Fifth day of The First Red Moon Cycle, Year- 6023
Imperial dungeon Beneath the Royal Palace.
Sir Casimir Sihloah was terrified; his heart was beating like a drum, heavy and painful, as if it would break out of his chest. He was terrified, confused, anxious, and angry. He had been made a fool. Not just a fool, now he was a puppet—a puppet of the newly crowned Emperor of Vritra's throne. And he could do nothing. Nothing. He was powerless to act.
He had been complacent, he decided, believed, hoped that royal blood could have some semblance of pride. It was all for naught. He gripped the paper, stamped with the royal seal, tightly in his hand as he walked down the stairs. Last night, he received the decree along with a letter. And then, the lockdown in the capital was lifted. He finally received a full account of the events that had happened.
The Emperor and Empress were dead. It was not shocking; Sihloah had expected that. It was long overdue. The Chancellor of the neutral faction, Awerat, was blamed. Sihloah had expected that too, as he would have been the one to be framed. However, he held too much power and backing, and he was the Third Pillar of the empire, the youngest one.
No one knew the full chain of events as they took place. Sihloah knew that would happen. There was no way the clocked puppet master behind the Prince would allow themselves to be traced. And he had no interest in doing so either. It would be a troublesome endeavor without any rewards, except death and violence. He did not revel in those.
He hurried, his step skipping a stair, causing him to lose his balance. He tried to hold onto the handrail, but it bore no fruit as he landed on his back. The edge of the stair dug into him, and he groaned.
Casimir heard chuckles; he knew the guards were having fun seeing a stuck-up noble, a grand duke no less, falling flat on the ground. He ignored them, finding little joy in giving amusement to innocent bystanders.
He stood up, his walking still hurried, and he continued to skip stairs. One would be shocked to see a gentleman such as him in this condition—his hair messy and untamed, his eyes red and wide, wearing a tired expression on his face.
After a long and tiring walk, he reached the lowest level, at the bottom of the mountain, so to speak. The royal castle was, after all, situated on an elevated plateau that served as a dais in the capital.
The princess—fear for her coursed through him, and he feared for her. As a mage, Sihloah was fairly adept, and that part of him was terrified. There were two reasons for his fear: the princess was still sane, and she was still somewhat conscious, neither dead nor passed out. It was a terrifying thing to know, yet he was relieved. Relieved that his queen was unharmed.
Crepusculum, a drug created from items that hold the essence denying the Luminance, was a death sentence for every human being. It was hard to come by, even for a kingdom like theirs. It was expensive and undeniably troublesome to acquire.
Crepusculum was used to protect the frontier against wild beasts. Just a single gram of it could render a beast, which would require a company of soldiers commanded by a commander, permanently immobile or dead. It was usually kept in places where wild wyverns or city-destroyer level monsters appeared.
Through unclear and jumbled accounts, he came to a conclusion. The princess had been wounded by an arrow containing at least three grams of Crepusculum. Yet, it only rendered her immobile, not dead, not permanently incapacitated. Just immobile—the least damage a mage could inflict.
After she was captured, she confronted the prince face to face and spat on his face. In a fit of rage, he took the bottle of Crepusculum and force-fed her, enough to kill a dragon. A dragon. But not the princess of dragons. She remained sane, albeit delirious. Not completely incapacitated. He still felt goosebumps rise through his body as the informant told him this news. This was why she was worthy of such a title and of his loyalty.
He chuckled at the thought. The new king's face would have quite a sight to behold. However, he also feared the future, a fate that would make even a devil cry tears of blood. No, not now. Sihloah told himself that it was not the time to dwell on that information. He had the rest of the day and the next day to think of a way out.
Sihloah continued to walk down the dim and ancient corridor. This was where the princess was being held. He needed to see her, even if just once, and reassure her that he would find a way out.
After a while, when the light had completely vanished, except for the blue flames in the lamp, he arrived at the prison cell where the princess was kept. Sihloah couldn't see her at first, so he lowered the lamp to the ground. His heart tightened as he gazed upon what should have been the princess. She lay motionless on the ground, blood flowing from her head, completely drenching her white hair in red. Ragged breaths escaped her mouth, and her hands were tied behind her back with chains.
Sihloah placed the lamp on the floor and gripped the bars, attempting to push them open. He desperately wanted to do something, but he felt helpless. What should he do? He had no answer. He tried pulling at the doors, but they wouldn't budge.
His own breath came out ragged and uneven, his eyes wide and trembling. This was so wrong, he thought to himself. This was not how his princess, his queen, should be—lying on the floor, bleeding. He wanted to help, but how? He channeled the luminance, hoping to break the cage. He punched the metal rod, but it didn't move; his hand stung in pain. He tried again, and again, and again. His hand, even though fortified, began to swell, but the cell door remained unchanged. It was not made of ordinary metal. Of course, the bastard prince and his puppet master would never be so careless.
They must have realized that he would try something like this. That's why they permitted him to enter in the first place—to torment him. His hand fell limply to his side as he stared at the princess. What now? She wouldn't die from this, he knew that. She was a dragon; a small amount of bleeding could never kill her, he reassured himself.
"Princess..." Sihloah hoped Ittya would respond, hoping it would bring him some peace. Yet, she completely ignored him or perhaps didn't hear him at all.
"Princess," he called again, his voice shallow and filled with pain. Why did this have to happen? The burning anger within him grew. Why did they have to do this? No, I must calm down, he told himself. I still need to save the princess from here.
"Princess," Sihloah called once more, but received no response. She continued to lay on the floor, breathing raggedly.
Sihloah stood up; he couldn't waste any more time. He had a way to save her, and he would save her. He dusted off his knees and walked back, picking up the lantern. He needed to find Regulus. He had to ensure that the general would attend the hearing the day after tomorrow. That was the only way to save her.
As he climbed back up the stairs, he noticed that the doors were closed. A forbidding feeling washed over him. They wouldn't try to imprison him, would they? He rushed to the gate and knocked with all his strength, thinking it would be locked. But to his surprise, the door flew open, causing him to stumble and fall to his knees.
He found himself inside the royal castle, the soft blue carpet soothing his scrapped knees. It stung a little, but nothing more. The guards chuckled again, and something about it infuriated him.
Sihloah stood up and locked eyes with the guard. "I hope I never encounter you again, because if I do, you and your entire family will be fed to harrocks," he said coldly, then turned and continued walking without looking back. He was angry at himself for losing control like that. He shouldn't have said those words.
He turned a corner, making his way towards the exit of the castle. He needed to find General Regulus, and the general would likely be in the military compound. Sihloah proceeded down the final corridor, which led to the reception hall and the entrance door.
As he stepped into the reception hall, he noticed twelve figures dressed in white cloaks, their faces concealed by large bamboo hats. An insignia on their backs read 'Dev'. His breath caught, drawing the attention of one of the cloaked figures. He stood still, waiting for their reaction.
The cloaked figures ignored him and turned away, heading down the main passage that led to the royal family's housing. They were priests from the Temple of Devalaya. Sihloah felt his world shatter. It was over. These priests were the epitome of ritual magic, and if twelve of them were called, it meant that the puppet master had summoned them for a very specific reason.
In this late stage of the game, when all the pieces had fallen, the priests could only be used against one person, and that person wasn't Sihloah himself. The only individual in the kingdom who warranted such caution was the same person he was hurrying to—General Regulus, the Supreme Commander of Vritra's military force, the Unsurmountable Wall of Vritra. As the First Pillar, Regulus was the foundation upon which the current empire stood. Even the prince knew he couldn't kill him, not that there was a feasible way to do so.
Casimir Sihloah let out a defeated chuckle as he walked out of the castle. He decided not to search for General Regulus immediately; it would likely be futile. Instead, he would send a messenger later. For now, he needed to think of any other plan, any alternative that could turn the tides.
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