The imperial palace rose like a monument to divine authority, its soaring spires piercing the twilight sky while golden light spilled from countless arched windows. Marble columns, each as thick as ancient oaks, supported terraced galleries adorned with intricate carvings that told tales of conquest and glory. Crystalline fountains sang in harmonious cascades throughout the sprawling courtyards, their waters catching the last rays of sunlight like scattered diamonds. At the palace’s heart, the Emperor’s tower stretched toward the heavens, crowned with the imperial standard that snapped proudly in the evening breeze.

At this temple of power’s entrance, a luxurious black carriage drawn by two equally magnificent ebony steeds came to a precise halt. The horses stood motionless as statues, their coats gleaming like polished obsidian, breath forming small clouds in the crisp air. Baron Elfon descended from the driver’s seat with practiced grace, his hands steady as he opened the carriage door with a deep, reverent bow.

A polished black leather shoe emerged first, followed by the smooth line of a perfectly tailored trouser leg. The man who stepped into the fading light was draped in a midnight-black suit adorned with silver braiding and an array of medals that caught the palace’s golden glow. His appearance spoke of nobility at its finest, yet there was something more dangerous in his bearing than mere aristocratic breeding.

Grand Duke Casimir Draven Estonia possessed a face that seemed carved by divine hands from the finest marble—sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and lips set in a line that suggested both control and barely contained power. But it was his eyes that truly commanded attention: piercing sapphires that seemed to see straight through to one’s soul, cold as winter frost yet burning with an inner fire.

He moved with the fluid silence of a predator, each step measured and purposeful. The waiting servants might as well have been invisible furniture as he passed without acknowledgment, his presence casting shadows that seemed to dance along the palace walls like harbingers of his approach. 

Death himself might walk with such quiet confidence, harvesting souls with the same unhurried certainty.

“Welcome back, Your Grace,” the head chamberlain intoned with a deep bow, his voice carrying the proper mixture of respect and reverence. “His Majesty awaits your presence.”

The chamberlain led the way through corridors lined with priceless tapestries and portraits of long-dead emperors, their painted eyes seeming to follow the Grand Duke’s silent progress. At length, they arrived before the towering mahogany doors of the audience hall—twin barriers standing nearly three meters tall, their surfaces carved with scenes of imperial triumph.

The chamberlain signaled to the guards, who moved with synchronized precision to swing open the massive doors. A herald’s voice rang out across the vast chamber. “His Grace, Grand Duke Casimir Draven Estonia, arrives!”

The audience hall was a testament to imperial grandeur, its vaulted ceiling painted with scenes of celestial glory while columns of rose-veined marble supported galleries where courtiers might observe the proceedings below. At the chamber’s far end, upon a dais of white stone, sat the imperial throne—a masterwork of gold and precious gems that seemed to capture and reflect every ray of light in the room.

Upon this throne sat His Majesty Emperor Agnus Kleiv Skontyer, a man whose very presence commanded both fear and respect. Though only in his early forties, premature silver threaded through his dark blond hair and beard, earned through years of rulership that had required decisions no man should have to make. 

His steel-gray eyes missed nothing, and rumors whispered that he had eliminated every potential rival to his throne through methods best left unspoken. Dark magic, some claimed, though none dared voice such thoughts aloud.

To his right sat Empress Christine Skontyer, a woman of elegant beauty with her striking red hair. Crown Prince Clifton stood at her side, barely eighteen and still carrying the soft features of youth—a disappointment that flickered briefly in his father’s eyes whenever they fell upon him.

Casimir approached with measured steps, his shoes echoing in the vast space until he reached the appropriate distance and executed a perfect bow. 

“May Your Majesty’s reign shine eternal, as the sun over the kingdom.”

“Rise,” the Emperor commanded. 

“You look well for a man who has spent years on our most treacherous border. The reports of your victories have reached even these halls.”

“Your Majesty’s confidence in my abilities was well-placed,” Casimir replied, his tone respectful yet clipped. “The creatures of Ater are dangerous yet they’ve surprisingly backed down these few months, not making any movements.”

A flicker of interest crossed the Emperor’s steel-gray eyes. “Backed down? That’s… unusual. In all our records, the creatures of Ater have never shown such restraint.”

“Indeed, Your Majesty. For the past three months, they’ve remained within the deepest shadows of their realm. No sudden attacks. It’s as if they’re waiting for something.”

Empress Christine exchanged a meaningful glance with her husband. Something like unease flashed in her eyes.

Crown Prince Clifton shifted nervously. “But that’s good news, isn’t it? If they’re not attacking—”

“Peace born from an enemy’s retreat is often more dangerous than open warfare,” the Emperor interrupted, his voice sharp with barely concealed irritation. “It suggests they’re gathering strength for something far worse.”

Casimir’s piercing blue eyes remained fixed on the Emperor. “My thoughts precisely, Your Majesty. I’ve maintained triple patrols along the border and reinforced the watchtowers. Whatever they’re planning, we’ll be ready.”

“You suspect they’re planning something specific?” the Empress inquired, leaning forward with keen interest.

“The pattern suggests coordination, Your Majesty. Wild beasts act on instinct—they don’t suddenly develop strategic patience. Something is directing them, something intelligent enough to recognize the value of timing.”

The audience hall fell into contemplative silence, broken only by the Emperor’s fingers drumming against his armrest.

“Have there been any… other disturbances? Strange phenomena in the region?” the Emperor asked, his question laden with implications that made even Casimir’s stoic expression tighten almost imperceptibly.

“The usual whispers of dark magic grow stronger near the border, Your Majesty. Local villagers report dreams filled with shadows and voices speaking in tongues that don’t exist. But nothing concrete—yet.”

The audience hall fell into another muted atmosphere. Crown Prince Clifton fidgeted uncomfortably, earning a sharp glance from his father that the young man seemed to feel like a sharp blade.

His Majesty continued to tap the armrest of his throne slowly, but now in a deliberate rhythm—a signal of a change in topic. Taking his cue, Empress Christine added with practiced smoothness, “Since you’ve come directly to the palace after returning from the border, you must be exhausted. Why don’t we conclude here and continue another time? After all, you’ll be staying in the capital for a while.”

The Empress’s smile was perfectly calibrated as she glanced at her husband, seeking his approval for the suggestion. The Emperor’s nod was almost imperceptible, but it carried the weight of royal command.

“Indeed,” Emperor Agnus continued, his steel-gray gaze never leaving Casimir’s face. “There will be a grand ball next week, commemorating Clifton’s coming of age. It shall simultaneously celebrate your victorious return from the Ater Region.”

The very mention of Ater seemed to cast a shadow over the gleaming hall. That accursed land, true to its name meaning “black,” had appeared like a festering wound along the empire’s borders generations ago. What had once been fertile farmland had transformed into a realm of perpetual twilight after the kingdom of Sebalstin erected their massive fortified walls. The defensive barrier that was built to defend from another kingdom’s attack was now used to defend against the Ater creatures. From that unnatural gloom had emerged horrors that defied description—three-headed wyverns with scales like black diamond, shadow wolves that moved like living smoke, and creatures so twisted that merely glimpsing them drove lesser men to madness.

“As His Majesty commands,” Casimir replied with another precise bow. “May Your Majesty’s reign endure in glory.”

With that final courtesy, the Grand Duke turned and strode from the audience hall, his footsteps echoing with confident authority until the massive doors sealed shut behind his rigid, imposing figure. Even in departure, his presence seemed to linger like the memory of a storm.

“Father Emperor, Mother Empress,” Crown Prince Clifton said, his voice carrying a nervous edge that made the Emperor’s jaw tighten almost imperceptibly. “I shall also take my leave to continue my studies.”

As his son departed with considerably less grace than the Grand Duke had shown, Emperor Agnus allowed his disappointment to show in the privacy of his immediate family. Where Casimir possessed the ruthless confidence of a born killer, Clifton showed only the soft uncertainty of sheltered youth. The boy lacked the steel that should burn in a future monarch’s eyes—that cold fire that separated rulers from the ruled, predators from prey.

The comparison was as inevitable as it was unfavorable, and it left the Emperor wondering what manner of empire his son would inherit, and whether it would survive his reign.