Tarvisium—a kingdom lying to the west of Durand—was known as the Blazing Sun of Octarchy.
It was a land where the sun never seemed to rest. Days burned bright under its relentless glare, and even the nights carried a lingering heat, as if the warmth of the day refused to fade.
Tarvisium stood as the third largest kingdom in all of Octarchy, ruled by the powerful House Azazel for over two centuries.
At its helm sat King Valerian Azazel.
A once formidable ruler… now a man standing at the edge of his life.
Illness had taken root within him, and death lingered close, knocking patiently on his door.
He had three sons.
Each one worthy.
The eldest—Prince Theron Azazel.
Wise, calculating, and composed. But beneath that calm exterior lay a ruthless nature. If he were to become king, havoc would not be far behind.
The second son—Malric Azazel.
A master of strategy. Dominant. Cold. In a kingdom of scorching heat, he was the only one who seemed untouched by it.
The third son—Alaric Azazel.
Noble. Charismatic. Commanding without effort. He carried himself like a true king, as if royalty itself had chosen him.
But King Valerian did not believe in tradition.
He did not believe that the throne belonged to the eldest by birth.
Instead, he believed in something far more dangerous—
"A capable man should sit on the throne… no matter his place in the line of birth."
And so—
Tarvisium stood on the brink of chaos.
A silent war was unfolding within its royal walls.
A battle not of swords…
But of ambition.
To decide who would rise—
And who would claim the Sun Throne.
The sudden halt of the wagon jolted Amara awake.
Her eyes fluttered open, heavy with exhaustion. For a moment, everything felt distant—until the pull of the rope brought her back to reality.
Braylon had already stepped down.
Without a word, she followed.
The moment her feet touched the ground, her gaze lifted—and stilled.
A massive grey gate towered before her, cold and unwelcoming. Its surface was worn, yet imposing, as if it had stood there for centuries, guarding whatever lay beyond.
With a sharp tug of the rope, Braylon led the way forward.
They passed through the gates and entered Fafnir Diell—a small city resting at the edge of Tarvisium, close to the western border of Durand.
The air felt different here.
Heavier.
Hotter.
Unfamiliar.
Before Amara could take in more, Braylon changed direction, guiding her through narrow streets until they stopped before a building that looked as though it might collapse at any moment.
An old brothel.
Its wooden structure was cracked and worn, the paint long faded. The moment they stepped inside, a suffocating mix of alcohol and sweat filled the air.
Amara's stomach tightened.
Braylon didn't slow down.
He walked straight through the dimly lit hall, his expression unreadable, his grip on the rope firm. The women inside noticed him immediately. Their gazes lingered, curious, some even bold enough to reach out—trying to pull him aside with soft whispers and practiced smiles.
But he ignored them.
Completely.
As if they didn't exist.
Amara stumbled behind him, the chain at her wrists clinking softly with each step, her presence drawing far less attention.
He didn't stop until he reached the end of the hall.
There, a massive door stood.
Closed.
Waiting.
A look of pure disgust crossed Amara's face as they stepped into the chamber beyond.
The air inside was thick—heavy with heat, and something far more suffocating.
Her eyes widened.
Several women, barely clothed, surrounded a man sprawled across a lavish couch. Their movements were slow and practiced, their laughter hollow as they attended to him.
The man himself—
He looked like a bloated slab of flesh, his body spilling over the cushions, his expression one of lazy indulgence.
Amara instinctively looked away, her stomach churning.
"Lord Renly, I believe that's enough indulgence for one day."
The voice was calm.
Firm.
It cut through the room with quiet authority.
Amara turned sharply toward the sound.
From the shadows, a man sat—watching.
He appeared to be in his fifties, yet there was nothing weak about him. He reclined in an ornately carved chair, his posture relaxed but controlled, as if the entire room moved at his will.
A crystal goblet rested in his hand, half-filled with deep red wine that caught the dim light and shimmered softly.
His presence was… different.
His features were composed, almost refined. Sharp cheekbones softened by a natural warmth, giving him an approachable yet commanding air. His sky-blue eyes gleamed with quiet intelligence—watchful, calculating, but not without a trace of kindness.
His hair, streaked with grey and brown, fell neatly around his face, adding to the aura of dignified maturity he carried so effortlessly.
"We have guests."
His voice was calm, yet it carried effortlessly through the room. There was a quiet command in it—firm, undeniable—yet laced with a faint note of courtesy.
He lifted his goblet slightly, the motion slow and deliberate.
A silent welcome.
And a subtle warning.
Nothing in this room escaped his notice.
The dim light caught the surface of the wine, making it glimmer as his eyes shifted toward them—sharp, observant, and unsettlingly aware.
"Just a minute… I'm almost done," Renly panted, his voice heavy and uneven, each breath dragging out of him with effort.
His face was flushed, beads of sweat rolling down his temples as he struggled to steady himself. His movements were sluggish, careless—driven more by indulgence than restraint.
"Come, Princess. Let me lead the way."
The man rose from his chair with effortless grace, his movements calm and controlled, as though he owned not just the room—but the very air within it. Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked toward a door beside the chamber's lone window, his steps measured and unhurried.
The cutting of rope broke the moment.
Amara's attention snapped away from him and back to Braylon.
The rope around her wrists loosened.
For a brief second—relief.
Then pain.
A sudden, burning ache surged through her arms as the rope fell away. It felt as if her blood, long denied, was rushing back all at once, too fast, too forceful.
She gasped softly, her fingers trembling.
Her wrists were exposed now.
Raw.
Inflamed.
Dark purple bruises circled them like cruel bracelets, the skin broken in places—a silent record of days spent in restraint.
Amara stared at them for a moment, her breath uneven.
Freedom from the ropes…
Yet the marks remained.
As if reminding her—
She was not truly free.
Amara slowly raised her hands, hesitant, her fingers trembling as they hovered over her injured wrists. The moment she touched the tender skin, pain shot through her arms—sharp and immediate.
A small whimper escaped her lips before she could stop it.
Her chest tightened. She clenched her jaw, forcing herself into silence, swallowing every trace of discomfort. She refused to let it show… not more than it already had.
Braylon, however, remained indifferent.
His gaze fell on her briefly—cold, distant, as if what she felt meant nothing at all. There was no concern in his eyes, no flicker of hesitation.
Then he turned.
With a sharp motion, he lifted his hand and pointed toward the door behind him.
The gesture was simple.
Commanding.
Final.
No words were needed.
Amara swallowed hard, pushing down the ache in her throat along with everything else she felt. Drawing in a shaky breath, she forced her feet to move.
Step by step.
Slow.
Careful.
Obedient.
And without another word, she followed his silent command.
As Amara stepped into the hall, her breath caught.
At its center stood a magnificent table carved from pure white marble, its surface smooth and gleaming under the soft light. Six chairs were arranged around it with careful precision, each one elegant, almost regal in its design.
For a moment, she forgot where she was.
The man she had seen earlier was already seated, one hand resting casually against the marble as if it belonged to him.
"I am Edward Easton Dempsey," he said, his voice calm yet carrying an unmistakable authority. "Royal advisor to King Valerian Azazel of Tarvisium."
Amara's attention snapped back to him.
And then—shifted.
Only now did she notice the others.
Four more figures sat beside him, silent yet watchful, their presence heavy in the room.
The air felt different here.
Sharper.
Measured.
As if every word, every movement… would be weighed.
"This man here is Ramsey Bolton, royal advisor of Azar," Edward continued, gesturing toward the man seated beside him.
Amara followed his hand.
Ramsey Bolton appeared to be a man of great age—perhaps as old as the late King Syon had been at the time of his death. A thick white beard covered most of his face, giving him the look of a wandering sage… or a wizard pulled straight from an old tale.
But there was nothing gentle about the way he watched the room.
His eyes were sharp.
Too sharp.
Edward's gaze then shifted to the far end of the table.
"And that is Farheen Khai, royal advisor to the King of Delmar."
Amara's eyes moved to him.
A black patch covered his left eye, standing in stark contrast against his pale, almost ashen skin. His hair, brown streaked with white, framed a face that seemed carved from something colder than stone.
His remaining eye—dark and unreadable—rested on nothing and everything at once.
He looked like a silent pirate at first glance.
But the way he sat, the way he carried himself… it spoke of something far more dangerous.
Not chaos.
Control.
The kind of man who wouldn't raise his voice—
Yet would make others obey without question.
Edward turned slightly, about to continue.
"And that man over there is—"
"I am Kai Crone Lei."
The interruption was smooth.
Effortless.
All eyes shifted.
The man leaned forward slightly, his presence cutting through the room like a blade.
"Warden of Fafnir Diell… the very land you are standing on."
His voice was calm.
Cold.
And his honey-colored eyes held a stillness that felt far more unsettling than anger ever could.
Amara's eyebrows drew together, confusion and fear mixing in her expression.
"Why does it matter who you all are?" she demanded, her voice trembling despite her effort to stay steady. "Why have you brought me here?"
For a brief moment, silence lingered.
Then, the man seated at the center spoke.
"We do not mean to harm you."
His voice was calm—too calm.
It did little to ease the unease tightening in her chest.
"This," Edward continued, gesturing toward him, "is Prince Theron Azazel, eldest son of King Valerian Azazel."
Amara's gaze shifted to the man.
He sat with quiet composure, his presence commanding without effort. His pale features were sharp yet striking, his golden hair catching the dim light and framing his face in a way that made him seem almost unreal.
Too perfect.
Too controlled.
Her eyes dropped to the emblem he wore.
A green four-leaf clover.
Set against warm tones of orange and gold.
She remembered its meaning.
Not luck.
Not chance.
But something far more unsettling—
They do not fight for power… they believe they are meant to have it.
A chill ran down her spine.
And for the first time—
Amara wondered if she had walked straight into the hands of something far more dangerous than her captor.
"Then… what use do I have for you?" Amara asked, her voice quieter now, edged with uncertainty.
The question lingered in the air—
Unanswered.
Before anyone could respond—
Bang.
The door behind her slammed open.
Amara flinched, her body tensing as she turned sharply toward the sound.
A heavyset man stumbled into the hall, adjusting his clothes with little care for the room he had entered.
"Lord Kai," he said with a crude laugh, fastening his belt, "I must say—these western women you've brought in are the most entertaining in all of Tarvisium."
His laughter echoed, loud and unrestrained.
Amara's stomach turned.
Without hesitation, the man dragged a chair and dropped into it beside Edward, as if he belonged there—as if nothing about his behavior was out of place.
Amara's eyes widened in shock as recognition struck.
"You…?" she breathed, her voice filled with confusion and disbelief. "Why are you here?"
The man—Renly—let out a heavy, amused laugh, as if her reaction was the most entertaining thing in the room.
"Good day to you, Princess Amara."
Her breath hitched.
"Lord Renly…" Her voice trembled, breaking under the weight of her desperation. Her eyes glistened as tears began to form. "Please… help me… I want to go back home."
A tear slipped down her cheek, silent and fragile.
"I apologize, Princess," Renly said, though there was no real remorse in his tone. "But this is not my place to decide whether you are set free."
He let out another low laugh, leaning back in his chair with ease.
"The one in command here is Prince Theron," he added, gesturing lazily toward the man at the center. "He is the one who decides everything."
Amara's breath faltered.
Her gaze shifted, but her mind lingered on Renly.
Memories surfaced—clearer now.
He was not a stranger.
Renly had often walked through the gates of Amethyst Castle—the seat of House Violet in the capital of Durand—without so much as a proper inspection. Guards never stopped him. Questions were never asked.
He had been trusted.
Trusted by the King.
Trusted by the Queen.
A familiar presence within her own home.
And yet—
This man… sat here now.
Not as an ally.
But as part of something far more unsettling.
Renly was the royal advisor of Solana.
Yet, more often than not, his presence had lingered within Amethyst Castle itself.
A bridge between kingdoms.
Amara's chest tightened.
"You," Theron said, his gaze steady, "are the key to our victory over Durand."
Amara blinked, the words not fully registering.
"What…?" she asked, her voice faint with confusion. "What kind of victory are you talking about?"
Theron didn't look away.
"I intend to conquer all of Octarchy."
The words were spoken simply.
Calmly.
As if he were stating something inevitable.
Amara's eyes widened, disbelief flooding her expression. She stared at him, searching for even the slightest hint of jest—
There was none.
The idea itself felt absurd.
Impossible.
And yet… the certainty in his voice felt like a heavy load.
"It's impossible," she said, her voice quieter now, almost uncertain. "No one can conquer Octarchy."
A brief pause.
Then her brows drew together again as the weight of his earlier words settled in.
"And even if you could…" she continued, her voice trembling slightly, "why am I here?"
Her hands curled at her sides.
"Why did you abduct me?"
The room fell silent once more.
All eyes turned to Theron.
Waiting.
For his answer.
"You…"
Theron leaned forward, his presence sharpening as his fingers intertwined and came to rest against the cold marble surface.
"You are the one who will help me."
His voice was quiet.
Certain.
"That is why you are here."
Amara's breath caught.
"What?" she exclaimed, her confusion breaking through her fear. "How am I supposed to help someone like you?"
Her voice rose, disbelief taking over.
"In doing something impossible?"
The word lingered in the air.
Impossible.
Yet Theron didn't flinch.
Didn't hesitate.
He only watched her—calm, unwavering—
As if the impossible…
Was already within his reach.
"Amara," Theron began, rising slowly from his chair, his voice calm yet deliberate, "you know that the kingdom of Durand stands as the head of Octarchy."
He stepped away from his seat, moving behind the lords with unhurried confidence, circling the table as he spoke.
"And whoever sits upon the throne of Durand…" he continued, his tone steady, "holds every other kingdom at their heel."
He reached the center of the table and, without hesitation, sat upon its marble surface, as if thrones were not limited to chairs.
"But there is one thing," he said, glancing down at his hands as his fingers laced together once more, "that can disrupt the rule of a king."
A brief pause.
"The people."
His gaze lifted, locking onto Amara.
"The people of Durand themselves."
There was a quiet intensity in his eyes now.
"And the only thing that can prevent that disruption…"
He tilted his head slightly, his voice lowering just enough to draw her in.
"…is a Violet."
Amara stilled.
"A Violet upon the throne does not merely rule the realm of Octarchy," he said, straightening, his voice firm with conviction. "They rule its people as well."
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Meaningful.
As the weight of his words settled over the room.
"That's just something people used to say," Amara replied, her voice trembling despite her attempt to sound certain. "An old belief… it's not real."
"It is not merely a myth."
Ramsey's voice cut through the air—rough, aged, and heavy with authority.
Amara turned toward him.
The old man leaned forward slightly, his pale eyes steady beneath the shadow of his thick white beard.
"It is truth," he continued, his hoarse tone carrying a quiet weight. "Since the time of the Violet conquest, the people of Octarchy have placed their trust in them."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"They believe," he went on, "that only a Violet is meant to rule them."
A faint silence filled the room.
"And when a ruler rises who is not of that blood…" Ramsey added, his gaze sharpening, "they are not accepted."
His fingers tapped lightly against the table.
"They are removed."
The simplicity of his words made them all the more unsettling.
"History has shown this time and again," he said, his voice lowering. "And you must understand—"
He leaned back slightly.
"An angered people…"
A brief pause.
"…are far more dangerous than any storm."
The room fell quiet once more.
And this time—
The silence felt heavier than before.