The thronehall of Valmyria was built to humble lesser men.
Obsidian pillars soared like spears into the darkness above, their surfaces inlaid with veins of gold that glimmered in the torchlight like rivers of molten fire. The floor was a mirror of black marble, polished so perfectly that those who walked upon it seemed to drift over a dark sea. A thousand candles burned in high iron cages, yet shadows pooled in every corner, as though the light itself feared to touch the Emperor's seat.
That seat was no simple throne but a monolith carved from a single block of basalt, jagged as a mountain peak, draped with crimson banners embroidered with the golden sigil of the sun. Upon it sat Emperor Kaelus IV, Lord of the Five Thrones, Keeper of the Flame Eternal, Sovereign of Valmyria and the Dominions Beyond. Titles enough to break the back of parchment, yet none were ever spoken here—not in the shadow of his gaze.
The courtiers gathered at the base of the steps like carrion birds, jeweled and perfumed, their whispers trembling in the cavernous silence. Beyond them, soldiers of the Umbral Guard lined the walls, steel helms expressionless, glaives planted firmly against the floor.
It was not the splendor that weighed on the hall tonight. It was the fear.
Word had already spread like wildfire across Ardentis. The Emperor's agents had tried to contain it, but whispers always moved faster than decrees. A square in the capital burned. A noble's son had risen. Soldiers had faltered. A mark had been seen.
The Null Sigil had awakened.
The name itself was poison on the tongue.
Now, the Emperor waited.
At last, the doors at the far end of the hall swung wide. Captain Deyar of the Umbral Guard strode forward, helm tucked beneath his arm, his steps echoing in the silence. Behind him, the mutilated remnants of his company limped in shameful procession, armor scorched, faces hollow.
He knelt before the throne, lowering his head until it touched the cold stone floor.
"My Emperor," he said, voice ragged. "I bring report of failure."
A murmur rippled through the court, quickly silenced by the clang of a guard's glaive against the floor.
Kaelus did not speak. He sat motionless, his gaze fixed upon the kneeling captain, as though weighing the very substance of his soul. His silence stretched long, oppressive. Even the candles seemed to falter.
At last, Deyar forced himself to continue.
"The uprising in the lower quarter was contained at first. We had the ringleaders surrounded. But then—" His voice broke. He swallowed. "He appeared. A young man. Dark hair, pale eyes. He bore the mark… black flame upon his chest. He—"
He trembled visibly.
"He unmade us."
Gasps flared among the courtiers. The priests of the Sun exchanged frantic glances.
Deyar's hands clenched against the marble. "Our blades dulled. Our courage vanished. It was as though—" He hesitated, eyes darting upward to the Emperor's shadowed face. "—as though he cut the will from our very flesh. Men dropped their swords, fled like children. Even I—"
The admission scraped from his throat like broken glass.
"I have never known terror like it."
Kaelus's fingers flexed upon the armrest of his throne, the only movement he had made. His voice, when it came, was soft as falling ash, yet carried to every corner of the hall.
"You speak of sorcery forbidden since the Fall."
Deyar pressed his forehead harder to the stone. "Yes, Majesty."
"And this boy lives?"
A pause. "…Yes."
The silence that followed was unbearable. Then, without a word, Kaelus lifted one finger.
The guards moved as one.
Deyar stiffened. "Majesty, I—"
Steel flashed. His head struck the marble with a dull thud, rolling to a halt at the base of the steps. The courtiers recoiled, some stifling cries behind jeweled hands, others biting back their smiles at a rival's ruin.
The Emperor's voice cut through them, flat and cold:
"Failure is not report. Failure is death."
The guards dragged the corpse away. The hall stank of blood and candle smoke.
For a long moment, Kaelus said nothing, letting the fear fester.
Then his gaze shifted, slow and deliberate, sweeping across the gathered ministers, priests, and generals. "You have all heard. Speak. What is your counsel?"
The hall erupted at once.
The silence after Deyar's death didn't last long.
First came the generals.
"Your Majesty," barked Lord Veynar, High Marshal of the Empire, his voice rough as gravel. He was a man built like a fortress, shoulders wide, beard streaked with iron. "This so-called 'awakening' is nothing more than a spark. One boy. Barely trained. If his power unsettled our men, then we will send better men. Hardened soldiers, not weaklings from the city guard. Give me leave, and I will march the Iron Legion through the streets of Ardentis by dawn. We will drag this boy before your throne in chains."
"Chains?" sneered Lady Selvarine, Chancellor of the Treasury. A thin woman with sharp eyes and sharper jewels, she leaned on her cane as though the hall were her private stage. "How do you chain a curse, Lord Veynar? The boy bore the Null Sigil. You would pit coin and steel against the very undoing of essence? Even a dull blade becomes useless in his shadow. And coin… coin is wasted on fools who march into nothing."
"Bah!" Veynar slammed his gauntleted fist against his chestplate, the sound booming across the marble. "Steel has never failed Valmyria. We have crushed rebels, zealots, and false prophets for centuries. This boy will be no different."
From the opposite side of the hall, a robed figure stepped forward. Golden embroidery traced suns across his vestments, his bald head gleaming in the candlelight. High Priest Malchior of the Eternal Flame raised his hands.
"Generals speak of steel, chancellors speak of coin, but you forget the truth: this is blasphemy made flesh. The Null Sigil is not merely rebellion—it is heresy. The mark was struck from the heavens when the gods decreed that no mortal should wield it again. Its return is proof that corruption festers in our streets. If we tolerate it, even for a day, we invite ruin."
The priest's voice rose, echoing through the chamber. "This is not a matter of armies. It is a matter of faith. Give the boy to the Inquisition, and let his soul be cleansed in fire."
A murmur rippled through the courtiers. Some crossed themselves in the sign of the Flame. Others, less pious, exchanged uneasy glances.
Then came the Whisperers.
Lord Ceryn, Master of Whispers, stepped lightly from the shadows, a smile curling beneath his hood. He was slender, almost delicate, his hands adorned with rings that caught the candlelight like tiny knives. His voice was soft, but it carried.
"And what if the boy cannot be caught? What if he flees? What if he finds allies among the discontented masses, who already hunger for someone to break the Empire's chokehold?"
His smile widened as he watched the generals bristle. "I hear things, as you all know. Already, the lower districts whisper his name. They call him the Voidborn. To them, he is not curse but salvation. Kill him openly, and you will make him a martyr. Hunt him clumsily, and you will drive him into the arms of our enemies."
Lady Selvarine raised her chin. "For once, the rat makes sense. If the people crown him their champion, your Iron Legion will face more than one boy, Marshal. You will face the entire underbelly of Ardentis."
"You dare call me—" Veynar began, hand flying to the hilt of his sword.
But before blood could be drawn, a voice cut through the chaos.
Low. Cold. Female.
"You argue as children while poison seeps through the Empire's veins."
The hall fell silent.
From the shadowed archway at the side of the chamber, a figure emerged. She moved with slow precision, her boots whispering against the marble, her cloak of black and crimson trailing like spilled ink. Her face was pale, sharp, almost inhuman in its poise, with eyes the color of frozen steel.
Every step she took sent shivers through the courtiers. Even the generals shifted uneasily, and High Priest Malchior bowed his head, though not in reverence—more in wariness.
The Emperor did not move, but his gaze followed her as she approached the base of the throne.
"Inquisitor Varessa," Kaelus said at last, his voice flat. "You come unbidden."
Varessa knelt smoothly, head bowed. "Majesty. I come because you require truth, not bickering."
The courtiers bristled at her arrogance, but none spoke. Not yet.
"The boy is not merely a heretic, nor merely a rebel," Varessa continued, her voice slicing through the stillness like a knife. "He is a seed of collapse. The Null Sigil does not awaken at random. It awakens when the order of things trembles. When the world itself senses weakness in the throne that rules it."
Her words were blasphemy in any other mouth. But from her, they were a diagnosis.
"If this boy grows unchecked," she said, rising to her feet, "he will not simply lead a mob of beggars. He will unravel the will of the Empire itself. Soldiers will lay down arms before him. Nobles will lose their certainty. Priests will doubt their gods. Such is the nature of the Sigil. It does not fight armies—it rots them from within."
Gasps hissed through the court.
Varessa turned her head slightly, her eyes like knives. "You speak of war, of coin, of fire. None of these will suffice. There is only one path."
"And what is that?" Kaelus asked, his voice still unreadable.
"Secrecy," she said. "Silence. Erasure. We do not hunt him in the open, for that breeds myth. We do not burn him in the square, for that breeds martyrs. We take him quietly. We strip him of name, of face, of history. We excise him from memory until even the whispers forget him."
She stepped closer, the candles shuddering in her wake. "Give him to me, Majesty. Give him to the Inquisition."
The hall held its breath.
High Marshal Veynar's hand twitched against his sword hilt, but even he did not speak.
Kaelus sat upon his basalt throne, silent, immovable. His gaze swept the chamber, lingering on the generals, the priests, the chancellors, the whisperers. Then it returned to Varessa.
The Emperor's voice was quiet, but every word struck like iron.
"You will have him."
Varessa bowed, lips curving into the faintest shadow of a smile.
"Then the boy's fate is sealed."
The court dissolved like water poured across hot stone.
Once the Emperor's verdict had fallen, the debate ended. There could be no countermanding the words of Kaelus Valmyr, Sovereign of the Empire. But silence did not mean peace.
As the courtiers filed from the thronehall in ordered rows, their voices hushed but their eyes aflame, the great chamber seemed to throb with restrained fury. Cloaks whispered, rings clinked, sandals scraped the marble floors — all the small noises of power gathering itself for darker work.
At the center of it all, Kaelus remained seated upon the basalt throne, as unmoving as carved obsidian. His gaze lingered on nothing, yet missed nothing.
In the east wing, behind a screen of carved bronze, Lady Selvarine gathered her silken robes and leaned upon her cane. Two lesser lords fell into step beside her, their faces pale.
"You saw how he looked at her," Selvarine murmured, her voice low enough that the guards could not hear. "Varessa does not kneel. She claims. She takes. And Kaelus indulges her."
Lord Ryn, a minor noble whose estates lay near the western border, gave a nervous laugh. "Indulges her because he fears her. We all do."
Selvarine's smile was thin as a knife's edge. "Then we will give her cause to fear us in return. The Inquisition thrives in silence. Let us see what happens when shadows are dragged into sunlight. Spread whispers, my friends. Let the boy's name grow brighter, louder. If she wishes to erase him, we will ensure every drunkard in Ardentis sings his praises."
The younger lord blanched. "That is treason."
"That," Selvarine said sweetly, tapping her cane against the marble, "is survival."
Meanwhile, High Marshal Veynar stormed down a colonnade, his armor rattling like a caged beast. His adjutant scurried at his heels, parchment fluttering from the man's arms.
"They would give him to a pack of zealots and rats," Veynar growled. "A boy with power enough to unnerve even the Emperor's wards, and they want to hand him to a woman who speaks of erasing history? Madness. Steel answers steel. That is the way of Valmyria."
"Shall I… draft a proposal, my lord?" the adjutant asked timidly.
"No." Veynar's lips twisted into something like a snarl. "Draft nothing. Too many eyes read parchment. This will be done with men, not quills. Assemble captains I trust. Not Kaelus's spies, not Selvarine's merchants, not Malchior's zealots. Men of the Legion. We will be ready. If the Inquisition falters, if this Varessa fails…" His eyes narrowed. "We will seize the boy ourselves. And then we will see who commands him."
In the chambers of the Eternal Flame, High Priest Malchior knelt before a roaring brazier, the fire painting his face in flickers of gold. His acolytes stood in a ring around him, their chants soft, rhythmic, steady.
Malchior's fingers traced the sigil of the sun upon his brow. "The Null Sigil returns," he whispered, voice hoarse. "Not as punishment, but as test. The gods measure our faith, and we must not falter."
He raised his eyes to the flame. "Prepare the Purifying Rite. If Varessa claims the boy, she will find the Flame already waiting for him. His soul will not be erased. It will be cleansed."
The acolytes bowed as one, their voices a single echo: "So shall it be."
Far beneath the palace, in corridors where no candle burned, Lord Ceryn walked alone. Or so it seemed. Shadows clung to him like eager pets, flitting across the stone. His footsteps made no sound.
"A name spreads faster than fire," he murmured to the silence. "Voidborn, they call him. The boy who unravels." His lips curved in a smile. "Already, Selvarine plots to stoke that flame. Already, Veynar sharpens his sword. Already, Malchior kneels to his gods. All for a boy who does not yet know how to wield his curse."
He paused, tilting his head.
"And where there is hunger for power…" He slipped a silver coin into the shadows, and a hand not his own snatched it away. "…there is profit."
The shadows giggled softly.
At last, the thronehall emptied. The courtiers gone, the generals departed, the priests withdrawn, the whisperers vanished. Only Kaelus remained.
The Emperor sat in silence, the weight of the hall pressing down upon him. The torches guttered. The scent of incense lingered faintly, almost cloying.
He leaned forward upon the throne, chin resting upon one hand.
"Null Sigil," he murmured. "The curse that unmade kings. The abyss that devours certainty."
For a long while, he said nothing.
Then, softly, almost with amusement, he spoke again.
"And yet, perhaps… a tool."
That night, deep in the heart of the Inquisitorial spire, Varessa stood before a mirror of blackened silver. The surface reflected dimly, shapes warping, her pale face shifting like smoke.
She raised one hand, pressing her palm flat against the glass. A faint ripple spread outward, distorting the chamber around her.
In the reflection, her lips moved — but the voice that answered was not her own. It was deep, resonant, ancient.
"You have claimed him," it said.
"Yes," Varessa replied, her tone still and cold. "The Emperor yields him to me. Soon, the Null Sigil will be mine to dissect."
The voice in the mirror rumbled, half laughter, half growl. "Do not fail. The boy is not merely power. He is possibility. Should he slip beyond your grasp, all will unravel."
Varessa's expression did not change, but her eyes glinted with something sharp and hungry.
"He will not slip. I have hunted greater prey than one frightened boy. By the time dawn breaks, my hounds will already trace his scent. Adrian will belong to me."
The mirror stilled, returning only her own reflection.
For the first time that night, Varessa smiled.
And so, in a single night within the black walls of the thronehall, a hundred plots were born. The Empire's great powers did not unite against the rising threat. They splintered, schemed, and sharpened their knives.
Some sought to bind Adrian.
Some sought to burn him.
Some sought to profit.
And one sought to claim him utterly.
All while the boy himself, far from the palace, remained unaware of how tightly the noose was being woven.