The Imperial Bell tolled thirteen times.
No one knew why.
It hadn't rung in over a century not since the First Calamity. Not even the Emperor had the authority to order it struck.
But tonight, its echo cut through Astravar like a knife in the dark.
And Luceris Dreadwyn smiled as it rang.
He stood in the highest spire of the palace, robes black as ash, eyes gleaming with reborn flame. From here, he could see the whole capital—the towers of the noble districts, the glow of the markets, the slums swallowing the outer rings like a sickness.
"Chaos begins with sound," he said softly.
Elira, sitting on the edge of a stone parapet beside him, kicked her bare feet idly.
"They'll think it's a divine omen."
"Let them," Luceris replied. "They need a god to blame when their world begins to collapse."
By sunrise, the imperial court was in disarray.
Nobles screamed at guards. Ministers demanded explanations. Priests lit holy fires to ward off prophecy.
But no one could explain the bell.
No order had been given. No saboteur found. The sacred tower was sealed by bloodline locks—only one of imperial descent could have triggered it.
And as far as the empire knew, only one such person still lived:
Elric Dreadwyn.
Luceris watched his brother from a hidden balcony above the High Council chamber.
Elric looked every bit the golden prince—flawless uniform, perfect posture, a face sculpted to inspire loyalty and deception in equal measure. He stood before the council like a man born to rule.
But Luceris saw the cracks.
He saw the way Elric's hand twitched when questioned. The sweat behind his ears. The way he kept glancing toward the throne—not as a subject, but as a thief guarding stolen treasure.
Luceris burned the image into his mind.
That throne was mine. And soon, it will be again.
Later that evening, deep beneath the palace, Luceris returned to the hidden war chamber. His allies were waiting.
Kaelis Dorne leaned over a map of Astravar, tapping locations marked in red ink.
"Four noble houses are holding secret councils. House Trenmor, Daveth, Ilren, and Moraine. All loyal to Elric, and all tied to the Lotus."
Serina crossed her arms. "They're preparing for something."
Luceris nodded. "A preemptive purge. Elric's cleaning house before the emperor dies."
Eyrin Malgrave grinned from the shadows. "Then let's flip the table."
Luceris stepped forward.
"We strike first."
The plan was brutal in its simplicity.
Simultaneous strikes on three locations. Burn evidence. Leave symbols. Frame enemies. Seed paranoia.
It wouldn't be war.
Not yet.
It would be fear.
That night, Luceris moved with silence and fire.
He led the raid on House Moraine, one of the wealthiest backers of Elric's claim. Their estate was a fortress of crystal towers and silver-tiled rooftops built with arrogance, not defense.
He slipped past wards like mist, walked through shadows like a ghost, and reached the family vault before the guards even stirred.
Inside, he found relics artifacts from the last war. Forbidden charms. Cursed blades. Letters bearing Elric's seal.
He burned it all.
Then he marked the vault door with a sigil not seen in 300 years:
The Crest of the Flamebearers.
When the guards finally arrived, Luceris was gone.
All that remained was fire.
At the same hour, Kaelis stormed the outer grounds of House Ilren. His soldiers once exiles, now black-cloaked and nameless cut through the estate's defenses like wolves among sheep.
Serina, cloaked in assassin's white, poisoned the Daveth wine cellars.
And Eyrin Malgrave?
He didn't need soldiers.
He walked into a noble's party with a grin, kissed the host's daughter in full view of the crowd, and whispered in her father's ear the name of a long-dead scandal.
By morning, House Trenmor was tearing itself apart from within.
Luceris returned to the war chamber as the sun rose.
"Status?" he asked.
Kaelis smirked. "Three houses in flames. The nobles are blaming terrorists. The priests are blaming prophecy."
Serina unrolled a fresh report. "Even Elric's own spies can't keep up. They think the White Vicar might be behind it."
"Good," Luceris said. "Let them doubt their gods."
Eyrin leaned back in his chair. "So what's next? Start the war for real?"
Luceris stared at the map.
"No," he said slowly. "We wait. We let fear sink its claws deeper. And then…"
He stabbed a dagger into the center of the map the palace itself.
"…we cut out the heart."
Days passed.
Rumors spread like wildfire.
Whispers of a cursed heir. Black fire seen in the outer rings. A masked figure bearing the ancient crown of the forgotten bloodline.
Some called him a ghost.
Others, a demon.
Only a few dared say his name.
And even fewer survived it.
In the lower slums of Astravar, a boy saw black fire scorch a church wall and lived to tell the tale.
He told others. Beggars. Orphans. Broken soldiers.
By nightfall, dozens had begun to kneel at broken shrines, whispering a name long erased from history.
Not Luceris.
Not prince.
Not heir.
Elira watched from a rooftop as children lit stolen candles to the mark Luceris had left a crown of flame etched in soot and blood.
"You've started something," she said.
Luceris, standing beside her, nodded once.
"It started the moment I remembered how I died."
"You're not the same," she said. "Not from the man I saw before. Even your soul feels different."
Luceris didn't answer right away.
Then: "Death changes things."
She turned to look at him. "So does power."
He met her gaze.
"That's why I'll never be a prince again."
That night, Luceris stood once more at the foot of the imperial throne room.
He didn't enter.
Not yet.
The old man inside still lived barely. The emperor, his father. A withered puppet propped up by potions and fear.
Luceris didn't pity him.
Not anymore.
He turned and vanished into the shadows before the guards saw him.
He had come not to kill.
But to watch the throne decay.
In the White Spire home of the high church the White Vicar knelt in silence.
Before him, an altar of bone.
A mirror of blood.
And in its reflection, a single name burned into the glass.
Luceris.
The Vicar did not smile.
But the shadows behind him shifted.
And something old began to stir.