“ The connection binding the deceased’s spirit to him was suddenly severed, and a lightning spear pierced straight through his chest. He realised with a jolt—he was about to die.

  He had transferred too much celestial energy and hadn’t enough to survive an attack of this calibre—he was going to die.

  In the face of his godhood, in spite of his hubris, Fate laughed. ”

  — Viaskorial Imprint fallen from the Realm of Immortals, Etrian Year 3106

  ***

  Prologue

  THOSE WHO GAZE DOWN upon the people from high above ought to use their stature to scrutinise and cleanse the land of filth; to prioritise the peace and prosperity of the lives they watched over. They ought not gaze down with contempt, nor ridicule and neglect; they ought not take for granted their height, nor think it their right—for while some saw it as privilege, others a burden, in truth it was a profound responsibility.

  The passage taught by his mentor drifted to Aurelius’s mind yet again as he swayed on the gilded window frame’s precarious edge.

  He gazed down at a city of gleaming bronze, whirring with life and tenacity. From afar, the city was perfect; not a blemish in sight. Up close, it was plagued by cracks and rust; poisonous lead hidden beneath glamorous paint. But Aurelius didn’t wish to dwell on that truth for the moment.

  He tapped his crystalline bracelet against the window’s handle, attached to it, and leaned forward. Wind rustling his lean form, the golden afternoon glow reflected within his wandering gaze.

  Fora, the City of Time.

  In the west, the Imperial Steel Factories bustled and groaned; a dark haze swallowed the streets, hugging the massive structures. In the east, streamers and lanterns enriched the city square and main avenue. Children played with moon-kites, vendors prepared their resplendent stalls, yet, further east, the Financial District still teemed with rushing office workers. Finally, in the centre of the lake separating west and east, the golden dome and pearl towers of Vaeterni Palace proudly glittered beneath the sunlight.

  Aurelius drew a deep breath and closed his eyes, savouring the fresh air far above Fora’s industrial fog. The deafening wind, the creaks of wood, the hum of machinery. He hoped they wouldn’t land yet. If only he could enjoy the serenity for a little longe—

  The Central Clocktower tolled.

  His eyelids fluttered open. They’d be docking soon. And his venar would be furious if he found him like this.

  He sighed, then smoothly swung his body inside the cabin, window sealing shut with the momentum. The noisy wind was muffled in an instant. He tugged his arm upwards, detaching the bracelet, and secured the window’s bronze clasps.

  Steady footsteps approached his cabin door. Aurelius tensed, hand flying to his sabre. He hadn’t expected visitors until later. Just as the door swung open, he whirled around, sabre drawn and raised.

  The Grand Captain’s gaze settled on the blade. “You need new knights, Your Highness.”

  Aurelius released a breath of relief, lowering the sword. “I’m not yet of the age to hire my own people, venar; Father wouldn’t allow it.”

  “Then I suggest you get into the habit of carrying a revolver.” Grand Captain Derevoir strode into the room, scrutinising stare sweeping its crevices. Those eyes narrowed slightly at the youth’s disheveled hair and cracked bracelet.

  Aurelius sheathed his sabre, turning to the scenery. “Convenient—until I encounter an assassin capable of manipulating metal,” he said. “Venar, my allowance can’t afford dead-steel bullets. You’ve unfortunately chosen the poorer prince as your disciple.”

  Alongside him, the Grand Captain hummed his agreement. “You’ve grown wittier in my absence. The academy must be serving you well.”

  “Two months hardly makes a difference.” Aurelius peered up at him—the regal countenance, the sharp narrow face, the light eyes perceiving every misplaced speck of dust. “Why’ve you come? There’s twenty minutes left.”

  “Your knights”—a twitch of vexation, gone in a blink—“are fast asleep in the Boarding Hall. They reeked of shkir.”

  “So, you thought to check if I still breathed?”

  “I thought to check if you were ready.”

  “Ready…” Aurelius muttered, looking down at the vibrant city. “For which part?”

  The Grand Captain trained his steely gaze on the horizon, taking in the hazy city walls, the distant hills, the crimson setting sun; rather than the ants below. His brow stiffened.

  “All of it.”

  Soon after, the Violet Empress gracefully descended upon palace grounds.

  A beast of a vessel; the largest and newest of the two imperial airships. It resembled a naval ship and floated high in the sky by means of a massive balloon of refined praziu gas. This vessel alone, being House Esterov’s pride and joy, unsurprisingly outshone the entire navy fleet in technological superiority. Made of the toughest, lightest polished wood from the lower peaks of the Nabri Mountains; and of shining bronze-alphonic engraved with runic enchantments—the airship would not fall so long as even one of its eighteen imperial sorcerers still breathed.

  Retainers lined either side of the white reception carpet, bent into bows and curtsies, welcoming the young prince home in a chorus. Aurelius alighted down the landing steps behind the Grand Captain, gaze lowered. He didn’t have to look to know his older brother hadn’t come. He was supposed to, but why would he?

  “Aurelius!”

  The youth’s head sprung up.

  Dressed in the silver-indigo uniform of an imperial military academy, an older boy grinned and waved from the tail-end of the servants’ procession. Aurelius brightened, ignored his venar’s wary glare, and hurried down to greet him.

  “Elir! What’re you doing here?”

  “Welcoming my little cousin home,” Zephyros said, escorting him to the palace. “What does it look like?”

  “It looks like you’re trying to save me from humiliation,” Aurelius mumbled under his breath. “Where is he?”

  “His Imperial Highness?” Zephyros hesitated as they strode through the south entrance hall. “Afraid I don’t know.”

  Aurelius studied him—the averted gaze, faltering speech. Liar, he concluded, then quickened his pace.

  His stride brought them to the Grand Hall, where the lower-chronologists were providing final touches for the Imperial Mage’s time runes, wisps of gold thread dancing between their fingertips. Traditionally, the duty was reserved for members of the imperial family. But the Prospect Crown Prince was nowhere to be seen, the Emperor was abroad, and Aurelius hadn’t yet graduated.

  As he observed from the archway, Aurelius felt a twinge of shame in his brother’s stead. He’s going to take all the credit, even if the whole palace knows the truth, he realised.

  Just as his cousin caught up, the young prince whirled and continued past the Grand Hall, his decisive steps echoing throughout the polished marble corridor.

  “Rel?” Zephyros jogged after him, puzzled. “Where are you going?”

  “To take a stroll,” Aurelius said over his shoulder.

  The other boy fell into step with him. “So suddenly?”

  “Will you stop me?”

  “That depends. Where do you intend to take this ‘stroll’ of yours?”

  “The masquerade’s hours from now, and no one’s going to need me until then,” Aurelius said, lowering his voice as they passed a few guards. “Which means I’ve plenty of time to kill.”

  “You haven’t answered my question.” At the palace’s main foyer, Zephyros caught his arm, brows knitted. “Where are your knights? Wandering the city alone is—”

  “Your competence exceeds theirs, elir,” Aurelius interjected. “I just…I want to see the festival. This is the first year Father’s been away. You know when he’s around I can’t…can’t…” He pursed his lips, unable to continue.

  The two silently stared at each other for a moment—one blinking pitifully, the other torn in two. Then, despite himself, Zephyros heaved a frustrated sigh.

  “Fine. But we mustn’t stay long.”

  After fetching cloaks to blend in, the boys left through a servant’s exit at the East Gate and emerged upon the festive city square, scarlet sunset aglow behind them. The streets bustled with life and laughter, the patrolling guards barely noticeable amongst the crowd, like silent guardians camouflaged into brick walls.

  Lanterns of snowy cloth, shaped like hourglasses with gold painted illustrations, hung overhead in rows. As they drifted across the square, those lanterns flickered alight and transformed the main avenue ahead into an endless river of scintillating radiance.

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  “Breathtaking, isn’t it?”

  A woman’s voice had broken Aurelius’s reverie. He glanced over, surprised. “Alira Ylana, I thought you stayed at the academy.”

  Ink-black hair in a bun, Ylana wore trousers belted tight at her waist, a plain sleeveless top, and a cheeky smile. One would never guess her to be the heiress of a Ducal House.

  “That was the plan, but someone convinced me otherwise. Said it was only right we enjoyed every permitted holiday we could as prefects.” She looked at each of them. “Have you both come to celebrate the Safir ul Lunei in the intended way?”

  Zephyros didn’t even try masking his disdain. “And which way is that, Lady Ylana?” His narrowed gaze darted about, as if searching for a concealed assassin.

  “Among the common folk. With fireworks, live music, and festival treats.” Ylana then tilted her head. “Zeph, relax, why don’t you? Your sister’s not with me—this isn’t an ambush.”

  Zephyros calmed down considerably, yet retained his vigilance. “That accursed snake of hers isn’t here either?” he asked cautiously.

  Ylana shook her head, and Aurelius suppressed a chuckle. He decided to change the subject.

  “We’ve indeed come to experience the festivities, alira. And see if anything should be improved.”

  Ylana smiled. “How does Your Highness like it so far?”

  “I’m relieved the city officials were the organisers instead of my brother. Everything looks…”

  His gaze floated to the street performers, dancing and twirling amidst spectacles of light enchantments; the Gold Army band taking requests and playing music; the families and young children mirthfully watching a paper theatre.

  “…magical,” Aurelius finished in a murmur.

  As they strolled along the avenue, the sun continued creeping lower on the horizon and cast a faint orange-pink hue upon the darkening skies. Aurelius half-listened to his companions’ conversation.

  “Wonder if anything special’s going to happen—what with the Standstill and festival coinciding,” Zephyros said.

  “Many believe that the veil between realms grow thinner and weaker during the Safir ul Lunei,” Ylana mused, hands clasped behind her. “Perhaps the Standstill will allow spirits of the damned to pass through.”

  Zephyros side-eyed her, his face nearly as pale as his cropped silver hair. “You’re…you’re kidding…right?”

  Ylana only shrugged. Her mischief must’ve reminded Zephyros of his sister, for that sparked a flame of indignation in his eyes. He called her out for teasing him, which devolved into petty squabbling.

  Aurelius tuned them out, attention straying. Twilight embraced the heavens in delicate purples and blues, a wondrous backdrop to the scene before him. The sizzling of sparklers mingled with folk melodies from all the Seven Realms, and street vendors noisily advertising their foods and wares. Before he realised, they were squeezing past civilians, and the somewhat-peaceful avenue had become completely packed.

  Just then, a few hooded individuals at the mouth of a nearby alley grabbed Aurelius’s attention—two men and a woman swathed in dark cloaks, detached from the lively atmosphere. The men muttered amongst themselves while the woman smoked a cigarette, her dull stare roaming. Nothing was inherently wrong, however the looks on their faces…didn’t suit the avenue’s ambience.

  Aurelius hastily looked away before they took notice. Though he couldn’t place the reason, a stone of disquiet plummeted in his stomach.

  They continued further, and reached another market square—it seemed the festival road truly was endless. Hearing little voices, Aurelius glanced over at a group of children gathered around a fountain. They faced the sky, stars aglitter in their round eyes, chattering excitedly.

  “Look, look! It’s that huge sky-ship!” a young girl squealed.

  “I wanna ride it!” whined a boy, stomping his little foot. “You think the Emperor’s gonna let us on them like the trams one day?”

  Aurelius paused, then followed their gazes upward. The Violet Empress had ascended to the heavens once more, sailing across the city like a majestic, propitious cloud adorned with lanterns. A moment later, the skies were set ablaze—fireworks shot out from the airship, the Gold Army barracks, the universities, and so on.

  That meant it was time Aurelius returned to the palace.

  However, those fireworks were mesmerising from down below. He’d only ever seen them from the palace towers before, and, though they were the same glimmers of firelight, they felt lonely. Yet for the first time since the Empress’s passing, as those fireworks bloomed upon the night sky, so did joy bloom in his heart. Aurelius marvelled at the vibrant sight.

  And another flower of fire blossomed behind the airship. It shone brighter, and brighter; grew nearer, and nearer. In times of happiness, the single moment it took to recognise disaster felt like an arduous eternity.

  That hadn’t been another firework—but an explosion.

  The airship plummeted rapidly, consumed by roaring flames, and so did Aurelius’s delight. In the distance, the massive vessel hurtled down to the city streets, and the harsh impact rumbled the ground.

  Another explosion illuminated the sky in brilliant glimmers of firelight.

  Suddenly, those cheers of mirth had turned into screams of terror. Aurelius’s ears were ringing, throat seized up; he could only hear his blood rushing and heart pounding.

  The nearby children were frozen in shock; wide-eyed, trembling, crying. Without thinking, Aurelius bolted to them, a string of gentle words somehow escaped his lips, and he ushered the children to quickly find their parents, or hide somewhere safe.

  As they darted off, he whirled, mind spinning. He’d lost sight of Zephyros and Ylana, and mayhem had overtaken the festive crowd in a blink. The alarmed patrolling guards were shoved around in the panic, their shouts lost in the noise, unable to calm the commotion.

  Then dozens—if not hundreds—of shrouded figures slunk in from the alleys, and they ruthlessly silenced every unsuspecting city guard in their path. Banners emerged from the throng of cloaks, swords, and axes. Crimson flags of a roaring serpentine dragon, harshly scrawled with ink and brush.

  Their name sounded in the prince’s mind like thunder:

  The Zhanshui Resistance.

  Reds, oranges, whites—fire, explosions, lights—reflected in the golden hues of Aurelius’s eyes. He wished not to draw his sabre against his own people, but seeing innocents caught in the crossfire…seeing those smiling faces twist into absolute terror…made his blood boil.

  A revolutionist charged at him, recognition contorting his face into something animalistic, as he shrieked, “DIE, IMPERIAL SCUM!”

  Aurelius deflected the incoming blade with his own, feinted an attack, moved aside, then deftly disarmed the man with a twist. The sword clattered to the ground.

  But this wasn’t a duel. There was no honour to be had; no rules, no mercy, no humanity. The prince hadn’t yet come to terms with a vicious fight to the death.

  Catching him off guard, the man immediately lunged and grappled him to the ground. There was a moment of confusion—the sabre had slipped from Aurelius’s grip, slicing skin on its way down, drawing blood.

  The prince struggled against the enraged man, blindly reaching, clawing his arms, choking for breath. Those bulging frenzied eyes mercilessly glowered down at him as filth-encrusted nails wrung his throat.

  His vision started to blur, eyes clouded, fear set in—only then did his venar’s teachings crawl out of the shadowy recesses of his mind.

  Panicking, the Grand Captain’s voice admonished. Always your first mistake.

  Aurelius’s watery eyes hardened to a blazing icy glare. A wrathful glint overcame his fear of suffocation. Mustering all his strength; all his energy, he locked on to the man’s contemptuous stare and strenuously spat out:

  “What…do you…want?!”

  Suddenly, the man’s grasp loosened.

  His eyes grew wider, glazing over.

  And Aurelius saw it.

  Flashes of images raced through his mind: a grotesque and exceedingly bloody massacre of strewn limbs and organs within Vaeterni Palace—screams of the nobility—death to the Imperial House—and, after oceans of bloodshed and mountains of corpses, a delusional peace washed over blackened fields.

  Aurelius hastily shoved the man off, staggered to his feet, and felt like puking. Reeling from the aftereffects, he looked around at the devastation wreaked by that man’s fellows.

  “All of this…you’re doing all of this…in the name of peace? There wasn’t another way?” He turned to see the man sprawled on the street, unconscious. Yet he continued mumbling to himself, “I can’t— I refuse to believe that. There has to be a better way. There is a better way.” With trembling hands, he retrieved his sabre. “I…I’ll prove it.”

  That night would forever be imprinted upon young Aurelius’s mind—the bloodshed, the slaughter of innocents, the heartless destruction, and the roaring drakoni banner that rose above it all.

  ***

  “Esolia aer da’re duaris, esolia aer karros, vaseir eth aisril…”

  In a gloomy tavern room, standing in a chalk circle of ancient runes, was a figure muttering Olkathi incantations.

  “Svaela zhi-viaskoros, esve ul esve, vaseir aer zhir aisril…”

  The sorcerer was not hostile, the magic not sinister—but there was a certain celestial, otherworldly power to it. The kind of magic mortals should not be aware of, much less perform and wield. Yet the sorcerer was clearly not one to obediently follow the laws of existence. He continued his mutterings, ignoring the wind rushing against the window of his cramped room, the blood still dripping from his hand.

  Shouts and chaos erupted outside.

  His concentration wavered. A slight wrinkle in his brow. What a nuisance, interrupting my ritual, he thought. Can’t they celebrate the festival quietly?

  But then, the earth trembled beneath him. A deafening crash; a massive something colliding into multiple structures. He heard blood-curdling screams—thundering boots—rifles fired—explosions. That was not a rowdy celebration.

  His blood ran cold as he fought against the instinct to open his eyes. He needed to hurry. She was somewhere down there. If something happened to her—

  But he needed to focus first.

  He breathed deeply, steadily. He couldn’t cut the ritual short, lest he bring a worse calamity upon the citizens of Fora. He exhaled.

  The sorcerer summoned every minuscule speck of energy hiding in his veins, throughout his body. He breathed again, fully, and exhaled, opening his eyes; a silver glow to his gaze.

  The candles blinked out.

  Outside, the screams subsided. The veil between realms trembled; flickered. Time held Her breath in wretched anticipation.

  Gravity shoved the sorcerer to his knees. He grunted, feeling an invisible blade slice into the open gash in his palm a second time, digging into the wound. Just as greedy as the rest of us, he thought bitterly, and bit back from cursing the viaskoros.

  Then the world resumed. The chaos upon the streets loud as ever, no longer muted. The hum of magic vanished.

  Nothing had happened.

  He’d failed. The sorcerer gritted his teeth, clenched his wounded hand tight, letting the pain quell his frustration. He couldn’t dwell on the failure.

  Rising to his feet, he snatched the roll of bandages from the dresser and, clumsily wrapping his hand, stepped onto the single bed. He kicked up his sabre sheath, caught it, and, with a flick of his wrist, the window—holding a silver sheen—swung wide open. He leapt out, landing upon the paved street, amidst the chaos.

  The sorcerer took in his surroundings, glare darkening. He saw the drakoni banners, the bloodied bodies beneath pearly lantern light, the destruction…and an adolescent boy wearing a white cloak stained red, blade in his grip trembling, yet he still stood tall against the approaching onslaught.

  Thousands of screaming voices echoed, clashing and intermingling like a choir from the depths of the underworld.

  Killian awoke with a start, heart pounding, ears ringing, the stench of blood almost heavy enough to taste. His gaze darted wildly. The silver glow of city lights against his drawn curtains, the digital clock reading an unholy hour of the night, midterm textbooks strewn on the desk.

  He breathed in relief. He was home. Thank goodness—whatever that was, it was only a nightmare. Nothing more.

  Killian shifted to go back to sleep, but leaned too hard on his right arm. A searing pain shot through him. He flinched, immediately bringing his fist up, feeling…a dampness. He uncurled his fingers and took a sharp breath.

  In the dimness, barely visible, a dark crimson coated his hand and the bedsheets. Blood trickled down his arm from the gash cut into his palm.