The Holy Empire belongs to Kael.
But the weight of power is heavier than the sword.
As the ashes settled upon the bones of gods, a darker truth took root—those who knelt in fear will rise in betrayal. The throne may be his, but shadows still plot behind every bowed head.
There is no god to fear now. Only Kael.
—
Kael sat alone in the shattered remains of the Holy Emperor's throne room.
Sunlight filtered weakly through the jagged wounds of broken stained glass, splashing fractured halos across bloodied marble. Gold leaf once painted the imperial sigils; now, the only color that remained was the red of spilled conviction.
The room reeked of sanctity defiled.
The throne beneath him was not the old one—it had been melted down during the final siege. He sat instead upon a carved slab of blackstone from the cathedral's ruins, scorched and cracked. A makeshift symbol of power. One forged in conquest, not crowned in tradition.
Selene stood near the shadowed pillars, arms folded. Her silver hair caught the flickers of dying sunlight, but her face was unreadable.
"You've been silent for an hour," she said quietly.
Kael rested his chin against his knuckles. His golden eyes did not blink.
"I'm listening."
"To what?"
"The silence."
Selene tilted her head.
"The silence of the gods, or the men who claim them?"
Kael's gaze flicked to her.
"There's no difference now."
A pause.
"They fear you," she said.
Kael leaned back, eyes narrowing.
"Fear is a rope made of ash. It binds nothing when the winds shift."
—
A knock echoed, cold and metallic.
One of Kael's elite, a soldier branded with the mark of his new reign—a black serpent coiled around a crown—entered and knelt.
"My lord. The council awaits."
Kael rose without a word.
His boots struck the bloodstained stone with a rhythm that silenced even ghosts.
—
Council Chamber, Dusk
In what remained of the imperial court, power had gathered in a circle of unease.
The archbishop clutched a relic—a sun-fractured piece of the former god's staff. His hands trembled with age and broken belief.
General Alistair stood like a statue, armor dented but immaculate. The nobles whispered behind folded hands, eyes darting like prey sensing a hunter in the mist.
When Kael entered, none dared speak.
He didn't sit.
A throne would only place him on their level.
He stood before them, the broken royal crest hanging in tatters behind him.
His voice was low. Steady. Absolute.
"The Holy Empire is dead."
The words struck like a blade through bone.
"The Empire—" one noble began, voice high with disbelief.
Kael silenced him with a look.
"You prayed to a god who let your cities burn. You raised your banners under the name of a coward who hid behind miracles. He died. And you—all of you—watched."
The archbishop paled.
"He… He will return. The divine cannot be slain—"
Kael stepped forward, slowly.
"The divine did not die. It bled. It screamed. It begged. And then… it ended."
He let the silence stretch.
"Which means it was never divine."
A chilling pause.
He turned to the nobles.
"Your faith is a broken sword. If you wield it against me, I will make you watch as I snap it—piece by piece."
Gasps. Murmurs. Panic barely concealed behind trembling lips.
Then, he raised his voice—not in rage, but in finality.
"The Holy Empire no longer exists."
Chaos exploded.
"The people—!"
"The old gods will curse us!"
"You can't simply erase an empire—"
Kael moved.
He didn't shout. He didn't threaten.
He killed.
In two steps, he was upon them.
The first noble, caught mid-whisper, collapsed as Kael's dagger slashed across his throat in one elegant motion. His body hit the floor with a wet thud, blood pooling like spilled ink over the white marble.
The second—another lord, half-risen in protest—froze as Kael's blade plunged into his heart.
A gurgling breath. A whisper of disbelief. Then nothing.
Kael stepped back, wiped the blade on the second man's cloak, and returned to center.
His voice never rose.
"This is not a court. It is a forge."
"I will not demand loyalty. I will demand usefulness. If you do not serve the flame I build, you will become its fuel."
The entire room fell into suffocating silence.
Alistair bowed his head.
The archbishop slumped to his knees, his hands still wrapped around the splintered staff.
And Kael—Kael stood as the only man alive among corpses still breathing.
—
Later That Night
Selene found him atop the blackened parapets, staring out across the ruined capital.
Fires still burned in the outer districts. Refugees cried prayers to gods that would never answer.
"You could have ruled with less blood," she said.
Kael didn't look at her.
"I didn't come for rule. I came for rebirth."
"And if they betray you again?"
"I expect they will."
He turned to her.
"That's why the foundation of this empire will not be faith. Nor nobility. Nor tradition."
He reached out and touched her cheek, fingers cold.
"It will be fear, understanding, and me."
Selene didn't pull away.
"…And what of the world beyond?" she asked. "The Elven Courts stir. The Abyss deepens. The Archons watch."
Kael smiled faintly.
"Let them."
—
Far away, in the Abyss
A woman watched the stars from a throne carved from the bones of angels.
Lilith Noctara Velkrith—the Queen of the Abyss—rested her chin on one hand, her crimson eyes glinting with ancient fire.
She had felt it.
The fall. The silence. The moment the divine light had extinguished.
Her son had claimed his first throne. But not his last.
"That's my boy," she whispered, with a smile that made shadows shiver.
"Now let's see how many worlds he'll burn before they kneel."
To be continued...