And now, faced with an impossible decision, how do I tell my mother that I was planning to abandon her? To walk away from the empire she's groomed me to inherit for as long as I can remember?
Everything was about to change.
Though I'm fearless most of the time, I found myself trembling at her door. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. I clenched them behind my back before I knocked.
Then I remembered Lunafreya.
I remembered how we had dreamed of building a new world together—a beautiful one, free from bloodshed and chains. A place where our child, if we ever had one, wouldn't grow up breathing in the same brutality and hate that had raised me. That gave me strength.
So I barged into her throne room.
She turned, lifted a hand, and ordered her council to leave us. The atmosphere changed instantly—thick, heavy, almost suffocating. She stood tall, still gripping Quintessa, the soul-stealer. What a mighty sword.
I hate to admit it, but that weapon still had a grip on me. Even now, I could feel the screams of the lives it had claimed—lives I'd helped end. That sword had its own presence—something massive and ancient, something that loomed over everyone in its radius. It always felt right in my hands… even when I knew it was wrong.
But that wasn't why I came.
My mother turned to me, her eyes narrowing.
"My son," she said. "You should know better than to barge into my throne room like this. So, I assume you have something important to say."
She was once my best friend. In my early years, we were inseparable. But everything changed when power entered the picture. Now, she was more queen than mother. More legend than woman.
Still, I loved her. Respected her. But now… now there was something more important than pleasing her.
She must have sensed it. She stepped forward. Even though I was a towering figure myself, no one compared to Queen Persephone. Her presence could end wars. Her enemies called her the living embodiment of power. They said being mauled by wolves was a gentler death than facing her in battle.
The woman with no past. The one who hunted the darkest corners of the world to claim Quintessa, a blade that devoured the souls of the unworthy. She was the only one who could wield it. All others had been consumed by it.
She had no consort. She had always believed herself above attachment. Maybe that's why she loved me so fiercely—because she had denied herself everything else.
And as she towered over me, I could smell the blood on her. No matter how many times she bathed, the scent clung to her. She used to say, "No matter how many times you cleanse yourself, you'll never feel clean."
I met her gaze and said, "I've served you for years. But now… I want my own path."
She narrowed her eyes. "What are you talking about?"
So I told her.
I told her I didn't want this life anymore. I told her that I wanted freedom. That I had seen a better way.
She asked if it was the subject slave girl that had put these ideas in my head. Lunafreya. Her tone was venomous.
I told her not to speak of Lunafreya like that—that she was the best of us, better than any royal-born general I had ever fought beside. And that this decision was mine. Entirely mine.
To my surprise, she didn't scream. She didn't order me imprisoned or killed.
She simply… nodded. And said she accepted my decision.
I should have known better.
Later, she summoned Lunafreya to her private chambers.
She threatened her—coldly, calmly. But Lunafreya, brave as ever, stood her ground. She looked Persephone dead in the eye and said, "I will not back down."
Persephone's lips curled in disgust. "Do you realize I am your queen and emperor?" she hissed. "You have a duty to obey me."
But Lunafreya didn't flinch. Even though the room pulsed with raw power—energy that could crush cities—she stood still. Unshaken.
And Persephone left her. Just like that.
But she didn't forget. She returned to her council and began whispering plans. Whispering death. I knew her well. Too well.
They would come for Lunafreya. And if she was pregnant… they would come for our child.
It was then I knew—my mother was not who I had believed she was. Maybe she never had been.
Had all her softness been a ruse? A tactic to make me loyal? To bend me into the perfect heir?
The next morning, I was summoned again. Back to the throne room. I went. I had no choice.
She stood tall, her council flanking her like wolves. Her voice was softer than before, but colder.
"Tell me," she said, "do you love me? Not as your queen. As your mother."
It was the first time she'd called me her son in years.
And it cut deep.
Ruse or not, something innocent in me still wanted her to mean it.
I said, "I love you in whatever way pleases you."
I saw the smirk tug at her lips. The years of mind games were finally showing their fruits. She thought she had me—wrapped in the chains of a bond only she could weaponize.
She turned her back and asked, "Why, then, have you chosen the servant girl over your throne… over me?"
She was the definition of a fox. Cold. Calculating. But I had grown tired of the game.
I met her stare and said, "I've served the empire since I was a child. I've killed in its name. Burned worlds for its glory. But all I want now is to be free. Free from this place. Free from its violence. Free from you."
She raised her hand, cutting me off mid-sentence.
"So now," she said, "the question is of loyalty. Is your loyalty to us—to the empire—or to the slave girl?"
There was silence.
And then I said, without flinching:
"My loyalty is to the child version of me that wanted peace and not an empire."
And I left.
We left that night.
Not in triumph. Not in peace.
We left like fugitives.
The halls were cold as death, the kind of cold that clings to your bones and whispers that you'll never be welcome again. Shadows watched us, and I could feel eyes—too many eyes—some loyal to her, others just waiting to report our every step.
Lunafreya didn't speak. She didn't need to. Her silence was sharper than any sword.
I had never seen her afraid. But I had also never seen her look like this—like she was walking through her own grave.
And maybe she was.
As we passed the old war chambers, I looked up to the tower—the one my mother always watched from after her battles. I could feel her there, standing at the window like a phantom.
She didn't try to stop us.
She didn't have to.
I knew her too well.
She was letting us leave because it made the hunt more satisfying.
And somewhere in the marrow of my bones, I understood—this was not escape.
This was the beginning of war,then again it could've all been in my head.