The hall where Velsh interrogated Princess Sonya was colder than the chill after the chimera attack. No warmth touched the marble floor. No flicker of magic-lit sconces reached the heart of that austere space. It was designed for judgment, and today, it had a princess seated under that unrelenting scrutiny.
Velsh stood across the table. A man forged from ambition and bitterness, his scar, given by Ravenclaw years ago, throbbed faintly, as though it remembered.
Sonya met his gaze. Composed. Regal. But not invulnerable. There was a faint cut on her cheek from the forest. Her hair was tied back, revealing the stubborn tilt of her jaw.
"You tamed a wyvern," Velsh began without preamble. "An imperial princess, taming a creature designed for death. Why?"
Sonya folded her hands over her lap. "It attacked us. I had no choice."
Velsh snorted. "No choice? It's said you mounted it. Flew it. Used it to escape a King Chimera. Is that a 'no choice' situation, or is that something else entirely?"
Silence. Then she said, carefully, "We would have died otherwise."
"And Ravenclaw?" Velsh leaned forward. "He claims you intervened. Fought beside him. That the wyvern obeyed you."
"It did."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
He slammed a hand on the table. "Don't insult this investigation, Princess. A wyvern obeys blood or command. And you do not come from a bloodline known for beasts. So answer me honestly—why did it not kill you? Or him?"
She hesitated.
He caught the flicker in her expression. "You hesitated. Why?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Because I don't know what you're really asking. Are you asking why it listened to me… or why I didn't let it kill him?"
Velsh's smile was like a knife pulled slowly. "Both."
She didn't blink. "Because I chose to survive. And if Ravenclaw is standing today, it's because he fought. Not because I spared him."
Velsh raised an eyebrow. "He says the attack was too calculated. That the wyvern came from nowhere. No nest, no warning. As if it had a target."
"I don't control monsters," she said. "You've interrogated him twice. He's your obsession, not mine."
Velsh turned to the observing panel. Behind it, hidden from her view, the headmistress, Elara, and several high-ranking professors watched.
"Did you and Ravenclaw conspire?" Velsh continued. "Against the academy?"
Sonya's laugh was bitter. "Do you hear yourself? What would we gain?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he flicked his fingers, calling for the next report. "Then explain the chimera—Gunther."
Her lips pressed tight. "That wasn't us. You know that. Someone released it after we returned. Ask your scouts."
"Oh, we did. And we know it was Selen. A student under Ravenclaw's old mentor. Who helped her? Who gave her the power to summon a chimera? Why were half the students injured before the faculty even reacted?"
"I wasn't there."
"You were watching from your dorm window."
She didn't deny it.
"And you watched him fight it alone."
Another silence. Then: "He didn't need help."
Velsh leaned forward. "That's the second time you've seen him fight like that, isn't it? First with the wyvern. Now with the chimera. You're a princess, not a fool. You know that level of power is beyond what even an advanced professor can summon."
"So?"
"So why him? Why does he have power like that? Why does he always survive when others fall?"
Sonya's tone was steel now. "If you're jealous, Investigator Velsh, perhaps take it up with the gods."
Velsh's face twitched. His scarline darkened. The wound from the Ridge of Baskerville still burned—Austin Ravenclaw had humiliated him there in front of two duchies, had struck him down and left him alive as a warning.
Velsh stood up. "This investigation isn't over, Princess. Not by a long shot."
She stood too. "Then dig as deep as you like. But don't expect to find blood where there's only smoke."
He nodded toward the guards. "Escort her out. Bring in Ravenclaw again."
As Sonya left, her eyes briefly locked with Austin's. He was waiting in the hall, back straight, coat dusted with arcane blood.
As Sonya stepped out of the room, the air felt cold despite the heavy warmth of the midday sun spilling through the academy windows. Her face was pale, her steps careful, guarded like someone walking a tightrope over a canyon of secrets. The corridor outside Velsh's interrogation chamber stretched on like a battlefield just after the war had ended—quiet, but heavy with tension. The palace guards standing on either side did not meet her eyes.
Ravenclaw stood there, leaning against the pillar as if he had been waiting for hours. His cloak fluttered gently in the drafty corridor, his eyes locked on her like a hawk watching the twitch of a mouse.
"Wait," he said sharply.
She didn't. She walked past him, not giving him even a glance.
"I said wait," he repeated, this time more firmly. She stopped but didn't turn.
"What did he say?" he asked. "Velsh. What did he say about me?"
She turned slowly, her eyes narrowed but glinting—not with rage, but something more conflicted.
"It doesn't concern you," she replied softly, her voice icy. "Just stay out of it."
She tried to walk again, but he moved. In one swift step, he was beside her, his hand reaching out—not roughly, but with undeniable authority—grabbing her wrist.
"It does concern me," he said, low and intense, staring into her eyes. "He asked about me. Don't lie to me, Sonya. I saw your face when you left that room. What did he say?"
She yanked her hand away, but not with much force. Her lips trembled for the slightest second, just enough for someone like Ravenclaw to notice.
"He thinks you knew," she whispered. "About the wyvern. About the Black Forest. He thinks... he thinks you manipulated me, that you led me into danger so you could frame me."
Ravenclaw took a slow breath, that familiar storm flickering behind his eyes. "Is that what you told him?"
"I told him the truth," she said. "That we were ambushed. That I tamed the wyvern. That we survived. I told him I don't know why I trusted you. But I did."
He nodded slowly. There was no triumph in his eyes. Just weariness. "You didn't have to protect me."
"I wasn't," she said flatly. "I was protecting myself."
Their eyes locked for a moment longer—pride, guilt, unspoken words hung between them like fog. She walked away, her cloak swishing behind her, and this time he didn't stop her. He just watched.
The investigation officially concluded three days later.
Students were returning to their routines. Professors, exhausted and battered in spirit, carried on teaching, some with lingering bruises and others with fresh scars, both physical and political. Velsh had packed his things and left with his entourage, grumbling to himself that the academy was more of a circus than a center of learning.
But even as the academy settled, far in the south, in a castle whose walls were carved from crimson stone and overlooked the jagged cliffs of the Red Sea, a fire was lit in the hearth of darker ambitions.
The Third Prince, Exapdn, sat in the grand hall, his gloved fingers curled around the armrest of his lion-engraved throne. Candlelight shimmered across the polished obsidian floors. He stared into the flames, his mind dancing in their glow.
A cloaked man knelt before him, face hidden beneath a silver half-mask.
"So it failed, huh?" Exapdn asked, voice smooth and unshaken.
"I'm sorry, sire," the man said. "The chimera was defeated. The wyvern... tamed. Ravenclaw survived. The academy grows suspicious."
"No problem. No problem at all." The prince leaned back in his throne, smiling faintly as if he were speaking to a dear old friend. "Every act needs a curtain call. Let them believe it's over."
The masked man stayed silent.
"Send the word," the prince said, rising from his throne. "Invite Sultan Main to Constantinople. Give him the information. Tell him the cracks have already begun to show in the Empire's walls. Tell him the time is ripe."
The man bowed. "And the Warden?"
"Let him come too," Exapdn said. "They'll all come, eventually. The hero, the princess, the traitors. Let them gather. That city will be their tomb or their trial. Either way… history shall remember my name."
He turned toward the great stained-glass window that overlooked the endless red cliffs, hands clasped behind his back, eyes burning with something far older than ambition.
"We'll light the flames of war," he said softly. "And feed them with the bones of legends."
And so, while the academy sighed in relief, thinking the storm had passed, a darker tide began to rise in the south.
And Ravenclaw? He felt it too.
He always did.
In the vast expanse of the southern deserts, beyond the jagged dunes and burning sunlit wastelands, there stood the great city of Marazad, the capital of the Sultanate of Arqaban. Its towering minarets reached for the heavens, etched with golden runes and adorned with banners of deep crimson and black. Camels walked in slow lines along the polished sandstone roads. Merchants called out in the sultry midday heat, peddling wares from every corner of the world. The scent of exotic spices clung to the air like silk — saffron, myrrh, and gunpowder. But within the inner sanctum of The Obsidian Palace, where the sun dared not reach and whispers carried more weight than gold, a storm was quietly brewing.
The Sultan of Arqaban, Amin ibn-Almas, sat alone in his audience chamber.
He was not a man of gaudy robes or excess, though his empire could afford it. Instead, he wore a simple tunic of onyx black, the royal seal etched in gold over his heart — a serpent entwined around a sword. His face was sharp, carved like granite and polished by war. His beard was silver at the tips, his eyes a dark hazel that smoldered with the patience of a man who knew the world would bend to him — in time.
It was then that the Courier of Shadows arrived.
Silent footsteps. The flutter of black silk. A masked rider — a servant of the Third Prince's network, cloaked in secrecy and bound by blood oaths — stepped into the throne hall, knelt without a word, and held forth a sealed scroll in both palms.
The royal guards didn't flinch. They had seen such men before.
Sultan Amin took the scroll with a flick of his hand. The seal — the sigil of House Exapdn — broke with a snap.
He read.
And as he did, the fire that had long been sleeping in his eyes flared open like a volcano.
"To the Great Sultan of Arqaban,
Let us speak plainly, as men who do not play games of courtly masks.The Empire of Veldora has weakened.Its heart beats, but its limbs have grown sluggish.The noble houses quarrel like starving jackals. The Ravenclaws have suffered another scandal. The imperial throne is blind to the shifting sands beneath its feet.
Constantinople remains a jewel. But for how long?
I offer you information. Routes. Weaknesses. The vulnerabilities of the city's walls. It's towers. It'ss garrison.The time is now.
Meet me in Constantinople. As an ally. As a lion to another lion.Let us share the feast of what is to come."
— His Highness,Exapdn, Third Prince of Veldora
The scroll trembled slightly in Amin's hands as he finished. Not from fear, but from the thrill of opportunity.
The Sultan stood. Every advisor in the shadows straightened. Every servant froze.
"Summon the Al-Mazir Council," he said calmly, but with thunder beneath every word. "Bring me my generals, my architects, my seers. Wake the scholars of siege-craft and the wind-callers of the Southern Spine. We ride for Constantinople."
A pause. Then he turned to his grand vizier, a man with one eye and a thousand secrets. "And send word to the Khalnari Nomads. Tell them the old treaty stands. If they ride with me, their debts are cleared and their tribes may cross the Empire's border once more."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The Sultan looked out from the obsidian balcony, over the city of Marazad — the oasis of power in a cruel land.
He remembered his youth. The stories of the old wars. Of how the Empire once pushed the sultans into the sand, burned their libraries, and mocked their gods.
He remembered watching his father hang.
Now it was time to repay that memory with steel.
"Constantinople," he whispered.
"A city of ghosts waiting to be set free."
The next morning, a thousand war drums echoed through the dunes.
From the tomb cities of the dead kings, to the forges of the Brass Quarter, to the serpent caverns of Arzagul, the banner of the Sultan rose. Black and gold. Fire and blade.
And at its center, the man who now marched not just for conque, but for vengeance. For legend. For the kind of war that would shatter the empires of men and forge a new age in blood.
The golden calligraphy shimmered in the Sultan's hand as the desert light filtered through the stained glass of the Diwan Hall. It was no ordinary missive—this was an invitation drenched in arrogance, desperation, and an ancient undertone of opportunity. Sultan Amin, the Lion of Arqaban, ruler of the Seven Palatine Cities, bearer of the Starfire Scimitar, leaned back upon his throne of lapis and ivory. His hawk-like gaze never once left the words on the vellum parchment.
"Interesting," he muttered. "The Third Prince of Veldora invites me into Constantinople… to wage war."
A deep silence settled over the domed chamber, only broken by the shuffling of servants bearing chilled pomegranate juice and trays of dates. Behind the great throne, twin bronze statues of ancient djinn cast elongated shadows across the mosaic floor as the early sun rose higher.
He handed the letter to a man standing at his side—Wazir Hassan el-Karim, Keeper of Scrolls and master of the Sultan's private intelligence. Hassan read the letter twice, his bushy eyebrows narrowing. Then, with a simple nod, he turned to the captain of the palace guard. "Summon the Grand Wazir Council. We convene at once."
Within the Hour — The Golden Dome of Judgment
Beneath the ornate dome that shimmered like fire beneath the sun, the Grand Wazir Council assembled—twelve of the most powerful minds and voices in the Sultanate of Arqaban.
There was Wazira Shahana al-Sumair, Mistress of War and commander of the Golden Host, whose reputation for tactical brilliance had shattered empires and silenced doubters. Beside her, Grand Wazir Khalid ibn Khattar, silver-bearded and narrow-eyed, the Sultan's chief economist and keeper of the war treasury. Alim Faroun, the Head of Faith and Scholar of the Divine Sword, sat silently with a prayer ring between his fingers. Every man and woman here had shaped wars, drawn borders, and toppled kings.
The Sultan rose from his seat with the serenity of a falcon just before the dive.
"We have received an invitation," he said, "from the serpents who once drew their blades upon our ancestors. The Third Prince of Veldora, unworthy son of a decaying emperor, extends his hand."
He tossed the letter onto the table where it unfolded like a snake shedding skin.
"He wishes us to march into Constantinople. He will open the gates. He will grant us what we need. All in exchange for our... intervention."
Shahana was the first to speak. "And what does this child prince hope to gain from letting the storm into his father's palace?"
"A throne," muttered Hassan, stepping forward. "The prince is orchestrating a civil fracture within Veldora. We believe he aims to destabilize the court and secure his crown through foreign pressure—using us as the blade."
"Let him bleed," Shahana said. "Let him think we are the fools. Let us accept—but not on his terms."
Wazir Khalid hummed thoughtfully. "We would need to move quickly. The sea lanes through the Sapphire Gulf are not safe, and if Constantinople resists, we must be prepared for a siege. We must first ask: is this worth the blood?"
Sultan Amin smiled. "Khalid, my old friend... the walls of Constantinople have long been the edge of the world's arrogance. That city humiliated our ancestors. It bathed in gold stolen from the East. If we strike now—with the inside gate opened to us—there will be no siege. No blood, but for theirs. The West's symbol will fall."
The murmurs around the table grew louder. Shahana leaned forward, eyes glittering.
"Then we send scouts. Quiet ones. Let us verify the claim. But if it is true… the time of reckoning is upon them."
The Sultan nodded. "Dispatch the Night Falcons. Let them map the walls, identify weak points, and confirm the prince's claim. Prepare the navy—quietly. Let the arsenals of Arqaban burn through the night. Our soldiers must be ready."
"What of the Sultan's letter?" asked Alim Faroun, still turning his prayer ring. "Shall we reply?"
"Yes," said the Sultan. "Write to the Third Prince. Tell him… we are interested. But we demand a gift. Not of gold—of information. Let him show us he has the means to open the gates. We do not march blind."
That Evening — In the Tower of Ravens
The Sultan stood at the edge of his private tower, a tall spire rising high above the desert capital. The burning horizon stretched into infinity, a sea of dunes kissed by dusk's fire. He spoke to no one, and yet the words were heavy with purpose:
"The West thinks itself immortal. It clings to dying gods and rusted thrones. But every empire that once thought itself eternal… now lives only in our histories. Constantinople will fall—not by fire alone, but by betrayal, by greed, by its bloated pride."
He turned as Hassan returned with an update.
"The letter has been sent, my Sultan. The Falcons are already in the air."
"Good," Amin said. "Let us bring an end to the Age of Walls. Let Arqaban rise."
Evening – The Raven Tower of Arqaban
The stars had begun their slow crawl across the velvet sky, gilding the darkness with ancestral light. The Raven Tower loomed over the rest of the capital, built from obsidian stone said to have been pulled from a crater formed during the Age of the Shattered Sky. From its height, one could see beyond the golden minarets of the Great Mosque, over the spice markets and alabaster estates, all the way to the whispering dunes beyond the city's fortifications.
Within the highest chamber, lit by a constellation of floating oil lanterns, Sultan Amin stood draped in a robe of indigo and crimson. He was not adorned like the sultans of old, who drowned themselves in silk and gold. No — he wore a blade on his back and rings on only two fingers: one a band of carved bone said to belong to an ancient lion, the other a simple circle of polished obsidian.
Wazir Hassan, tall and gaunt, stood at the opposite end of the circular room. He held a goblet of rosewater wine, untouched, as he studied the dark skies. His aged face bore the wisdom of too many wars, too many betrayals, and too many nights like this.
"Do you think it is worth it, Great Sultan?" Hassan finally asked, his voice quiet, thoughtful — like a scholar unsure if he was reading a prophecy or a curse. "Marching into a foreign city… on the word of a desperate prince?"
Amin didn't turn immediately. His eyes were fixed on the crescent moon hanging like a blade over the world.
"Worth?" he echoed, and then let the word drift into the air like smoke. "Was it worth it when the Western Crusades burned through our southernmost cities two hundred years ago? When our ancestors were nailed to gates, their tongues cut out for reciting the Shahadat? Was it worth it when Constantinople spat upon our envoys and called our empire a 'realm of dust'?"
He turned now, slowly, and though his voice was calm, there was fire beneath every syllable.
"They have forgotten who we are, Hassan. The Empire of Arqaban was forged by fire and sand. We conquered the Sapphire Coast, broke the invincible fleet of Hestrad, and sacked the floating palace of the Sea Kings. We do not ask if things are worth it… We ask only: is it time?"
Hassan's face betrayed no emotion, but his fingers tightened around the goblet.
"I remember those histories, my Sultan," he replied. "But this is not the age of scimitars and sandstorms. The Empire of Veldora commands legions of spellknights, flying battalions, and more gold than the thirty outer kingdoms combined. This may not be a siege… but it will be a war."
Amin walked to the edge of the balcony and looked out at the city — his city — bathed in moonlight.
"Then let it be a war," he said, voice low and certain. "I have not sharpened the blade of this empire for thirty years only to watch it rust in peace."
There was silence between them, filled only by the howl of a distant wind.
Memories in the Silence
After a time, Hassan walked forward and stood beside his sovereign, both men staring out into the horizon.
"Do you remember," Hassan said slowly, "when you were a young prince… and you first stood on this very balcony? You told me you wanted to conquer the stars."
Amin's lips curved into the ghost of a smile.
"I was a fool."
"No. You were a dreamer. That's rarer. Most men lose their dreams when they gain power."
"And what do you think I've done with power?" Amin asked, eyebrow raised.
"Held the empire together, bled for it, killed for it. But you've never stopped dreaming." Hassan turned to him. "But dreams are dangerous, my Sultan. Especially when they are offered to you by someone else. The Third Prince… he dreams too. He dreams of his father's throne."
"He dreams of being the storm," Amin said. "But I… I am the desert. Storms pass. Deserts endure."
Back Inside – The Inner Chamber
Later, the lanterns dimmed, and the stars seemed to burn brighter as a gust of warm desert wind pushed through the latticed windows.
A map of Veldora was unrolled on a table. Amin studied it, his finger tracing a path from the southern coasts to the heart of Constantinople. Lines were drawn. Runes marked possible resistance points. Circles surrounded weak cities. Arrows pointed toward siege routes.
"What about the Night Falcons?" Amin asked.
"They'll reach the outer districts of Constantinople in two days," Hassan responded. "They'll confirm the Third Prince's claims. If the gates can be opened… we won't need to fire a single spell."
"And if it's a trap?" Amin asked.
"Then we burn the city to ash and salt the earth."
Amin nodded once. "Summon the Djinnbound. I want them ready. If we march… I want the heavens themselves to watch in fear."
The Final Words of the Night
As the night deepened, the Sultan walked alone to the central chamber of the tower, where only he could enter. The obsidian doors closed behind him with a deep, thunderous echo.
There, in the heart of the tower, stood an altar made of starstone. Upon it sat a mask — ancient, faceless, its edges cracked from time and rage.
Amin bowed once before it.
"In life, you were my father. In death, you were my teacher. Now… watch me from the beyond."
He took a dagger from his belt, pricked his finger, and let a single drop of blood fall upon the mask.
"I will finish what you could not. I will take the city you failed to breach. Constantinople will be mine."
And the wind outside roared as though the very world heard the promise — and remembered the blood it had yet to claim.