The corridors of the Falmuth Empire's Royal Palace stretched endlessly beneath the dim light of hanging chandeliers. The marble floor gleamed with the reflection of the evening sun seeping through tall glass windows. Crimson banners bearing the imperial crest swayed softly as footsteps thundered past — heavy, fast, desperate.
A young knight in silver armor ran, his cloak torn and stained with mud and blood. The metallic clang of his armor echoed through the silence, each sound sharper than a blade. Servants froze as he passed — maids clutching trays, guards standing rigid, ministers turning their heads in alarm. But the knight had no eyes for them. He ran as if time itself were chasing him — or perhaps, as if he were trying to escape from something far worse.
His breathing grew heavier, chest rising and falling like waves in a storm. Every stride felt heavier than the last, not from exhaustion, but from the crushing weight of guilt and failure. Still, he didn't stop. Not until the towering golden doors of the Queen's Chamber stood before him.
He halted abruptly, gasping for air. His hand trembled as it hovered over the door handle. Sweat rolled down his temple and mixed with the dirt on his face. For a brief moment, he hesitated — fear flashing across his eyes. This was not the kind of message a man wished to deliver.
Yet before the thought could linger, he straightened his back, took a shaky breath, and pushed the door open without permission.
The hinges groaned. The doors burst wide.
Inside, the room was vast — a hall of white marble and velvet, perfumed by the faint scent of lilacs. A grand balcony opened toward the empire's horizon, where the dying sun painted the clouds in streaks of gold and scarlet. The wind carried with it the faint echo of distant bells — a melody both beautiful and sorrowful.
There, standing against the light, was a woman.
Tall. Graceful. Her silhouette framed by the glow of dusk. Her hair — long and golden, flowing down to her waist like threads of sunlight — fluttered in the evening breeze. Jewels adorned her gown; rubies and sapphires shimmered faintly with each slow, melancholic breath she took.
When she turned, her eyes — deep hazel, touched with fatigue — widened at the sudden intrusion. But the moment her gaze fell upon the knight's crest, recognition and dread replaced her surprise.
"Your Highness!" The knight's voice broke as he dropped to one knee. His chest heaved, words tumbling out between gasps. "We… we did everything we could… until the very end—"
"I knew."
The words came like a whisper, yet they froze him in place. The calmness in her tone felt unnatural — like the still air before a storm.
The knight lifted his head slowly. The queen's face was serene, but her eyes trembled with something unspoken — grief she refused to let surface.
"I am Nerine, Queen of Falmuth," she said softly. "Tell me everything. Every detail of what happened on the battlefield."
Her voice cracked just slightly on the last word. A single tear slid down her cheek, glinting like liquid crystal in the light. She wiped it away with her sleeve before it could fall.
The knight swallowed hard. "It began at dawn, Your Majesty," he said, voice low, trembling. "We thought it was an ordinary battle — one we could win with numbers, strategy, and faith in the Empire's might. But we were wrong."
He paused, gripping his sword's hilt as if to stop his hands from shaking. "They came out of nowhere — an unknown faction. Beasts unlike anything we've seen before. They didn't fight for glory or land. They fought to annihilate. The field… it wasn't war, it was slaughter."
Nerine's brows furrowed. The words cut into her heart sharper than any blade.
"Then tell me," she whispered. "What caused our defeat?"
The knight's jaw tightened. His eyes darkened. "A name, Your Majesty. One that will haunt our history — Ito."
Her lips parted slightly.
"He wasn't human," the knight continued. "He moved like death itself — unstoppable. Emperor Ren faced him personally. Even the Emperor… even he—"
He couldn't finish.
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, Nerine's voice broke through, low and shaking. "And the others?"
The knight's voice dropped to a whisper. "Burk… killed Cross."
The Queen's breath caught. Her fingers curled into the silk of her gown. "Burk killed Cross…" she repeated under her breath, the words tasting bitter. "So, you mean to say the strongest ones… were all on their side? Or was there something else… some other hand at play?"
The knight lowered his gaze. "There was interference, Your Highness. The Continental Organization — they were there. Watching. But they offered no aid. No command. Nothing."
Nerine's eyes widened. "What are you saying?"
"I am saying, Your Majesty," the knight said, voice hollow, "that they were never on our side. Everything we saw, every move they made — it all pointed to betrayal. And when the battle ended, there was no victory. Only… negotiation."
Nerine straightened. "Negotiation?"
He nodded. "A pact, Your Majesty. Signed between both factions. They called it TSRA."
The word hung in the air like poison.
"TSRA…" she murmured. "What does it mean?"
"It's the initials," the knight explained, "of those who signed the agreement. The names… I was not allowed to know them. But the Emperor himself—"
"Enough," Nerine said suddenly. Her voice, though quiet, cut through the air like ice.
She turned away, walking slowly toward the balcony. The sound of her footsteps echoed through the chamber, soft but final. Her back was straight, regal, unyielding — yet her hands trembled as they brushed against the balcony's stone railing.
"Leave us," she whispered. "Tell the troops to return to the capital. I will… decide what must be done next."
The knight hesitated. He wanted to say something — perhaps to beg forgiveness, or to offer comfort — but no words came. He bowed low, his forehead almost touching the floor.
"As you command, Your Majesty."
Then he turned and left.
The heavy doors closed behind him with a deep, resonant thud.
Silence enveloped the chamber. Only the sound of the wind remained — soft, haunting, like a lullaby for the fallen.
Queen Nerine stood still for a long time, her gaze lost in the fading horizon. The empire stretched before her — the white towers, the rooftops, the city lights flickering in the distance like dying stars. Once, it had been her pride. Now, it felt like a tomb.
Her mind drifted back to the faces she'd lost — the warriors who'd sworn loyalty, the generals who'd shared their dreams of peace, the Emperor whose strength had once been the empire's heart. She remembered his laughter, his voice — and the way it had gone silent when he left for war.
Her chest ached. She pressed a hand against her heart as if she could hold it together.
Then, suddenly — she felt it.
A presence.
Cold, invisible, yet unmistakably real. The hairs on her arms stood on end. Her breath quickened. She turned sharply — but no one was there. Only the curtains swayed in the wind, the golden light fading into twilight.
And then, a voice.
Soft at first, almost like a whisper carried by the breeze. But soon it grew clearer — deep, steady, echoing inside her mind rather than her ears.
> "A kingdom and a family… are the same game.
Two players begin it, yet many join as pieces.
Each has a role — each bears a duty.
The king protects his people; the people uphold their king.
A father guards his children, and children carry his name.
The same thread binds both crown and blood.
Unity is forged not by power… but by courage."
Nerine froze. Her body shivered violently, goosebumps rising on her arms. She glanced around, searching for the source — but the room remained empty, silent except for the flutter of curtains and the fading hum of the wind.
"Who's there?" she whispered. No answer came.
But the words lingered — not just in her ears, but in her soul. Each syllable carried weight, like prophecy.
She closed her eyes, her trembling lips parting as she whispered the words again — slower this time, letting them sink into her.
> "A kingdom and a family… the same game…"
The voice faded, yet its meaning burned within her. Somewhere deep inside, she felt a shift — something awakening. Not hope, not yet. But resolve.
The wind blew harder, carrying away the scent of lilacs and the echoes of a broken empire.
Queen Nerine lifted her head. Her eyes — still wet with grief — gleamed with a quiet, dangerous light.
Far below, the palace bells tolled — slow, heavy, mourning the fallen.
But to her, it sounded like the beginning of something else.
Something far greater than loss.
Something inevitable.