“Kill him!”
“Cut down that bastard’s head!”
“Yes!!!”
The crowd roared in frenzy, their voices merging into a deafening uproar as they gathered before the execution platform in front of the lord’s mansion.
A man with snow-white hair, battered and bruised, was being dragged onto the platform, his once pristine hair now matted with sweat and blood. His hands were bound behind his back with iron cuffs, emphasizing his captive state, and he was flanked by two knights clad in blue armor.
At the platform’s edge stood the executioner, a hulking figure. His face remained obscured behind a mask, with only openings for his eyes and mouth. In his grasp, a massive double-edged axe gleamed ominously.
At nearly 8 feet tall, he was like a giant among men.
“Off with his head!”
Thud!
A sickening thud echoed as the man with snow white hair was forced to his knees and his forehead pressed against the executioner’s block. His chest rose and fell in ragged, shallow breaths as his cracked lips slightly parted.
The executioner lifted the axe high above his head, its sharpened edge reflecting the sun’s light.
The golden eyes of the captive bore into her violet ones, but just as she stretched forth her trembling hand, the axe fell…
“Nooo!!!”
Her anguished scream tore through the air like the wail of a siren.
Then…
Darkness.
The next moment, the woman jerked awake, only to discover that she was on a bed.
His bed, to be exact!
Her breath was ragged, and cold sweat clung to her skin.
The door burst open with a resounding crash as two Temple Knights stormed in, clad in black and green scale armor that gleamed under the chamber’s candlelight. Their eyes scanned the room with an air of urgency and vigilance as they scrutinized every detail.
This was the most secure chamber in the entire Dukedom—what could have prompted the Grand Priestess to scream with such raw, palpable terror?
“Grand priestess, are you—”
The knight’s eyes widened, and their words were cut short as Sapphira sprang from the bed.
In a blur of motion, she burst out of the room, moving through the hallway with such speed that the maids only felt a rush of wind in her wake.
_____
In the main hall situated on the ground floor, Galanar stood near the entrance, his arms crossed as he watched the maids move about their duties.
After returning from the last campaign, he was assigned to the lord’s estate to stand in for the Adeptus Paladins—until they returned. His duty was to fill in their absence.
A sudden, fierce gust of wind slammed into his face, forcing him to stumble backward. His hand instinctively shot to the hilt of his great sword.
But his battle-ready stance faltered as his gaze locked onto the enchanting woman hovering before him. Her long, black hair drifted eerily around her pale face as if in an unseen current.
‘Why is she glaring at me so intensely?!’ He wondered.
“Where is he? Where did you say he went?!” Her gaze pinned down on him like a lioness poised to strike.
Galanar swallowed, dropping to one knee. “To El, Lady Sapphira…” His fingers tightened around his sword’s hilt.
“He went to Clan El to forge an alliance.”
_____
“Self-proclaimed Lord of Paradise!”
The bellowing voice of a soldier shattered the murmurs in the grand hall, drawing everyone’s attention to the trio standing in the doorway.
Three cloaked figures stepped inside.
Cloaks weren’t uncommon—in fact, several in the hall wore them—but it was the introduction that sent a ripple of unease through those present.
Today was a day of judgment. The lord of El would hear the cases, and only those who had a case would be introduced. Yet no one had dared to bear such a title.
As Asher took his first few steps into the large hall filled with noblemen and women who took pleasure in hearing the lord’s judgment, a loud voice rang.
“Is that really you? The great Achilles with his tail tucked between his legs?”
A burst of laughter echoed in the hall. Many noblewomen giggled behind their delicate hands while the men guffawed boisterously.
“What is this supposed to mean?” Asher frowned as he pulled his hood down, revealing his golden eyes, which elicited loud gasps throughout the hall.
The hall fell silent.
The laughter ceased in an instant.
Even Ziza, the regent, the one who had spoken a moment ago, narrowed his eyes.
All eyes flickered between Asher and the bald-headed man seated on the throne at the far end of the room—Jonah El.
They narrowed in on his golden eyes and then back at Asher’s, which were brighter, like two actual suns caught and embedded into his scleras.
Ziza’s expression darkened when he saw Lord Jonah’s solemn expression. “On your knees, you peasant of a lord.”
The soft, mocking snickers in the background proved to be the final spark that ignited Nero’s growing fury.
With lightning-fast speed, he drew a dagger from the back of his waist and pointed it menacingly at Ziza, his voice a venomous hiss.
“Mock My Lord once more, and you will never speak again.”
Jonah’s thunderous voice cut through the tension.
“Guards!”
The heavily armored guards sprang into action, advancing on the trio with a unified purpose.
Nero’s gaze flicked to the guards, more precisely, their weapons. There, he noticed a disturbing sight: water was coalescing above their staffs, crystallizing into gleaming blue spearheads that seemed to shimmer softly.
Moses’s single eye burned with a dark orange hue as flames erupted from his hands.
The air froze.
“Stop.” Asher sighed, his voice carrying more weight than the word itself. Then he turned to Jonah. “I received word from Lord Zorah, son of Archduke Zenas Ashbourne, that I should visit this place. I came with questions, and I seek an alliance, yet you welcome me with mockery—turning me into a spectacle for noblemen and idle women with nothing better to do than jeer with their titles and positions.”
Jonah rose, his imposing figure casting a long shadow across the platform of his throne.
“Mentioning that cursed name—the name of the traitorous father of our ancestors—is a crime punishable by death.” His voice was firm.
“You are a madman! Lord Zorah died centuries ago. How would he send a word to you?!”
Ripples of whispers spread through the grand hall like wind over still water.
Asher took the dagger from Nero and, without hesitation, sliced his palm. ‘Lord Zorah… it has to be you.’
Jonah’s cold, unforgiving words dropped like a gauntlet, cold and merciless. “What final words do you have before you face the executioner?”
But instead of the expected pleading or defiance, a single, chilling word echoed through the hall: “Silence!”
The response sent shivers down the spines of all who witnessed it. Asher’s eyes had turned a pure, unsettling white as if the very soul within him had transformed into something ancient and unfathomable.
“You dare!” Ziza trembled with fury, pointing a rigid finger. “Cease him this instant!”
The knights swiftly closed the gap, but to their shock, their control over…