The Weeping Wall had always been a thing of quiet beauty, a lattice of glowing stone and silver threaded vines pulsing with the faint, steady hum of warding magic. But on this day, it was no longer beautiful. It cracked like an old bone in winter’s grip, jagged fissures splitting its surface as blackened roots writhed beneath the soil. The Gloomroot had come for Lysimar again.

  It began with a scream, a single sound that shattered through the city streets and sent civilians scattering into alleys or huddling under rooftops like startled birds. A woman in the market square, her arms full of herbs from the Royal Gardens, gasped as tendrils of shadow sprouted where she stood, twisting upward to devour the air itself. The flowers around her wilted instantly; their petals blackened and curled into brittle husks that crumbled at a touch. Nearby, an apprentice mage dropped his vials in horror as the ground beneath them pulsed with sickly light.

  The Weeping Wall groaned under the weight of something ancient, its protective enchantments fraying like threadbare silk. A crack split open near the western gatehouse, and from it poured not just darkness but a low, whispering sound, like wind through dead leaves or voices trapped in stone. The air turned heavier, thick with an acrid scent that made throats burn and eyes water.

  “Cinderblooms,” someone murmured nearby before running off to warn others. That name still sent shivers down the spine of every Lysimarian who had seen them: twisted blooms born from the Gloomroot’s rotting breath, their thorns sharp enough to split flesh and flowers that bloomed in a lurid shade of crimson black.

  But this was different, not just an incursion. It felt like something broke.

  Prince Emily Loriet stood at her window high above the city, watching as chaos unfolded below with all the detachment of someone observing ants on glass. The sky had turned a sickly gray green, and even in her palace’s gilded halls, she could feel the unease humming through Lysimar like an unspoken curse.

  She’d known this moment would come, had seen it coming long before anyone else did, but now that the Gloomroot was finally breaking free of its ancient chains, something inside her shifted. A thrill curled in her chest, cold and sharp as a blade’s edge. This wasn’t just about survival anymore. It was an opportunity.

  She turned away from the window with deliberate grace, her midnight blue robes sweeping across polished marble floors that gleamed like moonlight on water. The courtiers who had gathered to speak of this “devastating breach” were already trembling in their boots, petty little things, all too eager to weep over what they could not fix.

  “You’re wasting time,” Emily said before anyone else spoke. Her voice was calm, almost amused, as she stepped forward into the flickering candlelight that cast long shadows across her face. “We need strategy.”

  The chamber fell silent except for the distant sound of screams echoing from below and a single bird chirping in an unshaded corner.

  “The Weeping Wall is compromised,” said Lord Valerius, his grizzled brow furrowed as he stepped forward with measured steps that spoke of decades spent training knights to move like ghosts. “We must reinforce the outer districts, secure food supplies before it spreads further.”

  Emily tilted her head slightly, a small smile playing on her lips.

  “Secure? You’re thinking too small.” She gestured toward the window again. The blackened roots had already begun creeping up through cracks in stone streets and into buildings that hadn’t been touched by this corruption yet. “The people are not our concern anymore.”

  There were gasps, but Emily continued as if she’d never paused.

  “We need to draw a line,” she said smoothly. “A quarantine zone, nothing less than total isolation of the infected sectors.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully before adding, “No one leaves Lysimar until this is contained. Even those who live beyond our walls will be left behind.”

  “You’re suggesting we abandon them?” someone asked in disbelief.

  “No,” she corrected gently. “We are protecting what remains of the kingdom by sacrificing its weakest parts.” Her voice lowered as if speaking to a child, though her tone was razor sharp. “The people who live near the Weeping Wall will be relocated… or left behind.”

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  A murmur rose among those present, some in horror, others in quiet agreement.

  “It’s necessary,” she said simply. The word hung between them like an unspoken threat: You can’t stop this if you’re afraid of what must be done.

  But it was not just her words that unsettled the crowd, it was the way she delivered them. Her eyes were too sharp, too clear for someone who should have been as concerned about Lysimar’s fate as anyone else.

  And then there was Nine Pyrot.

  He stood at the edge of the chamber like a shadow himself, his armor dulled by weeks in battle but still gleaming faintly under the torchlight. His expression remained unreadable, though she could see how tightly he gripped the hilt of his sword, knuckles whitening as if it were all that kept him from breaking.

  He had been sent to deliver a report after another failed attempt at holding back the Gloomroot’s advance in the east district. The reports would have included casualties: soldiers who’d fallen protecting civilians, villages reduced to ash and rot by things they couldn’t fight with steel or fire alone.

  Emily hadn’t cared about that before, only what it meant for her plans now.

  But as she watched him stand there, silent but visibly shaken, something in the air shifted. The tension between them had always been taut like a bowstring, but this was different. He wasn’t just questioning her methods anymore, he was beginning to question whether they were worth following at all.

  And that frightened her more than anything else about today’s events.

  When she finally stepped away from the council chamber and into the cool air of the palace garden, Emily found herself standing before a statue, tall, carved in dark stone with an expression so serene it felt almost mocking. It was one of Lysimar’s oldest monuments: The Crowned One, representing both its former glory and decay.

  She ran her fingers over the cold surface as she stared into the distance where smoke rose from what used to be a market square now reduced to ruins beneath Gloomroot’s grasp.

  “This is only the beginning,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. “And I will not let it ruin me.”

  The thought of Nine Pyrot surfaced in her mind again, how he had always been the one thing that made this madness worth enduring. She’d seen his strength before: how easily he could endure pain and still stand when others crumbled.

  She wanted to know what was inside him, if there were depths even she couldn’t reach with words or promises of power and freedom from a gilded cage.

  But for now, she had more immediate concerns. The Gloomroot would not stop simply because the Weeping Wall failed, it needed something else: resources. Magic wells that kept Lysimar’s defenses intact? Or perhaps it was drawn to its own kind, something buried beneath the city waiting to be awakened?

  She didn’t know yet.

  What she did know, though, is that every step closer to her goal would require more of this, the pain and suffering others could not understand. She had always believed in control over chaos… but even now, as shadows crept along the palace walls like ink spilled on parchment, there was a small part of her wondering if she might be losing it.

  Because no matter how much she tried to convince herself that this wasn’t about power or love, only freedom and necessity, the truth lingered beneath all those carefully constructed lies: She had made choices. And now the world would pay for them in blood, ash… and maybe even her own heart if things went too far.

  But Emily Loriet was not one to regret what she did, not unless it threatened everything she’d worked so hard for.

  And this city? This crumbling kingdom of Lysimar?

  It had always been just another step toward something greater. A stepping stone, like the Gloomroot itself, waiting in darkness until someone dared to reach down and touch its roots with their own hands.

  The wind howled through the garden as if echoing her thoughts.

  And for a moment, she let herself believe that maybe… this time was different.

  She would make sure of it.