed that from this day forth, she was his Imperial Consort and partner in rule, and that a new Privy Council of both women and men would help him lead the empire into a just new era.
The crowd's roar at this declaration was deafening—shock and elation and wonder all at once. As Soraya bowed her head humbly and Arslan raised their joined hands to the sky, flower petals rained down from balconies above, cast by weeping, joyful citizens.