The Morning of the Previous Day – Elliott's Chambers
The light filtering in through the heavy drapes was soft, muted, casting the room in a golden haze. The scent of herbal tea and jasmine incense still lingered faintly in the air, clinging to the silk cushions and heavy drapery.
Elliott exhaled slowly as the drowsiness began to settle into his bones. His limbs grew heavier with each breath, his vision slightly blurred at the edges. Aiden had left not even moments ago, the door to his private chambers clicking shut behind him.
His fingers tightened weakly around the edge of the blankets, knuckles whitening, but the grip loosened just as quickly. He was losing feeling in his arms. The warmth spreading through his body was not comforting. It was too smooth. Too fast.
He'd been drugged.
The tea. It had to be the tea.
The sedative was creeping steadily through his veins now, but Elliott's mind remained razor-sharp. If anything, the growing fog in his limbs only sharpened his suspicions. Something was wrong—horribly wrong.
If he had doubted Aiden's strange behavior before, this sealed it.
He'd been lied to.
Not just about the guards. Not just about the court. About everything.
And that truth burned.
As his limbs slackened, his sharp eyes flicked across the room—methodical, even through the rising haze. He was searching. Calculating. And then... he found it.
An attendant.
Not just any one. A young man with forgettable features, standing quietly in the corner. But his posture gave him away—rigid, military straight, deferential yet poised. His eyes, unlike the rest, were sharp. Alert.
He met Elliott's gaze. The attendant nodded once in acknowledgment and began to approach with silent, purposeful steps.
Elliott's breathing slowed. His voice was beginning to slur. The sedative was taking hold faster than expected.
"You know what to do," he murmured, each word a struggle, heavy and clumsy on his tongue.
The attendant knelt, bowing deeply. And in a voice so quiet it was nearly lost in the soft rustling of fabric and the creak of wooden floorboards, he replied:
"Ordo Ultimus stands ready, Your Majesty."
Elliott's lips twitched faintly—half a smile, perhaps, or the flicker of a frown. His expression remained grave.
"Follow... don't interfere... unless needed..." he whispered, his head falling back against the velvet pillows, eyelids already drooping under the weight of drugged sleep.
The man bowed one final time before he vanished from the room, swallowed by the shadows between the curtains and the doorframe. No one would have noticed his exit.
----
The Ordo Ultimus.
A name that had not been spoken aloud in decades.
The Emperor's final hand.
A relic of a brutal past—born from the blood-soaked legacy of the old Lancaster dynasty. The order had been founded by Elliott's great-grandfather, a warlord who had ruled the empire with a blade in one hand and fire in the other.
It's members were handpicked—the most ruthless, the most disciplined, the most silent. Trained from youth in shadow and steel. They were the last resort, the invisible blade in the dark. A whisper behind the walls. A rumor passed in drunken fear.
And they served only the Emperor.
Not the court. Not the nobles. Not even the Regent. Not even Aiden—neither when he was prince, nor when he was made Regent of the empire.
Their existence was a secret buried deep in the empire's foundation. One of the last shadows Elliott had inherited, untouched and unused.
Throughout his entire reign, Elliott had never called upon them. He had never needed to. Or perhaps, he had refused to. The order was a piece of the old world—a reminder of bloodier times. He had always hoped it would stay buried.
But today...
Today, he had no other choice.
The aftertaste of the tea still lingered on his tongue. Bittersweet, laced with something faintly metallic. He had known. Of course he had known.
Aiden always asked how much sugar he wanted—because it changed, depending on Elliott's mood. But today... he hadn't.
Today, he'd intercepted the breakfast tray before it even entered the room. He'd mixed the tea himself, back turned, hands too careful. His gaze, when Elliott drank, had been too fixed. Too intense.
Those details were enough.
Aiden was going to do something. Elliott could feel it. The sick premonition he'd carried all morning had only grown louder, heavier.
But he hadn't tried to stop him. Not forcefully. That would've been useless with Aiden.
So, he'd taken the tea. Even knowing it was laced with sedatives. Because if Aiden was desperate enough to drug him—
Then Elliott couldn't stop him.
But he could still protect him.
----
Now – On the Battlefield
The blade was a breath away from slashing Aiden's throat.
His vision had narrowed into a tunnel. All he could see was the glint of steel and the red eyes of his enemy. His stance was staggered, footing uncertain. Around him, the battlefield was chaos—roaring with screams, clanging metal, and the sound of men dying.
Then—
The air split.
Black steel erupted from the treeline with the sound of a storm.
There was no warning. No trumpets. No war cry. Just the sudden and merciless strike of a blade.
A scream followed. Then silence.
The soldier who had been poised to kill Aiden collapsed. His head lolled at a sickening angle. His throat was severed, body falling forward with a wet thud, lifeless before he even knew he was dead.
Aiden stumbled back. Vision blurring, knees nearly buckling. He tried to make sense of what had happened—his eyes scanned the battlefield, still filled with the chaos of battle.
His knights—the Nightshade knights, dressed in cobalt blue—were being overrun. They had fought like demons, cutting through the southern invaders with everything they had. But the enemy had come in the hundreds.
It had never been a fair fight.
War rarely is.
And then—
They arrived.
At first, just a few. Then more. Silent. Swift. Lethal.
The commander struck first—dispatching the soldier who had aimed for Aiden's neck. He stepped forward, expression unreadable beneath the smooth black helm. The armor was matte obsidian, featureless, unmarked by insignia. No banners. No house colors.
Only death.
They moved like shadows given flesh. Coordinated. Inhumanly fast. The first wave of southern soldiers didn't even have time to register their presence before their throats were opened, their chests pierced, their spines severed.
The Ordo Ultimus had entered the field.
The southerners, seeing Aiden and his knights losing, had grown arrogant. They relaxed. Laughed. Taunted. That had been their mistake.
Because now, the tide had turned in an instant.
The order made no noise. No shouted commands. No triumphant declarations. Only the swift, efficient silence of execution. Within minutes, the clearing was no longer a battlefield—it was a massacre.
The grass was red.
Aiden's knights froze in place, wide-eyed, unsure if what they were witnessing was salvation or doom.
Aiden himself could only stare. Staggered. Breathless.
Who the hell—?
The soldier who had saved him stepped in front of him. Tall. Steady. His blade dripped with blood, crimson rivulets trailing down its length. He didn't kneel. Didn't bow.
"Your Highness," the commander spoke, voice muffled behind the dark helm. It was gravelly, calm—an older man, perhaps in his thirties.
"The Emperor sends his regards."
Aiden's knees buckled. His vision darkened around the edges.
Then—
Darkness.