The corridor prolonged itself further than it ought to have done. The further they walked, the more the torch-lights were giving unnatural flickerings along the walls, and the air became colder—an ever-deepening descent into what felt to be the veins of an ancient and buried thing.
Duke Valen Rosenthal's foot-steps held a measured grace, however, his glacier-blue eyes narrowed. His instincts, honed over decades of war and court intrigue, whispered of falsehood. His fingers twitched near his blade as a pulse of mana surged beneath his skin.
"The Emperor's rooms don't lie this way."
The herald ahead didn't falter. He glided more than walked—each step unnaturally smooth, almost boneless. Valen's lips curled in distaste. That gait… it was too elegant. Too fluid. Too hungry.
"This is no council chamber," he said at last, voice as sharp and cold as ice-rimed steel.
Behind him, Lord Cassian Durmont halted, his trademark smirk gone. The duelist's eyes narrowed as he laid a hand atop the emerald pommel of his blade. With a subtle motion, he tapped once—releasing a pulse of mana meant to scout the room's boundaries.
But the energy didn't bounce back. It was devoured by the air itself.
Cassian's voice dropped to a low murmur, the usual lilt gone, replaced by a razor's edge of unease."This isn't just a room... it's a spell. Vast, suffocating. I released my magic in the surrounding area just now, and no response came back. It's like trying to shout inside a void."
He tried again. Nothing.
At the edge of the group, Lady Isolde Malrec's breath caught. The priestess's pupils dilated, flickers of shadow blooming in her irises as she whispered forgotten incantations. Her magic tugged at unseen threads—and recoiled.
"This is not illusion," she said softly, "it's…amemory. It's like we are in someone's memory while being watched."
She swayed, gripping the sleeve of her silver-blue gown. "This is a demons magi we have fallen the trap of the demons. How could we be so foolish to not see something like this?"
Duchess Mirelle Veyran giggled. It was a soft, silky sound—nearly amused. Her gown of black feathers whispered as she trod softly on marble, her heels clicking rhythmically like the metronome of malice.
"Of course it's a trap," she stated, her voice a hush of blades below velvet. "And we acted the parts with panache."
Her ruby lips curved, a gleeful sneer as she breathed deeply, capturing the scent of blood coiling in the air. "And the only question is which of us bleeds first, though I know none of us would be harmed by these demons."
Duke Reinhardt Kallenhart grunted, his holy sigils humbling weakly in diminishing light. He clenched a gauntleted fist and brought it down against his armored thigh— the raw ringing took far too much time to settle in the throbbing darkness.
"We're the most powerful Dukes in the Empire," he growled. "How did none of us see this coming?"
Pride. He knew the answer. Too much pride. Too many rivalries. Too many eyes watching Rosenthal and not the snake beneath their feet.
'We all were too focused on politics and each other to notice this change.'
Duke Alaric Selwyn said nothing at first. He stood perfectly still, robes pooling like calm water, hands folded before him. But his silver eyes opened at last, and there was no gentleness left in them.
"We were distracted by the game. Positioning. Politics." His tone was dry, surgical. "And now the board is ash."
He looked ahead—not at the door, but through it. "The Emperor isn't here. He was never coming. This was never a summons."
It was a reckoning.
Then—the air shivered. A soundless pulse rippled through the room, and the door ahead melted away into shadow. The walls bled into the void. The torches died.
What stood in the center was no longer a herald, but a hollow silhouette—a body made of soot and cracked porcelain, eyes glowing like dying stars. It twisted, fell inward, and from the broken shell she emerged.
She didn't walk. She unfolded—a vision of surreal elegance with shifting features: one moment, she was divine beauty made flesh; the next, she was a grotesque riddle of eyes, mouths, and coiling limbs.
A thousand whispers folded into one, brushing against their ears like silk.
"Welcome, Dukes of the Giant Sun Empire. Did you enjoy the show?"
The voice was honey laced with arsenic. Every word vibrated with malice.
Duke Valen stepped forward, blade forming in his hand in a bloom of frost and mana. He didn't flinch. His voice was iron.
"Show yourself, demon. Enough tricks."
The creature's smile widened beyond human limits, the corners of her mouth splitting her cheeks.
"You may call me Fallacy," she said, her form rippling like smoke. "Mirage Queen. Weaver of Truths Unseen. It has been so long since I last danced with mortals of such… caliber."
Lady Isolde gasped, stumbling back. Her voice trembled.
"That name… It's impossible. Fallacy was sealed during the Founder's War—centuries ago."
Fallacy's laugh was velvet and broken glass.
"Sealed, yes. Forgotten? Never. Your Empire is a tapestry of borrowed myths. And tonight, children of the sun…" she raised her hands, and the sigils on the floor pulsed like a living heartbeat, "you will remember why."
"And let me tell you this, even if you know there's a trap here as long as I am the one making it you will never detect it as I masterd this art of and its also the reason I was sealed bythe founding emperor." She said with a wide smile.
Even though her form was blurred, they all were able to feel the demonic energy of that creature on their skin.
The walls shrieked as they twisted into a cyclone of nightmare—palace becoming prison, memories becoming teeth. Eyes opened along the ceiling. Hands reached through shadows.
Duchess Mirelle's daggers were already in hand. Her voice was calm, almost giddy.
"So… shall we see if demons scream and bleed?"
Duke Reinhardt raised his shield, holy light clashing with the darkness, though it dimmed under her presence.
"You'll pay for this desecration, abomination."
Fallacy grinned wider.
"Dear knight, I came here to pay the price to my dear king. You just never asked what the coin was, and I am here to take the coin I promised as the price."
Alaric stood unmoved, silver eyes reflecting her endless forms.
"You orchestrated this. The Emperor's absence. The invitation. This was all bait."
Her voice turned intimate, like a secret whispered in the dark.
"And you, clever Alaric, walked straight into the story I wrote."
Cassian unsheathed his blade with a flick of his wrist, smiling again—but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Let's cut this drama short, shall we?"
Fallacy's reply was a chuckle that echoed like a thousand dying stars.
"Oh, darling. The drama is only beginning."
And then—darkness fell, and the real battle began.