The bastard son of an emperor should have died in silence. That was the curse whispered on the night Albert was born, when the midwife saw the unnatural gleam of green in his infant eyes. "This child will devour what is not his," she had muttered before vanishing into obscurity. For years, he carried those words like chains, mocked in corridors, denied at court, condemned to be less than a shadow. Yet Albert of Blackmoor had broken chains before. And when he broke them, he wore them as crowns.
On the battlefield, he became a legend. At Herline, he commanded cavalry that shattered armies twice his size, the green flare of his eyes cutting through smoke and steel until men whispered that victory bent to his curse. By the campaign's end, the empire sang his name, and the emperor himself, unwilling though he had once been, awarded him the title of Duke and Knight-Commander.
When Albert entered the victory banquet, the great hall fell into an uneasy hush. Velvet banners hung from gilded beams, candelabras blazed like stars overhead, yet it was his presence that eclipsed the room. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his black hair falling in untamed waves to his collar, his sun-browned skin a mark of campaigns fought under merciless skies. Emerald eyes swept across marble floors and jeweled gowns with the calm precision of a general assessing enemy lines. His mouth, firm and unsmiling, seemed carved from the same stone as the throne he did not sit upon.
And still, admiration followed him like perfume. Noblewomen lowered their fans as he passed, bold and timid alike angling their gazes toward him. Some admired the hard, merciless beauty of a man forged in war and commerce, others coveted the vast fortune that flowed from his shipping fleets and mines. Many whispered of marriage, hoping to tether themselves to the bastard-turned-duke, to claim a share of his empire. But Albert of Blackmoor saw through them all. To him, the glittering nobles were no different from the enemies he had crushed at Herline: predictable, desperate, and already defeated the moment they revealed what they wanted most.
The hall grew silent as Albert stepped forward. Every jewel and candle seemed to watch him as he went down on one knee before the emperor. To honor a ruler who had never once claimed him should have been humiliating, yet Albert's expression never wavered. His emerald eyes lowered, his broad shoulders bent, but the air itself seemed to tighten, as though the court held its breath.
The emperor looked down at him, silver crown heavy on his brow, his hand trembling slightly on the scepter. He declared Albert a war hero, the savior of Herline, the Duke of Blackmoor. A sword was laid across Albert's shoulders, applause filled the hall—but behind the emperor's voice was something else. Fear.
For all the world could see, Albert was the image of loyalty: bowing, silent, unthreatening. But the emperor's mind was racing. His bastard son had become too powerful, too admired. Whispers already spoke of Albert as more than a commander, more than a duke. The emperor's throne suddenly felt less certain beneath him.
Later, in the shadows of the palace, he sought advice from the only person he trusted—his queen. She was clever, beautiful, and merciless, her hand in every secret that moved through the court. The emperor himself did not see it, but many whispered he was nothing more than her puppet. She had ordered the quiet deaths of concubines, of illegitimate children, of anyone who might challenge her hold over the crown. Yet Albert had survived, and none could explain why.
It was said that years ago, when the queen had first pressed for the boy's death, it was the old emperor—Albert's grandfather—who forbade it. He gave no reason, offered no explanation. He simply declared that the child must live. Whether it was mercy, guilt, or something far more dangerous, no one ever learned. And so Albert grew, a living mystery, a curse spared by the hand of the empire's most feared man.
Now, as Albert rose from his knee, the curse and the crown seemed to weigh on the hall together. The nobles cheered, the emperor smiled, and the queen's eyes glimmered like a serpent in the dark. Only Albert himself remained untouched by the theater of it all. He did not want the throne, though no one in that glittering hall would believe it.