The snow drank blood slowly. Shale watched the red sink into the soil beneath the farmer’s corpse, the steam of it curling in the air like ghosts of a war that wouldn’t end.

  He slung his rifle and left the house as it creaked under the wind, the dog’s whimpers fading behind him. His boots sank in half-frozen mud, each step back toward the Livadian lines a little heavier.

  Ahead, the road cut through the blasted landscape. Not even a mile from the trenches, the white wasteland broke for something darker—a line of gilded wheels biting into the muck, polished black lacquer and gold filigree shining against the drab gray.

  The imperial carriage.

  It rolled smooth, despite the ruts, pulled by a team of four great elk with antlers shorn back to blunt nubs. Behind it rode the psyad Golden Guard, their yellow coats immaculate even in the sleet, the glow of their mageia burning faint in their palms. Shale ducked off the road, shoulders hunched beneath his coat as the procession passed.

  Emperor Arictus never traveled without a show of power.

  Shale spat into the snow.

  No crown’s heavy enough to make a man good.

  Inside the carriage, the air was warm. The thick velvet drapes cut out the blizzard’s bite, and the oil lamps flickered gold across Emperor Arictus’s sharp features. His crown—a simple black band inlaid with garnet drops—sat heavy on his brow. Opposite him, Crown Prince Phiniaster shifted in his seat, struggling to meet his father’s gaze. His ceremonial uniform was stiff, his shoulders narrow beneath the weight of expectation.

  "You’ve heard what I said," Arictus growled, voice low, controlled. "Repeat it."

  Phiniaster straightened, trying to conjure conviction. “We negotiate from strength. The Solokhians will accept whatever terms we give.”

  “Better.” The emperor leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His eyes burned gold. “And what terms will we offer?”

  The boy hesitated. His mouth worked, but his voice cracked when he spoke. “We could offer them integration, make them an imperial province. Teach them to live like us, show them—”

  The back of Arictus’s hand struck fast across his son’s cheek.

  Phiniaster recoiled, stunned, one hand rising slowly to cradle the sting.

  “They are human,” Arictus said, voice like iron scraping on iron. “You still do not understand what that means. They are not kin. They are weeds choking the roots of the world. You cannot reason with rot.”

  He leaned in, voice thick with fervor. “The gods did not craft them, boy. No divine hand shaped their souls. They are a blight, a mistake left festering in the cracks of creation. Altatheus did not will them into being. They rose from the corruption in the marrow of the earth, spawned from greed, from the hunger to consume and destroy.”

  Phiniaster swallowed hard, his voice small and trembling. "But... isn't there a chance they're lost, not wicked? If the gods did not make them, perhaps it is our duty to guide them back to the light?" His hands twisted in his lap, his eyes glued to the floor. "Caging them will only teach them fear. Mercy could teach them grace."

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  Arictus's laugh was low, humorless. "Grace? You would grant grace to the void? They have no spark to kindle, no soul to save." He leaned forward, his voice tightening. "Their corruption is deeper than ignorance, boy. It's instinct. The hunger in their marrow, the poison in their blood. Mercy is wasted on beasts."

  Phiniaster shook his head faintly, almost imperceptibly. "But we were not always as we are now. The gods shaped us, molded us. If they could lift us up from nothing, can we not offer the same?"

  Arictus's eyes narrowed. "You compare yourself to them? We are the chosen children of Altatheus! They are the rot beneath our roots. To uplift them is to spit in the face of the gods themselves."

  Phiniaster's voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. "If the gods had meant to destroy them, then why do they live? Doesn't that mean we were given a chance to help them?"

  Arictus sneered, his voice turning cold as the winter outside. "Heresy," he spat. "Mercy to the soulless is defiance against the gods' design. You would shelter the corruption that gnaws at the roots of the Isthmus? Speak of mercy again, boy, and I will see the priests cleanse you with fire."

  Arictus sat back, folding his hands, the moment gone as quickly as it came. “No more of this softness, boy. You will see. The armistice is an opportunity, yes—but not for mercy. We will use it to cage them, bleed them slow until they are no longer a threat.”

  The carriage lurched to a halt.

  Arictus rose, adjusting his belt. “Stay put. I need to piss.”

  He swung open the door, stepping into the white, the wind cutting at his cloak as he trudged into the brush.

  Phiniaster sat frozen, one palm pressed to the flush on his cheek, heart hammering.

  Outside, the emperor fumbled with his belt beneath a bare-limbed tree, steam rising from the yellow arc into the snow. He heard it before he saw—the soft crunch of paws, the low growl.

  A lion, pale-coated and lean with hunger, padded from the undergrowth. Its ribs showed beneath the fur, but its eyes burned with need.

  Arictus swore, fumbling at his belt. His call for the Guard caught in his throat as the beast lunged.

  The emperor went down hard, claws raking across his shoulder, jaws snapping for his throat. His cry of pain broke the quiet.

  The Golden Guard surged from their mounts, their hands alive with mageia. Kuda Dawnriser led them, his voice a sharp command as fire blossomed in his palm. The lion reared back, snarling, blood on its muzzle.

  The flame licked through its fur, searing deep, and the beast crumpled in the snow, smoke rising from its charred body.

  Dawnriser knelt by the emperor, pulling him back from the blood-soaked ground. Arictus wheezed, his golden eyes fading fast.

  Phiniaster stumbled from the carriage, slipping in the snow as he rushed to his father’s side. “Father! Stay with me!”

  Arictus gripped his son’s arm, strength fading. His lips moved, blood frothing at the edges. “You will doom us all. If you let them live... they will devour this world, as they did before the gods cast their judgment.”

  His hand went slack.

  For a long moment, only the wind spoke.

  Kuda Dawnriser stood, his expression carved from stone. He turned to the Golden Guard. “The emperor is dead.”

  The psyads knelt as one. “Long live the emperor.”

  Phiniaster stared at them, throat tight. “I—I am not ready.”

  Dawnriser put a firm hand on his shoulder. “No one ever is.”

  The dryad’s voice left no room for doubt. “By right of succession, by law of the empire, and by the will of the gods, you are emperor now. What are your orders, Majesty?”

  Phiniaster looked down at his father’s body, the snow drinking deep of Livadia’s crown.

  “Prepare him for burial. And ready the carriage.”

  His voice cracked but held.

  “We ride to the peace summit."

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