A Kingdom of Knives

The ashes of Thorne Evermire hadn't cooled when Raizel ordered their next move.

"We can't hide anymore," he said, his voice stripped bare of mercy.

"We gather what's left… and we strike."

The Hounds had left more than blood in their wake. The runes they carved into Thorne's body were living curses—sigils that pulsed in the dark, shifting like worms beneath skin. Elyssia had warned him not to touch them, but Raizel ignored her.

He pressed his fingers into the carvings.

And saw.

Saw cities burning under moonless skies. Saw children born with chains instead of names. Saw the Throne of Flesh—a forbidden weapon the Empire had long buried beneath myths.

"They're not afraid of us," Raizel muttered afterward.

"They're afraid we'll remember what they buried."

They moved north, toward the borderlands—lands that once swore loyalty to House Valthorr before the purge. These weren't cities. They were fractured fortresses, plagued by famine and ruled by criminals who called themselves lords.

Raizel didn't ask for allegiance.

He demanded it.

And when one refused, he didn't debate.

He flayed.

The Fortress of Braech claimed neutrality. Its leader, Lord Mire, once served under Kael Valthorr before defecting to the Empire.

Raizel entered through the front gate wearing black.

Alone.

Within an hour, the fortress was his.

He didn't raise an army—he raised fear.

The soldiers guarding Mire dropped their weapons before Raizel finished his second sentence. When Mire's wife tried to poison him during the surrender banquet, he made her eat the same poisoned fruit.

And let her watch herself die.

"You wanted to taste power," he whispered.

"Does it burn well enough?"

Word spread fast.

Faster than even the Empire's spies could contain.

Raizel was alive.

And not just alive—recruiting.

Allies from ruined houses. Disgraced mages. Orphans whose names had been erased by the Crown. They came not out of loyalty, but out of hunger.

Hunger for vengeance.

Elyssia watched it unfold with uneasy silence.

"You're becoming what they fear," she told him one night.

"You're not saving anyone. You're building a kingdom of knives."

Raizel didn't argue.

"They killed my name. I'm giving it teeth."

But beneath the victories, a rot was spreading.

The voice returned—louder now.

Not a whisper in glass, but a presence in the corners of his vision.

It wore no face. Spoke no name. But it was always watching.

"The throne is not the end, Raizel," it said one night, as he slept among ruins.

"The end is what comes after you wear it."

He woke bleeding from the eyes.

Elyssia saw the damage, said nothing, and wrapped his wounds herself.

But he saw her hands trembling.

The next ally Raizel targeted was a gamble.

Lady Yssandra Korveil.

A former imperial tactician turned warlord, known for turning entire armies into fuel for siege magic. She ruled from a tower of bone, surrounded by traitors who dared not breathe without permission.

Raizel sent no emissary.

He walked into her throne room and tossed the scorched banner of Lord Mire at her feet.

She smiled.

"You come to threaten me?"

"I come to offer you a choice."

"Slavery or death?"

"Legacy," Raizel said.

He pulled from his coat one of the scrolls found on Thorne's corpse.

Yssandra read it once—and her skin paled.

"This… this proves the Empire sanctioned the massacre of your line."

"It proves they'll do it again," Raizel replied.

"And if you wait for them to turn on you, you'll die with regrets."

A beat of silence.

Then, she stood.

"Then let's kill something sacred."

Raizel's forces grew.

With Yssandra came siege engines, undead infantry, and forbidden spellworks. With Mire's fortress came weapons, maps, spies.

But power attracted problems.

And one night, as Raizel reviewed blood-written reports in the warroom of Braech, a knife plunged through the door—followed by a hooded figure.

"You're growing too fast," the assassin hissed.

"The Empire doesn't like noise."

Raizel didn't stand.

He raised a finger.

A glyph triggered.

The assassin screamed as his body folded in on itself—ribs piercing lungs, skin dissolving into steam. He didn't die fast. That was the point.

Elyssia entered after.

"They've begun sending blades again," she said.

"Good," Raizel muttered.

"It means they're desperate."

But not all was conquest.

Late one night, as the fires dimmed and the soldiers slept, Raizel climbed alone to the ruined watchtower.

Elyssia found him there, staring at the stars.

"You don't sleep anymore."

"Sleep brings voices."

"And staying awake brings war."

He didn't look at her.

"I'm afraid I'm starting to enjoy it."

She stepped closer.

"Then let me remind you what you're fighting for."

She pressed something into his hand.

A locket.

Inside: a small sketch. A woman with dark hair and sharp eyes. A note scribbled beside it.

"Her name was Lira."

Raizel's hand trembled.

"My mother…"

Elyssia nodded.

"She died to give you a chance to destroy them. Don't waste it by becoming the thing she fought."

Before he could respond, a horn blew—low, wrong.

An alarm.

Raizel and Elyssia descended the tower to find Yssandra waiting in the courtyard.

"A message arrived," she said, holding a bloodied scroll.

"Sealed by the Imperial Ring."

Raizel opened it.

Inside: one line.

"We have the girl."

A name beneath it:

Vanya.

His fingers crushed the scroll.

The Empire had found his old allies.

And now, they were making him choose.

Elyssia stepped forward.

"This is a trap."

"I know."

"So?"

Raizel turned to face her, eyes colder than steel.

"We go anyway."