The sunlight spilled like molten gold through the vast arched windows of the Imperial Palace, painting the white marble floors with soft fire.
Crystal chandeliers swayed gently above, their chains silent despite the distant tremors in the wind.
The vast hall, cold and majestic, stood still.
At the far end, seated on a black-and-gold throne, was EmperorFrancis.
He stood now, tall and still, one gloved hand resting lightly on the hilt of a greatsword sheathed at his side.
His face was pale—paler than usual, and beneath his striking blond hair, a thin scar cut across his temple, just above the eye.
A scar that hadn't been there a week ago.
And also, a remnant from his fight against the unknown attacker who had promised to come and take his life.
He stared into the empty air.
Thinking.
Recalling.
That boy's eyes.
"I'll find you... fucker."
His whisper evaporated into the wind.
Just then—
Clack—Clack—Clack—!
Footsteps.
