The Crimson Dominion's capital never slept. Its towers of blackened stone rose high like jagged teeth biting into the pale sky, their crimson banners whipping in the wind with the insignia of a three-headed serpent. The city beneath writhed with noise — forges burning through the night, soldiers clattering in formation, merchants shouting as though gold itself would grant them safety from what was coming. Yet within the heart of this empire, behind the fortress-palace of obsidian marble, the atmosphere was heavier than it had ever been.
The throne hall stretched vast, columns like petrified giants holding the roof aloft. A faint red light seeped through stained glass windows depicting battles long past, victories of human kings over realms of beasts, spirits, and even fellow men. Tonight, however, the air was not of triumph, but of hunger restrained by fear. At the far end of the hall, King Veythar sat upon his throne — a towering seat of carved onyx with veins of crimson crystal running through it, pulsing faintly as though the throne itself drank from his ambition. His shadow stretched long across the marble floor, swallowing even the golden braziers lit along the aisle.
Before him gathered his dukes and barons, the proud lords of the Crimson Dominion. Their silks and armors clashed in color — some draped in velvet robes, others in hardened steel and crimson-plated mail, yet none could fully mask the unease stirring in their eyes.
Malrick Thorne, the oldest duke with hair like winter frost, was the first to speak, his voice grating with suspicion.
"Your Majesty, forgive my tongue, but this matter reeks of danger. We are no fools. The girl — this so-called Spirit Princess — if she truly is what the whispers claim, then to mishandle her is to invite our ruin. She was called a weapon by a god. A god, Veythar. Even the lowest of deities could turn this realm into dust. How can we, mortals bound in flesh, claim such fire without being burned?"
His words echoed, yet none dared to nod too openly. To show too much caution before their king was to invite his wrath.
Vaelor Kryne, sharp-faced and draped in blood-red robes embroidered with black serpents, sneered with disdain. "Danger? Old men like you smell ghosts in the air. I say she is nothing but a stray child. A girl washing rags by a stream, our spies said. Where is the queenly aura? Where is the spirit of destruction? Bah! Do not mistake illusions for strength. If she were truly the harbinger of gods, would she not have struck us down by now? Instead, she scrubs dirt like a peasant. Powerless. Alone."
"Alone?" Gareth Drael rumbled, his massive frame gleaming in spiked armor. His eyes glowed with the fervor of a soldier drunk on war. "If she is alone, then she is already ours. A weapon without a wielder is wasted steel. But give it to me, and I will forge it into our empire's might. One girl against the Crimson Dominion? I say we march, we take her, and we break her to our will!" His gauntleted fist slammed the floor, sparks crackling beneath his fury.
Yet Elvaris Nyx, the silent duke who often listened more than he spoke, raised his voice at last, smooth as velvet yet carrying hidden venom. "Break her? Gareth, your brawn will ruin everything. If she is what she is said to be, then her value lies not in shattering her spirit but in binding it. To conquer such a girl, one must not show her chains. Chains breed rebellion. Offer her glory, status, a throne by our king's side — then she shall be ours by her own will."
Murmurs spread like wildfire. Some nodded at Elvaris's cunning, others snarled at the thought of wasting time on honeyed words.
Among the barons, Ulrich Fenrow stepped forward, his wolfish grin full of disdain. "Enough of this clashing tongues. She is not a goddess, she is not a monster — she is a tool. And a tool does not bargain with its master. If King Veythar wills it, then we shall seize her, carve her power open, and bleed her until her strength belongs to us. What say you, my king?"
All eyes turned toward the throne.
King Veythar leaned forward, his crown glinting in the crimson firelight. His gaze was heavy, sharp as a blade pressed against the skin. His fingers curled around the armrest of his throne, tapping once, twice, in measured rhythm.
"You speak as though I am blind," he said, his voice deep, thunder rolling across the hall. "Five years, my lords. Five years this phantom has eluded us. Five years we fed scraps of power to a god, believing he would hand us the key to dominion over all realms. And what has he given us? Nothing. Lies. Shadows." His eyes narrowed, venom spilling in every syllable. "But now… now she stands before us. A girl in the forest, stripped of crown, stripped of power, stripped even of dignity. Do you not see? This is no coincidence. Fate has delivered her into our hands."
He rose from his throne. His height alone made even Gareth's towering frame falter, and the weight of his aura pressed upon every man and woman in the hall.
"Do not be deceived by appearances," Veythar continued. "A god called her weapon. That truth alone is enough. A weapon can sleep. A weapon can rust. But when sharpened again, it can kill kings and topple gods alike. That is why we must claim her. Not with half-hearted schemes. Not with cautious whispers. With the full might of the Crimson Dominion!"
The lords lowered their heads. None dared oppose his decree, though unease licked their spines like cold fire.
"Summon the legions," Veythar commanded. "The First Army shall march under Duke Gareth. The Shadow Cloaks under Elvaris shall weave their net. Vaelor's mages will shatter any resistance, and Malrick's veterans will anchor our line. Our banners will blot the horizon until the girl trembles before our will. She will kneel. She will bow. And if she dares defy us…" His lips curved into a cruel smile. "Then we shall carve out her divinity and drink it for ourselves."
A thunder of assent shook the hall, though behind their cries hid the flickers of doubt, envy, lust, greed — emotions that twisted human hearts more sharply than any blade.
That night, the kingdom roared awake. Forges belched smoke into the sky as smiths hammered steel into swords and armor. Barracks emptied as soldiers donned crimson helms, their shields etched with the serpent crest. Warhorses stamped and snorted, sensing the blood to come. Mages lit the skies with fire, bending their wills into the formless storms of power. And spies darted into the shadows, vanishing toward the forest where a girl washed clothes by a riverbank, unaware of the tempest gathering beyond the trees.
The Crimson Dominion was a beast unchained, and its hunger was bound for one prey alone.
Yet far from the clamor of armies and the roaring forges, in the quiet forest where the barrier once shimmered, a girl sat alone by a stream. Her hands dipped into the cold water, scrubbing linen with movements too small, too human for the title she once bore. Her hair fell over her face, damp strands clinging to her cheeks.
Far from the cries of soldiers and the clang of steel, in a quiet clearing where the river wound like silver through the forest, Selene sat by herself.
The morning light fell through the canopy, but to her it felt heavy, almost cruel. For the first time in five years, she had woken and found silence—not the steady voice of her father, not the weight of his hand on her shoulder, not the faint laugh he had grown unaccustomed to but gave only to her.
Her heart beat faster. She had searched every room of the palace, every corridor, every garden. Nothing. No trace. Only emptiness.
And so she sat now by the river, clutching the hem of her dress with trembling fingers. Her throat tightened. "Dad…" The word broke from her lips in a fragile whisper, trembling like a bird's wing. "Where are you?"
The trees did not answer. The river only carried her voice away.
She bent forward, her face pressing into her knees. The tears came then—hot, unrelenting, tearing from her like a storm she did not understand. She had not cried in five years. But now she cried until her chest ached, until her breath came in broken gasps.
To her, Azeriel was not a god, not a tyrant, not the destroyer of her world. To her, he was only father. And his absence felt like the end of everything.
She paused, staring at the reflection rippling in the water. A face too young, too soft, framed by eyes that carried no memory of crowns or trials. Her lips trembled as silence pressed around her, the kind of silence that revealed absence more than peace.
"Dad…" The word lingered in her chest though no sound escaped. Her voice was still too fragile to rise. Instead, she clutched the hem of her sleeve, fingernails digging into the fabric as though it might tether her to him. The forest had never felt so vast, so empty.
She pressed her forehead against her knees, trembling. It was the first time since she arrived in this quiet prison of trees that tears slid down her cheeks — not for lost kingdoms, not for forgotten memories, but for the man who was no longer there. A man who had chained her, claimed her, yet whom she had called Dad.
Her sobs drowned in the wind, unnoticed by the spies lurking beyond the brush. To them, she was only a girl, vulnerable and unguarded. But to her, this grief was a storm no army could ever understand.
Above her, the wind stirred, carrying the faint echo of marching drums from far beyond the forest. Shadows moved on the horizon—shadows she could not see, but that had already begun to close in.
And thus, while kingdoms sharpened their blades, while kings hungered for dominion, a child's grief painted the forest floor with saltwater.
The storm had begun.
And so, as the Crimson Dominion marched with banners of blood and greed, the Spirit Princess — Selene, Illyria, child, weapon — wept alone in the forest, clutching shadows of a bond that had already vanished.