Prologue – The Fall of Themis
The kingdom of Themis burned.
Once, its banners had flown high silver scales on a field of black, the symbol of judgment that had struck terror and awe into the hearts of men. The Themis line had been revered as executioners of law, silent guardians in the night. Now those banners lay trampled in ash and blood, their proud colors swallowed by flame.
The war had lasted a year.
Twelve long months of sieges and skirmishes, of cities starved into submission, of battlefields drowned in crimson. The Empire pressed forward with unyielding force, its crimson-clad legions striking like an endless tide. Themis fought with defiance, but each victory was bought at the price of ten defeats.
The capital held the longest. Its walls shook beneath the Emperor's engines of war, its towers scarred black from ceaseless fire. But even iron will cannot resist eternity. Food rotted, supplies ran dry, and the weary defenders fell one by one.
When the gates finally opened, it was not with the roar of conquest, but the silence of surrender.
At dawn, the king laid down his crown. By dusk, he was dead. The royal line was broken, its people bound, its name reduced to a mere duchy within the Empire it had resisted.
The world remembered the fire. The world remembered the silence.
The world remembered the year Themis fell.
Spring
The pages turned in silence, dust motes dancing in the still air of the library. Outside, cherry blossoms swayed in the wind, petals scattering like forgotten promises.
A young man leaned against the desk, eyes tracing the words with weary familiarity. His pen rested idle against his notebook, law texts abandoned at his side.
"…Themis surrendered at dawn," he muttered under his breath, voice tinged with faint disdain. "And by dusk, the king was dead."
He shut the book with a quiet thud, his reflection caught in the library's window—dark circles beneath his eyes, a loneliness that never seemed to fade.
Summer
The ocean crashed rhythmically against the shore, waves singing their endless hymn. He lay sprawled across the warm sand, book open over his chest, the sun sharp against his closed eyes.
"Again…" he murmured. His hand lifted the book, pages fluttering in the salty breeze. "Why do I keep reading this?"
The waves gave no answer, only the endless rise and fall, drowning out the distant laughter of strangers.
Fall
The café smelled of roasted beans and rain-soaked streets. He sat in the corner, a steaming cup untouched by his elbow, the book spread open once again.
Outside, orange leaves drifted down, scattered by passing cars. His lips curved into a humorless smile as he muttered, "Why am I still reading this?"
Before he could turn another page, the bell above the café door chimed. Familiar voices called his name, friends waving as they entered. For the first time that day, he set the book aside.
Winter
Snow fell in silence. He sat alone at the bus stop, bundled against the cold, fingers numbed as they clutched the tattered spine. The words blurred, but he read them anyway.
The book had become habit. Ritual. Curse.
With a bitter laugh, he whispered to the empty night, "Maybe this is how it ends. Me and this damn book."
The wind answered with silence.
And the last page waited