Artemisia Cire Fanum carried the st, stubborn ember of her family's fading pride.

  Born to the once-renowned House Fanum of the southern empire’s nation of Ara, she had inherited a name that no longer held the power it once commanded. Lord Arthur Fanum had sired four children, three daughters and a son, but no number of heirs could reverse the rot that had set into their lineage. Once, House Fanum had been wealthy, respected, a shining fixture of southern courts. But when their god, Raz, dissipated into silence and myth, their fortunes unraveled with him.

  Without divine favor, without influence, House Fanum was nothing more than a relic.

  Desperation festered behind its high, cracking walls. Nobles who once bowed their heads now turned away with thinly veiled disdain. Among the great houses, Fanum had become a name spoken with pity or worse, forgotten altogether.

  Yet even as the tapestries faded and the silver was pawned for grain, one among them refused to yield.

  Arty.

  She could not save her house with gold or armies. So she did what she could: she moved quietly among the people, slipping past gates and curfews, bringing food to the hungry and aid to the desperate. She learned the true shape of her city not from high towers, but from the cracked stones of its alleys, from the whispered bargains in its shadowed squares.

  It was beyond the city walls, among those the nobles chose not to see, that she forged her own path.

  It was there that she met a rogue named Jax.

  Through Jax’s connections, she began to hear rumors the court dared not speak aloud: people disappearing in the night, whole families vanishing without trace. She uncovered stories of caravans meant for distant trade that never arrived, of vilgers who spoke of robed figures haunting the fields at twilight.

  Worse still, in the tangle of ledgers and overheard conversations, she found hints of her own blood’s betrayal. Lord Arthur Fanum's name was whispered among deals too secret, too stained, to see daylight.

  She no longer knew what to do.

  Praying to their God, once a source of strength, was now as futile as pleading with the wind. Raz was gone, and with Him, the st hope House Fanum had clung to with white-knuckled desperation.

  Then, an opportunity came.

  A summons arrived, an invitation for House Fanum to attend a grand celebration in the Capital: a festival to honor the newly appointed Crown Prince. It was a rare gesture, one no noble house, however diminished, could afford to ignore. And to Artemisia, it was more than ceremony.

  It was a chance.

  She crafted a pn, flimsy and desperate though it was. Speak to the King. Plead for aid.

  The pn had holes rge enough to swallow her whole, and she knew it. But desperation had long since repced caution in her heart.

  When she arrived at the Imperial Capital, she was swallowed in grandeur. The towering white walls, the gilded banners, the courtiers moving like jeweled birds through endless corridors. The Imperial Castle was a monument to untouched power, a pce where suffering was polished away until it gleamed like marble.

  Artemisia, dressed in her best but feeling more like a beggar than a noble, kept only one goal in her mind: convince the King. Save Ara.

  Every petition for an audience was answered with hollow apologies, her requests dismissed by sleek, smiling officials who barely concealed their contempt. She had expected resistance. What did the high court care for the desperate pleas of a fading house from a dying nd?

  Still, she persisted.

  It was not her name, now little more than a footnote among nobler lineages, nor her title, barely worth a whispered acknowledgment, that finally caught the eye of the court. It was her refusal to disappear quietly, her defiance against the currents of dismissal, that stirred interest like a ripple across still water.

  Late that evening, as the grand festivities dwindled and the courtiers drifted toward their private, decadent pursuits, a figure emerged from the perfumed haze of the ballroom. Cloaked in bck and crimson, he watched her with the zy, predatory amusement of a lion observing a particurly noisy bird.

  The Crown Prince himself.

  Damir Gwyrtheyrn.

  He studied her for a long, nguid moment before speaking, his voice low and curling with a dangerous sort of amusement.

  “What is it you want so badly that you’d disgrace yourself in front of half the Empire?” he asked, voice low and curling with interest.

  Artemisia opened her mouth, the polite answer forming on instinct, but the words caught in her throat. Pride, so carefully stitched into her bones, tore under the weight of everything she had left behind.

  "I beg you," she said, her voice cracking despite her effort to steady it. She sank to one knee before him, drawing scandalized gasps from the few nobles still lingering nearby. "I beg you to listen. Ara is falling. My people are vanishing. The faith that once held us together is rotting into something we no longer recognize."

  Damir regarded her with a cool, unreadable expression. He tilted his head slightly, as though considering a particurly strange piece of art.

  "And what would you have me do, little bird?" he asked, his tone almost pyful.

  "Send help," she whispered fiercely. "At least send someone to see for themselves. If nothing is done, there will be nothing left to save."

  For a long, terrible moment, he said nothing. She remained kneeling, the marble floor cold against her skin, humiliation burning in her cheeks.

  At st, Damir moved. He bent slightly, just enough for his words to be meant for her ears alone.

  "Get up," he said, voice a soft command. "You will find no answers on your knees."

  Arty obeyed, rising unsteadily to her feet. Her heart pounded painfully against her ribs. She met his gaze and found there, hidden deep behind his crimson eyes, the faintest flicker of interest.

  Damir studied her a moment longer, then offered his arm in a gesture that was not quite galnt and not quite mocking. Hesitating only a second, Artemisia took it, feeling the strength hidden beneath the silk and velvet.

  He led her away from the center of the room, past murmuring nobles whose curiosity sharpened like knives in the perfumed air. Through a side corridor, darker and less adorned, he brought her to a small alcove where no one would overhear.

  Only then did he release her.

  "You speak of rot and fear," Damir said, brushing an imaginary speck from his sleeve, "but so do a dozen others every season. Border wars, famine, lost pilgrims. The Empire has no shortage of tragedies. What makes yours worth my time?"

  Arty clenched her hands at her sides to keep from trembling. She had come too far, spent too much, to falter now.

  "Because it is not natural," she said, forcing the words past the tightness in her throat. "The people are not simply suffering. They are disappearing. Vanishing overnight. Entire vilges empty, with no sign of struggle."

  Damir's gaze sharpened, just a fraction. He leaned back against the wall, arms loosely folded across his chest.

  "And you believe what? That ghosts are stealing them away?"

  "No," she said quickly. "It is something worse. I do not know what name to give it."

  For the first time, she saw something flicker across his face, a shadow of thought, swift and hidden.

  “Even in Ara huh…” he whispered, almost to himself.

  Something in his voice made her shiver.

  "Let me ask you, why should I care what happens to a dying nation and a forgotten house?" he asked, not cruelly, but with a frankness that struck like a sp.

  Though his tone remained zy, almost disinterested.

  "Because Ara is still part of your Empire." she said, each word trembling with the weight of her desperation.

  For a moment, silence stretched between them. The muted music of the ballroom seemed to come from another world entirely.

  Then Damir spoke, voice calm and almost careless.

  "I will look into it."

  The words struck her with the force of a physical blow. Relief flooded her so suddenly she nearly staggered.

  "You will?" she breathed, scarcely daring to believe it.

  He tilted his head, studying her as though amused by her disbelief.

  "Yes." There was no kindness in his tone, no reassurance. If anything, the faint smile on his lips made her shiver.

  "What is your name again, girl?" Damir continued, his crimson eyes catching the light like a bde.

  "Artemisia Fanum, your highness."

  "You will know soon enough whether your prayers have been answered, Artemisia."

  He turned away without waiting for her thanks, the hem of his dark cloak whispering across the stone floor as he vanished back into the maze of the pace.

  For a long moment, Arty remained rooted where he had left her, heart pounding.

  Arty could not fathom what convinced him whether it was pity or kindness, but Damir agreed to help her.

  And for a moment, real and foolish, hope bloomed in her chest.

  Hope that perhaps the Empire had not abandoned Ara entirely.Hope that, somehow, salvation could be bought not with gold, but with words.

  She could not have known then that the help she secured was no mercy. A storm dressed in silk, a prince whose whims could topple empires, whose curiosity burned hotter than any sense of duty.

  And soon enough, Artemisia would realize the bitter truth. That the very royal she had once humbled herself before, pleading for aid, would be the one to unravel everything she had fought to build.

  "I want to punch you." Artemisia hissed.

  Damir tilted his head, regarding her almost zily, as if she were some curious insect he hadn’t yet decided whether to crush or admire.

  "Interesting," he murmured. "Now we ignore formality. How charming."

  "Don't you dare patronize me," she snapped. "You swore you’d help."

  "I swore," Damir corrected, his voice light as silk, "to look into the matter."

  Artemisia took a furious step forward. "Then what was that grand speech you made? About survival? About saving Ara? About fighting for everyone?"

  Damir’s smirk deepened. He studied her as one might study a dying fme. Half in amusement, half in disdain. "A little incentive," he said lightly. "To keep your pretty, pretend mission afloat."

  Arty’s hands curled into fists at her sides, trembling with restraint. "People are dying, you bastard. My people. My city. While you—"

  "—amuse myself?" Damir finished for her, the smile ghosting back across his lips. "Yes, I suppose I am. For now."

  Eli finally stepped forward, hand half-raised. Not to intervene, but to be ready. He knew better than most that Damir’s madness wasn’t just words; it was a living thing, sharp and waiting, eager to spill blood if it served his whims. Pride and boredom were dangerous triggers in a man like Damir.

  The prince only chuckled.

  A soft, dangerous sound that rippled through the cold air like the first crack of ice before it breaks.

  "Artemisia—" Damir began, tone dripping with mocking civility.

  Before he could utter another word, Arty moved. She grabbed a fistful of his cloak and yanked him toward her, the heavy fabric dragging with a hiss across the stones.

  Their faces were inches apart, and the fury in her eyes burned hotter than any fire the prince could conjure.

  "Break free," she seethed, voice low and trembling with rage, "Break free, you royal cunt!"

  Damir blinked once, slow and unhurried, as if her fury were little more than a gust of wind brushing past.

  "You," she snarled, each word a sh, "who set fire to Torvaen for nothing but your own amusement. You, who raises your walls so high you cannot hear the cries beyond them. You, who preach crity while shrouded in your own hypocrisy. "

  She pulled him closer, her knuckles white against the fabric.

  "Your very existence was blessed by Gods and bound you to the people of Caelestiālis," she said, her voice cold, dripping with disdain, each word cutting through the air like a bde.

  "Such a shame." Her lips twisting into something that could barely be called a smile. A cruel, hollow mockery of one.

  "We never prayed for a scumbag who seeks nothing but his own pleasure." The weight of her crushing disappointment wrapping around every word she spoke, as if she could hardly bear the very sight of him.

  Damir remained silent, his crimson eyes, deep and amused, locked onto hers without flinching.

  Artemisia drew a trembling breath, her voice breaking into something raw and terribly human.

  "You are not a god, Damir."

  She released him, shoving him back with a force that startled even Eli.

  "You’re just a pathetic, broken man," she whispered, "who happens to wear a crown."

  The words fell between them like a bde driven into ancient stone.

  For a heartbeat, all was still.

  The mist that curled through the broken streets held its breath. Even the stars above seemed to shrink away from the moment.

  A thin ugh unfurled through the silence.

  Not the sharp bark of mockery they expected.Not the cruel snort of a prince indulging his disdain.

  Damir ughed truly, with a sound that cracked open the night.

  It was a deep, startling thing, peeling out of him in bright, jarring bursts. A ugh torn free from somewhere far beneath the polished veneer, something dangerous in its honesty.

  Artemisia stared at him, frozen in confusion. Eli, who had spent a lifetime learning the edges of this man, flinched despite himself.

  Damir tipped his head back slightly, the pale mplight gilding the curve of his throat, catching in his crimson eyes. There was madness in that gaze, not rage, but exhiration. As if he had stumbled upon some rare treasure in the wreckage of the world.

  "You," Damir managed between breaths, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye, "you might be the first in years to speak to me with such audacity. "

  Artemisia’s fists clenched anew, but her fury faltered under the weight of her bewilderment.

  Damir straightened, his ughter tapering into a smile. Too wide, too sharp, a smile built not from joy but from the simple pleasure of finding something, at st, that could still surprise him.

  He stepped closer, not threatening, but inevitable, until the cold edge of his presence pressed against hers once more.

  "Pathetic," he mused aloud, tasting the word. "Broken."

  His voice softened, dropping to something almost fond and infinitely more dangerous.

  "Good," he whispered, the word curling like smoke through the cold air. He leaned in slightly, as if sharing a secret meant only for her.

  "Those are the things that end kingdoms, little bird," he murmured, his breath brushing her ear like a chill. "Not kings. Not armies, nor banners."

  "The broken things," he breathed, voice low and certain.

  "The ones with nothing left to lose."

  Artemisia stood rigid, a tremor in her chest she could neither master nor expin.

  Behind her, Eli exhaled slowly, barely audible.He had seen Damir angry.He had seen him bored, vengeful, cruel.

  But this amusement was far, far worse.

  Because Damir Gwyrtheyrn wasn’t shing out.

  He wasn’t wounded.

  He was entertained.

  And in Damir's world, there was nothing more dangerous than a game he wished to keep pying.