The emperor was dying.

  Neither physicians nor prayers could stop it. Not even the emperor himself.

  Night had fallen over the citadel, cloaking its gilded towers in shadow. Seven candles burned solemnly around the emperor’s bed—one flame for each century of the empire’s reign. He lay beneath silken sheets embroidered with golden dragons, his face pale as marble, breathing so softly that only silence could hear. His skin was almost translucent, veins beneath like ink on parchment. Around him, servants and healers hovered quietly, their heads bowed, knowing there was nothing more they could do.

  At the bedside stood a boy of fifteen, the emperor’s only heir. His crown was oversized, too heavy, balanced awkwardly upon hair as dark as raven feathers. He should have felt pride, ambition, the fierce joy of ascending to the throne. Yet tonight, as he stared down at his dying father, the young heir felt nothing but dread. Not of death itself, but of what awaited him beyond this quiet chamber, within the shadowed halls of power.

  The throne was a burden, and he knew he was not ready.

  But ready or not, his father’s life slipped steadily away.

  Kneeling on the cold marble floor beside the emperor’s bed was another man, older, hardened by war and tempered by politics. His eyes were as cold and calm as steel blades, betraying nothing of what he felt—or if he felt at all.

  Lucien Dreymore.

  Regent of the Empire.

  Brother of the dying emperor.

  Lucien’s loyalty had long been proven in blood and battle. Men called him the Shield of the Realm, a loyal servant, an unbreakable guardian. But beneath every title lay quiet whispers—he was a man too powerful, too cunning, too close to the throne. Tonight, however, he wore loyalty openly, his head bowed respectfully, his expression unreadable in the flickering candlelight.

  “They will come,” the emperor whispered, his voice thin as winter frost. Each word was an effort, each breath a struggle. “They will come for the throne, for my son’s life… for the empire itself.”

  Lucien raised his head, eyes dark and unwavering. “Let them come. I am ready.”

  The emperor offered a bitter smile, as though amused by his brother’s calm confidence. “Words. Promises. Always so easy, Lucien.” A violent cough seized him, blood flecking his pale lips, staining them crimson. “But these enemies will not come openly. They grow from within, hidden in shadow, fed by ambition and greed.”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Slowly, trembling, the emperor reached for the ornate box resting upon the bedside table. His fingers brushed the silver edges before lifting a scroll wrapped in velvet and edged with polished obsidian.

  “I want you to build me a shield,” the emperor rasped, urgency burning in his eyes.

  Lucien’s brows knitted slightly, a rare break in his iron composure. “A shield, Your Grace?”

  “Not of steel—but of shadow. Not forged of noble blood—but built from forgotten children.” The emperor’s voice took on strength, a desperate clarity. “A shield that answers to no lord, no priest, no regent. Loyal only to the throne itself.”

  Lucien lowered his gaze and solemnly took the scroll, gripping it with reverent care. “It shall be done.”

  “Call them the Imperial Spies,” the emperor continued, his voice fading, strained with exhaustion. “Four blades, trained to perfection. One for each direction, each with their own darkness. Teach them everything—except fear.”

  Lucien nodded again, gravely, his voice steady as stone. “As you command.”

  The emperor sank deeper into the silken pillows, his breathing shallow and uneven. He reached out a frail hand to grip Lucien’s wrist, holding tightly despite the trembling. “Do not fail me, brother. Do not fail him.”

  Lucien’s gaze met the emperor’s, the silence heavy with promise. “I will not.”

  The emperor closed his eyes, his grip loosening, the quiet of the chamber like a tomb. In moments, he would be gone, leaving only echoes and a heavy crown.

  Then silence fell, and Lucien rose slowly to his feet.

  He turned his gaze to the young heir, who met his uncle’s eyes for only a fleeting instant before lowering them to the cold stone floor.

  “Your Grace,” Lucien murmured gently, bowing slightly before turning away.

  And so the Imperial Spies were born.

  A fortress hidden among mountains appeared on no map, known only by whispers and rumors: Drakehold. There, orphans were gathered—children whose parents had died, whose families had vanished, or whose lineages were erased. Stripped of names, robbed of pasts, they were raised without love, without identity. Their only purpose was loyalty to the crown, forged like steel in the fires of secrecy and suffering.

  No noble house commanded them.No church could touch them.Not even Lucien Dreymore himself could fully claim their hearts.

  Their loyalty was reserved solely for the throne itself—an oath sworn to a dying emperor, a promise sealed by the blood of those who trained them.

  They were the emperor’s final safeguard, his legacy written in shadows.

  Yet, in opposition, another power rose, draped in crimson and crowned by faith.

  The Grand Cardinal, supreme leader of the Church, watched the empire from behind altars and gilded sanctuaries, wielding prayers sharper than swords. Beneath him moved the Church’s secret hand—the Red Choir. Silent and deadly, they hunted heretics, silenced dissent, and judged without mercy.

  Thus, two great powers stood locked in a silent battle:

  Lucien Dreymore and the Imperial Spies on one side, guardians bound by a secret oath.The Grand Cardinal and his Church on the other, loyal only to divine ambition.

  Between these forces sat a boy-emperor trembling beneath the weight of his father’s crown, unaware that he was already trapped in their shadowed web.

  War had not yet come.But when it did, no one—king or spy, priest or peasant—would escape its shadow.