The throne hall of the Crimson Dominion was alive with whispers. Firelight from a hundred torches painted the marble columns with gold, but the light could not soften the shadows that gathered between the nobles, could not drown the chill that clung to their words.
High above them, upon his throne carved of obsidian, sat King Veythar. The weight of his crown gleamed, but his eyes gleamed brighter still, alive with greed, ambition, and a hunger no jewel could satisfy.
Before him, kneeling on the black stone, bound in chains that rattled faintly with each breath, was the weapon.
Once, she had been Illyria. Once, she had been Selene. Once, she had been a daughter who cried for a father, a girl who held a necklace in her small hands and believed it was love. But now—she was nothing.
No name.
No face.
No voice.
Only silence.
The nobles did not call her Illyria. They did not dare. In their whispers she was only "the weapon," "the blade," "the king's shadow."
"Is that truly her?" Baron Rhael murmured, leaning close to Malrick Thorne, whose ringed hands tapped against his cane. "The spirit-born child who once carried the spark of gods? Look at her—nothing remains but bone, blood, and silence."
Malrick's lips curved into something not quite a smile. "Nothing remains—and yet, everything we need. A hollow vessel makes the sharpest blade."
From the other side, Vaelor Kryne spoke low, his sharp features half-swallowed in torchlight. "I cannot decide if I pity her or envy the king. To strip the self so thoroughly, to shape a soul into silence… it is mastery. And yet—"
"—and yet such blades cut their master's hand as easily as their enemy's," Elvaris Nyx finished, her dark eyes glimmering beneath her veil.
The whispers spread like smoke. Is she loyal? Can she turn? What is a weapon if not a danger to the one who wields it?
King Veythar rose. His boots struck the stone with a weight that silenced even doubt. He carried in his hands an object wrapped in black velvet. Slowly, he descended the steps of the dais, until he stood before the kneeling figure.
The chains that bound her rattled faintly. Her head remained bowed.
Veythar's voice rang through the chamber.
"For years we sought her. For years we waited, deceived by barriers and lies. But she is here, and she is ours. No longer does she bear the name of spirits. No longer does she carry the claim of gods. Today, she is reborn—not as a child, not as a daughter, but as silence itself. The Dominion's hand. The Dominion's shadow. The Dominion's blade."
He tore the velvet aside.
The hall drew breath.
A mask, wrought of iron darker than midnight, drank the light of the torches. It was smooth, unyielding, with eye slits narrow and sharp as blades. Etched across its surface, almost invisible save for the faint shimmer of runes, were marks that looked like chains—chains interwoven with symbols of silence, memory, and shadow. It was as though the mask itself had been forged from the concept of erasure.
Not a disguise.
Not protection.
An obliteration.
He held it aloft, and the fire seemed to falter. "This mask is her new face. With it, the world will never know her. No kingdom will recognize the hand that strikes them. Leaders shall fall, one by one, and no name shall be cursed, no face remembered. For she has none."
With slow, deliberate movement, he lowered the mask over her face.
The iron kissed her skin. Cold. Heavy. Final.
Behind it, there was no girl, no broken soul. Only silence.
The nobles murmured.
"She has vanished."
"A shadow only."
"Beautiful. Terrifying."
But she did not move. Her chains shivered faintly as she knelt, head bowed, a faceless knight with no voice to claim otherwise.
Beside the throne, Prince Kaelith shifted. His jaw was clenched, his hands gripping the edge of his seat until his knuckles whitened. Yet he said nothing. Princess Seliora, by contrast, only tilted her head with a smile as soft as silk, her jeweled veil catching the firelight. Her eyes lingered on the weapon—curious, knowing, unreadable.
When the mask sealed into place, the chains rattled faintly as if in protest, but Illyria did not move. Her silence filled the chamber like smoke.
The nobles whispered and bowed, their voices tangled in fear and awe, but not all eyes in the hall belonged to trembling men.
Prince Kaelith sat rigid, his jaw tight, his gaze fixed anywhere but the broken figure in chains. His silence was heavy with bitterness, his shoulders bearing a tension he could not voice. His hands trembled faintly, gripping the edge of his seat as though to anchor himself against an unseen tide.
But Princess Seliora did not look away.
She leaned forward slightly, her veil catching the torchlight, her lips curved in a smile too soft to belong in such a cruel hall. Her gaze lingered on the masked figure kneeling below—and where others saw only silence, she saw possibility.
Not pity. Not horror. Not even fear.
A spark of fascination lit her eyes, slow and deliberate, like a candle flame bending toward something that promised to burn brighter.
"Faceless," she whispered, so softly that only those closest might have heard, "yet not empty."
Her words held neither mockery nor kindness. They were an observation, a possession. She looked at the broken girl not as a tragedy, not as a tool—but as something useful, something hers, if she only reached at the right moment.
The king raised his voice again, drowning the whispers, but Seliora's gaze never wavered. While her father spoke of kingdoms falling like dominos, while nobles murmured in awe of the silent blade, Seliora simply watched the hollowed soul kneeling in chains.
In her eyes flickered a question no one else dared to ask:
What might such silence become, if guided not by the king's hand—but by mine?
As the mask sealed over the hollow knight's face, the nobles exhaled, their murmurs rising like a tide.
Malrick Thorne, the Duke of Ironcrest, leaned slightly toward Elvaris Nyx. His eyes, shadowed beneath heavy brows, did not leave the girl in chains.
"A weapon, they call her," he muttered, voice edged with steel. "But even weapons can turn in the wrong hand."
Elvaris' lips curved into something between a smile and a sneer. His long fingers toyed with the jewel of his ring as though the hall and its shadows were a chessboard only he could see. "In the wrong hand? Or in the right one," he whispered back. His gaze flicked—not to the king, not to Kaelith—but to Seliora.
The princess sat with a poise far too serene for the scene before her. Her head was tilted, veil catching the torchlight, her smile faint but unshaken. She looked upon the broken knight as if upon a painting whose beauty others had missed.
Malrick's breath hitched. He followed Elvaris' gaze, and a chill crawled along his spine. "Do you mean…"
Elvaris only chuckled, a sound too soft, too knowing. "Her eyes are not her father's. Nor her brother's. She sees further."
As though sensing the weight of their whispers, Seliora turned her head ever so slightly. Her gaze brushed over the two lords—light as a feather, sharp as a blade. She did not speak. She did not need to.
Malrick shifted uncomfortably, looking away as if burned. Elvaris, however, inclined his head with the smallest nod, acknowledging the silent understanding that passed between them.
Below, Illyria—nameless now—remained on her knees, her silence the very center of the hall. But it was no longer only the king's shadow that claimed her.
In the flicker of Seliora's smile, a new thread wound itself into the tapestry of power. One that none of them had accounted for.
Veythar turned back to the court. "Our enemies lie fractured. Eryndral will be the first to fall. But we do not waste blood in open war. No walls will burn. No fields will rot. One strike shall be enough. Their leader will die, unseen. Their people, masterless, will crumble. And as one master falls, the next will follow. Our wars shall be a cover, but our blade"—he gestured to the masked figure—"shall be truth."
The nobles bowed low, voices rising in praise and fear. The plan was perfect. Bloodless, relentless, unseen.
And still she knelt. The mask gleamed black, her breath shallow and silent.
---
Far away, beneath the roots of the world where no mortal dared walk, chains groaned.
The forbidden dragon stirred. His vast body shuddered, scales cracking under the strain, wings trembling though bound. The abyss roared with his fury.
Cracks spiderwebbed through the ancient chains, glowing faintly with the embers of his power. He howled, a sound that should have shattered mountains, yet was heard by no ear of men.
But in the deeper void, darker still than his prison, another voice rose.
Cold. Familiar. Eternal.
"How pitiful you remain."
The words echoed not through air, but through existence.
"No matter how many lives you live. No matter how many forms you wear. Kaelus. Azeriel. And you, my Illyria, my beloved. Always the same."
Chains rattled in the dark.
"Why can't you save yourself? Why can you not break free?"
And in that endless void, tears fell. Silent. Soundless. Across centuries. Across lives.
The throne hall shone with fire and power, with whispers of conquest and loyalty. The weapon stood faceless, nameless, silent.
And in the void, someone wept.