The year 504 of the Azalean Period would later be etched into memory as a year of both splendor and dread—a time the people of the Dramscus Dynasty came to call the Gilded Reckoning. It was the moment when the kingdom clawed its way out of its deepest shadow, when long-held fear loosened its grip and freedom returned, cautious and unfamiliar.
For generations, the land had lived beneath oppression so heavy it muted hope itself. Freedom had become a story told in whispers, a word remembered but not felt. Yet in that year, the people saw it again—not as legend, but as living truth. The air carried a strange lightness, as though the land itself had exhaled. This fragile rebirth was not born of chance, nor of mercy. It was forged by a single figure—one whom the people trusted with their faith, their loyalty, and, unknowingly, their fate.
High above the kingdom, the great castle of Dramscus stood upon the Kannel Hills, vast and unyielding. Its ancient stone walls rose like a challenge to time itself, and its ironbound gates were guarded without rest. Within those walls lay splendor reserved for royalty alone—echoing halls, jeweled chambers, and corridors thick with secrets. From the heart of the fortress, the central tower pierced the sky, visible even from the distant borders of Calixus, the capital city, a silent reminder of who ruled—and who watched.
Deep within the Calixus Citadel, the central court lay cloaked in tense stillness.
A nobleman knelt before the throne.
His garments, once symbols of wealth and influence, were torn and stained, their elegance ruined after being dragged across stone by the knights of Democratis, the Fifth Sector. These were not knights sworn to crowns or bloodlines, but to the people themselves—formed to protect, to judge, and when necessary, to break those who stood above the law.
Sweat streamed down the man's body despite the cold that crept through the chamber. His breath shuddered, uneven and strained. Where arrogance once lived in his eyes, only terror remained—the unmistakable knowledge that power, once lost, offered no shield against death.
The throne loomed above him.
Who was he so afraid of?
The answer revealed itself the moment his gaze rose to the throne.
Light spilled through a tall, narrow window high above, breaking against the dust-laden air and allowing only a shadowed view of the figure seated there. Upon the throne sat a woman—still, composed, and unmistakably sovereign. One leg was crossed over the other, not in leisure but in quiet command.
She wore the attire of a king.
A long white tunic of fine linen and silk draped her form, its fabric heavy and immaculate, embroidered with silver thread along the hem and sleeves—ancient sigils of the Dramscus crown stitched with ruthless precision. Over it rested a fitted doublet, tailored sharply at the shoulders, cinched at the waist with a leather belt bearing a polished steel clasp engraved with the imperial crest. From her shoulders fell a cloak of pale ivory, lined with soft fur at the collar, clasped at the throat by a brooch shaped like a crowned sun—symbol of absolute rule.
Gold chains hung across her chest, not excessive, but deliberate—each one a mark of conquest, treaty, or blood-bound oath. Rings adorned her fingers, some set with dark gemstones, others plain bands worn smooth by time. Upon her boots—black leather, high and worn—rested the faint dust of the realm she ruled, as though even the land dared not leave her untouched.
Her beauty was feral—untamed, sharpened by power.
Her eyes were dangerous to meet. They carried the cold clarity of judgment and, beneath it, the quiet glow of an early sunrise—beautiful, inevitable, and merciless in its arrival. Her hair, brown brushed with deep red, fell straight with a natural curl at its ends, cut to a length neither ornamental nor careless, but chosen—practical, commanding.
Slowly, she tilted her head, resting her temple against her fist as her elbow settled upon the arm of the throne. The movement was unhurried. Intentional.
Then she smiled.
A smirk—measured, knowing, edged with promise. Her gaze sharpened, pinning the kneeling nobleman where he was.
When she spoke, her voice was bold, cold, and calm enough to freeze the marrow.
She smiled.
Not graciously.
Like a blade testing its edge.
"Earl Johanson of Ravayrn," she said, voice clear and carrying without need of herald or decree, "have you lost your wits, or do you take me for a fool?"
A stir moved through the chamber. She did not look at them.
Her gaze stayed fixed on him
He began to shiver, yet the words that followed still carried the arrogance of his authority.
"Your Highness… as the Earl of Raveryn, your father—the late Majesty—granted me full rights over my land through a charter. A charter that not even you, Your Majesty, nor your successors, have the right to question. You must also know that one-third of the country's economy comes from the mines of our land. And, of course, we are in need of more labour to extract more for the empire, Your Highness."
She stared at him for a moment—then laughed.
"So you are saying that your people, the ones who worked in your mines, were all truly willing to work for you and for the nation?" she said.
Her smile sharpened.
"Is that true, Marcus?"
She turned toward a man who stepped out from the side of the court and stood before her. His body was caked with dirt, and a deep scar ran across his arm. At the sight of him, the Earl froze in utter shock.
"Marcus! What are you doing here?"
The Queen spoke again, her voice even, almost casual.
"I think the time given to you is over, Earl Johanson. Marcus, it is your turn. Say what you wish to say. You may not get another chance."
Marcus stepped forward.
"Your Highness, I am Marcus, head of the workers in the Raveryn mines. I am truly relieved to have been given the chance to meet you and speak of the sufferings of the people of Raveryn. Ever since the discovery of resources in our land, we have been dragged into the mines and forced to work like slaves. We are not given wages, and many are beaten to death by the Earl's guards."
Tears streamed down his face as he continued.
"So far, hundreds of my people have died under their brutal whippings, my lady. All those who died bore terrible scars—proof of the pain they endured. We were not allowed to visit our families. It has been years since I last felt the warmth of the sun or smelled greenery. If not for the Knights of the Fifth Sector of Dramscus who came searching for us, we would have met the same fate, Your Highness."
His voice broke.
"Please… free us from this underworld."
"So what do you have to say now, Earl of Raveryn?"
"No, Your Majesty… what he has said is absurd. I treated them with every necessity. You may examine our ledgers," he replied, though his face trembled.
"Oh, truly?" she said, her voice turning sharp. "Do not dare play your filthy tricks on me, Johanson. Do you think you are in this state without my knowledge?"
She leaned back slightly, unimpressed.
"I have known well enough. I was merely bored this morning and wished to see how long your little performance would last. But it is losing its charm… and my boy has waited long enough. I will not keep him waiting further."
"No… Your Majesty… please, grant me another chance… I beg you—"
"TAMISHRA. YOUR MEAL IS HERE."
From the darkness behind the throne, a massive beast emerged—twice the height of a man. Its fur was a deep bluish shade, like a storm-laden sky. Three long tails trailed behind it, each ending in blue flames that flickered and swayed. Long fangs curved from its jaws, and its light turquoise eyes glowed in the dim hall.
Its breath rolled forward in a wave of heat, turning the chamber into an oven within moments.
At a glance, one could tell it was no common creature, but the legendary demonic beast Tigon—said to dwell only within the forests of Begtuok.Anyone who entered its body was said to had the karma they did to others,even worse than the Hell.
With a single step, it descended the stairs and came to stand before the Earl.
In less than a fraction of a second, the man was inside its jaws.
"Chew properly before you swallow, Tigris."
His screams echoed through the hall.
When they faded, nothing remained—not even blood to mark where he had stood.
Silence followed after a loud roar.The beast leaned towards her and liked her face.She patted his head and told him to take rest.
Then as she turned toward Marcus.
Her expression shifted—not softened, but steadied.
"I regret that I learned of your suffering only so late," she said, her tone now firm rather than cruel.
"No, Your Highness… we are grateful you freed us after years of our fathers' imprisonment. We are glad our children will not inherit the fate we endured."
"It is my duty to see that you are provided with what you need," she replied. She turned slightly. "Brother George—who shall be the new Earl of Raveryn?"
The man who had stood beside her the entire time stepped forward. He shared her red hair, though his eyes were green. His features were sharp, well-defined, and composed. A monocle rested over one eye, completing his refined appearance.
"The former Earl had no kin, Your Highness," he said evenly. "He leaves no heir."
"THAT is perfect!" she exclaimed.
"Then I shall grant the title of Earl of Raveryn to Marcus."
Her words sent an uproar through the nobles gathered in the court. They were in no manner prepared to see such a title bestowed upon a commoner. Yet none stepped forward to oppose her. They knew well the cost of defiance.
Marcus stepped ahead, stunned.
"Your Highness… I am deeply grateful for your trust. But I do not believe I am fit to bear such a title. I am but a common man. I do not even possess a family name. I have never ruled, nor do I know how to govern an entire town. It would be enough for us if you appointed some other noble who would treat us justly."
The hall fell silent, awaiting her answer.
She regarded him steadily.
"Marcus," she said, her tone firm, unwavering, "I granted you this title knowing full well your worth. And I believe you are more capable of caring for your people than any silk-clad lord in this chamber."
Her gaze shifted briefly toward the workers of Raveryn standing behind him—hope bright in their faces, pride unmistakable.
"You need not trouble yourself about these nobles," she continued, turning her eyes slowly toward them.
"They would not dare speak against me."
Her stare sharpened, and the weight of it alone made several men lower their heads.
"Am I mistaken?"
Not a voice rose.
She turned back to Marcus.
"Then it is settled."
Her voice rang clear across the chamber.
"From this day forth, the new Earl of Raveryn shall be—Marcus Minestone."
The people of Raveryn cheered, their applause echoing through the hall as Marcus stood with tears of joy in his eyes.
He bowed deeply before her in gratitude while the voices of the court rose in unison:
"May the Lord bless our Highness, ALEXANDRIA ELENOR LYCHNUS!"
She rose from her throne and made her way toward the training grounds, her brother following close behind.
As they walked through the corridors, she asked quietly, "Brother, were you able to learn of his whereabouts?"
George adjusted his monocle slightly. "Yes. I am still investigating. I have not uncovered much yet… but do not worry. I shall bring you good news soon."
They soon reached the training grounds.
The vast field was alive with motion. Soldiers drilled in formations, clashed steel in duels, and others stood apart, casting spells in controlled bursts of light and flame.
Her face carried quiet pride as she watched them.
At the center of the grounds stood a towering man with broad arms and defined muscles. His dark blond hair was cut short, and his brown eyes were sharp and observant. A thin scar marked the end of his right eyebrow, giving him an even sterner appearance.
He was none other than the Empire's only General—and Her Highness's most trusted companion—Luxtor.
The moment he saw her, his hardened gaze softened. He bowed his head respectfully.
She walked up to him and smacked the back of his head lightly.
"How many times must I tell you, Lux? You need not bow before me."
She frowned slightly.
"Your Highness, it is my way of showing respect," he replied. "Is that not so, George?"
"Yes, of course," George answered calmly.
The three of them burst into laughter.
"You always enjoy teasing me, Lux—"
Before she could finish, a small boy rushed forward and wrapped his arms around her from behind.
He had brown hair, bright blue eyes, and looked no older than eight. His face radiated pure innocence.
An elderly man in a butler's suit quickly pulled the boy back.
He had grey hair, a wrinkled yet warm smile, and leaned slightly on a wooden cane. The cane bore an elegant vintage design, with two silver wings carved near the handle forming the grip.
"Prince Ichiro, you must not startle her like that," the old man said gently.
The boy pouted.
"I want to spend time with her, Grandpa Brutus. She is always busy. When will you teach me sword fighting, Sister Alex?"
"My prince," she replied with a smile, "if you are so eager, why not train under the most talented knight in our nation?"
She pointed toward Luxtor playfully.
The boy immediately responded—
"Of course he is the most talented knight—but he cannot defeat you!" the boy teased, sticking his tongue out.
Luxtor grabbed him under his arm and lightly knocked his head.
"Oh? Then why do you not stop pestering her and train properly yourself?" he laughed as Ichiro struggled to free himself.
Alex stepped forward, released Ichiro from his grip, and bent down to his height.
"The reason I stand here today—body and soul—is because of Lux," she said. "He has always been my unsheathed sword, covering my shortcomings. You will understand his strength the day you stand against him."
"The day I fight him, I shall be stronger than him!" the boy declared boldly. "And I will defeat him. Then you must give me your place as her protector, Luxtor!"
"Let us see when that day arrives," Luxtor laughed, along with the others.
"So," Alex said, straightening, "why do we not have a match, Lux?"
"I accept your challenge, Your Highness."
"Oh? Then we have a show." She turned. "Grandpa, George—let us move to the podium."
The spectators cleared the grounds, leaving only Alex and Luxtor standing opposite one another.
Alex slowly unsheathed her sword.
Gasps rippled through the soldiers. Ichiro sprang to his feet, eyes gleaming. George and Brutus exchanged resigned sighs.
"She had a tiring morning with that Earl," George murmured.
Luxtor gave a knowing smirk. "I have long anticipated this."
The reason was clear.
The blade she held was the infamous Sword of Luminescence—a divine weapon capable of storing and releasing a hundredfold of her natural mana. It was the very sword she had wielded in the Battle of Dramscus… against her own father.
The two stood silently, studying one another—each aware of the other's habits, strengths, and flaws.
Luxtor made the first move.
He surged forward with lightning speed and struck with his spear. Smoke burst from the impact point, swallowing them both from view.
The soldiers leaned forward in anticipation.
George simply folded his arms. "Fool," he said calmly. "He exposed his opening."
As the smoke thinned, Alex was no longer in her place.
She had vanished.
She reappeared behind Luxtor, blade raised.
"I knew you would charge directly, Lux," she said as she swung.
But before the strike could land, Luxtor leapt, twisting mid-air. Their weapons clashed—steel against steel—sparks flaring between them.
Locked in close combat, their eyes burned with competitive fire.
"And I knew you would slip behind me," he replied.
"We both know each other's next move," she said. "We have trained together for years after all."
Her voice sharpened.
"But I will not let that deny me victory."
She released her mana.
A radiant beam of light burst from her hand—Svjetlo.
Luxtor dodged, countering instantly with a barrage of light spheres—Leggero—fired in rapid succession.
Alex's blade sliced through each Leggero cleanly, shattering them into fragments of fading light.
Yet Luxtor pressed on, unleashing wave after wave.
As she calculated her next move, an idea sparked.
She infused her entire sword with the Leggero spell—wrapping it around the blade like a luminous sheath—and struck directly against one of his incoming spheres.
The collision caused Luxtor's Leggero to fracture and ricochet backward toward him.
His eyes widened.
He had not expected such a technique.
As he attempted to dodge the returning fragments, one struck near his regimental badge.
That single lapse was enough.
In one fluid motion, Alex stepped forward and placed the glowing edge of her sword at his neck.
Luxtor froze.
Then—unexpectedly—he laughed.
"That was an impressive application of mana," he admitted. "I did not know one could weave the Leggero spell into a blade as if sheathing it in light."
He tilted his head slightly, studying her.
"How did you conceive of that?"
"I simply did it in the moment," she replied, giving an innocent smile and scratching the back of her head.
"That was a fine fight," George said as he stepped onto the field.
"I knew you would win, Sister Alex!" Ichiro exclaimed brightly. "You were not bad either," he added with a smirk toward Luxtor.
"It was a good spectacle," Brutus said firmly. "But it is time for dinner. Let us proceed to the hall."
"Yes, let us go," Alex agreed.
They all made their way to the dining hall, where a grand supper awaited them—an array of rich dishes laid across the long table. The meal stretched on pleasantly, filled with conversation, laughter, teasing, and warmth.
After the long day, Alex finally retired to her chambers.
She was so exhausted that the moment she entered, she fell face-down upon her bed.
Her mind drifted over the events of the day—the trial, Marcus, the match with Lux.
Slowly, her eyelids grew heavy.
Sleep claimed her.
But then—
A sudden flash of light flickered from the corner of her chamber.