“When the heart of an Empire turns to stone, the only warmth left is found in the ashes of what we once loved.”

  The palace of Rhapsodia had never been this quiet.

  Yara Snowhart pressed herself against the cold marble wall, her breath shallow, her pulse thunderous in her ears. Corridors that once rang with laughter, music, and the clatter of armored boots now felt hollow—like the palace itself was holding its breath.

  The air was colder than it should have been.

  Wax.

  Iron.

  Something else beneath it—old fear, newly awakened.

  Premier Katharina had told her she should return to her family.

  Yara had replied yes.

  And then she had left.

  That had been a lie.

  Something in the Premier’s voice—too calm, too certain—had rooted Yara’s feet to the floor. Now she lingered in the shadows, listening.

  From the council chamber ahead came the low murmur of voices.

  “…the prince, Heathcliff,” Zilla muttered. “If Premier Katharina hadn’t told us, I’d never have believed it. The same man we fought at Clef Hills—the missing prince of Rhapsodia, together with the Luminous Vanguard led by Themis.”

  Empusa laughed softly, the sound sharp and brittle.

  “He’s not the same. Whatever he brought back from the dark… it’s wearing his skin now.”

  Yara’s stomach twisted.

  Heathcliff.

  The boy who once shared her lunches beneath the academy’s sycamore trees.

  The boy who dreamed of peace instead of conquest.

  The boy who swore he would never let the Empire lose its soul.

  She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth.

  What have they done to you?

  Boots clattered down the hall.

  Yara ducked behind a pillar as a soldier saluted the generals.

  “Premier Katharina summons you to the king’s chamber.”

  Zilla grunted.

  “Then the storm begins.”

  When they left, Yara followed.

  The hidden stair was still there.

  Narrow. Dust-choked. Half-forgotten.

  She and Heathcliff had used it as children, sneaking through the palace to spy on Emperor Lyon’s councils, whispering about how they would one day change the world—how they would fight for justice together.

  Now, she climbed alone.

  Her fingers brushed cold stone. Her heart pounded harder with every step.

  At the top, she found the small hole in the wall.

  Once, it had been a window for two dreamers.

  Now, it was a peephole into hell.

  Through it, she saw the throne hall.

  Shade stood before the throne, his cloak a living shadow that devoured torchlight. Around him knelt the generals—Vortan, Ysil, Zilla, Empusa, Ghost Blade, Vineria, and Darkhorn.

  Katharina stood nearby, pale and rigid, terror barely leashed behind her eyes.

  And the man seated upon the throne—bearing the resemblance of King Lyon Vareth Caelum—whom Katharina called Hadeon.

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  Hadeon?

  A name from the Book of Legends.

  The one defeated in the Arian War two thousand years ago.

  Is he really him?

  Before them knelt Queen Ismaire and young Prince Silvano, bound and helpless.

  Yara’s breath caught as the ritual unfolded.

  The stones—those cursed, glowing shards—were pressed into flesh.

  Screams tore through marble and gold.

  The air itself seemed to bleed.

  She wanted to look away.

  She couldn’t.

  She saw Katharina’s horror.

  The generals’ agony.

  The boy’s thin, shattering cry as the stone sank into his hand.

  And then she saw Heathcliff—

  No.

  Shade.

  He raised his arms.

  “Umbrafall.”

  The wave struck like a silent scream.

  Yara stumbled backward down the stairwell as the palace convulsed. Torches died. Light vanished. Frost bloomed across the walls.

  The warmth of life was gone.

  In its place—a suffocating cold that cut through cloak and skin and bone.

  She burst into the corridors.

  Once bright with banners and gold, they were drowned in shadow. Marble floors were slick with ice. Portraits of kings and heroes wept black tears. Chandeliers hung frozen, cages of dead light.

  Every step echoed too loudly.

  Every breath felt stolen.

  She ran.

  The palace gates stood open.

  Beyond them, the capital of Rhythm—the heart of Rhapsodia—was dying.

  Streets that once sang with merchants and music lay silent beneath a violet haze. People staggered through it, clutching their chests, their screams smothered as bodies hardened into iron and shadow.

  A merchant woman fell to her knees, clutching her child. Her skin turned to steel. The child’s cry was cut short.

  A veteran polishing his medal convulsed, his eyes hollowing into black pits. He rose without a sound, armor fused to flesh.

  A baker’s apprentice—too young to understand fear—blinked awake untouched. She called for her parents—

  —and found only towering silhouettes where they had stood.

  The city screamed as one.

  Then—

  Nothing.

  Yara’s breath came in broken gasps.

  She raised her hands, casting a purification spell. Light flared—

  —and vanished.

  Swallowed whole.

  The magic fizzled, useless.

  It can’t be dispelled…

  It’s not a curse.

  It’s judgment.

  She turned a corner and saw her home.

  Her mother knelt beside her father, who trembled violently, hands clawing at his chest.

  “Yara!” her mother cried. “Help him!”

  Yara dropped beside him, tears freezing on her cheeks.

  “Father—hold on—please—”

  He looked at her, eyes flickering between love and shadow.

  “Go,” he rasped. “Protect your mother.”

  “I can save you—”

  “You already have,” he whispered. “I love you, my daughter.”

  Then the darkness took him.

  The man who once lifted her onto his shoulders became a silent knight of jagged steel. He did not growl. He did not move.

  He simply stood there—

  —staring at the wall where her childhood drawings still hung.

  Yara’s scream shattered the silence.

  Her mother clutched her, sobbing, but the sound echoed uselessly against frozen walls.

  “We have to go!” her mother cried.

  Yara wiped her tears, forcing her trembling hands to move.

  Ice gathered around her fingers, weaving into a veil of frost that shimmered like moonlight.

  “Stay close,” she whispered. “Don’t breathe too loud.”

  The Cold Veil spread.

  Their warmth faded. Their heartbeats dulled.

  Shadow Knights turned their heads—but did not see.

  Step by step, Yara led her mother through frozen streets. Past their ruined home. Past the palace that had become a tomb.

  Behind them, Rhythm was no longer a city.

  It was a graveyard of iron and silence.

  Ahead, the road to Melodia stretched—Contour Trade Port, the border, and perhaps… salvation.

  At the final bridge, Yara stopped.

  She looked back.

  The towers of her childhood were gone, swallowed by shadow. Somewhere within that darkness, Heathcliff still lived—

  —or something wearing his face did.

  She pressed a hand to her heart, whispering through the cold,

  “I’ll save you, Heath. I’ll find Themis. And I’ll end this.”

  Frost clung to her lashes like tears.

  She turned toward the dawn.

  What happens when power forgets humanity?