The wind tore through the blackened banners that once flew proud over the blood-wet city of Kael-Terun. The bones of the old kings were ground to dust beneath the iron boots of the Empress's war-hounds. Victory should have felt sweet.
But Empress Seraphine—first of her name, last of her mercy—stood alone in the sanctum of her conquered enemies, her crown heavy with consequence.
Before her, the war map bled ink where kingdoms had burned. Yet three nations still stood.
And her soldiers bled faster than her enemies broke.
She was the Empress of a continent, but not yet of history.
So she knelt. Not before a god. Not before a priest. But before the empty sky. Cold, cloudless, waiting.
Her armor clinked as she fell to her knees, steel covered in the dried blood of kings and kin alike.
Her voice broke the silence.
> "If there is one god above gods, I call to You.
If there are many, let the one who wants to be remembered answer.
If the universe is listening… I offer it myself."
She breathed. Waited.
> "I have broken oaths, sundered nations, killed children with clean hands. I will do worse.
Let me finish this conquest. Let me become something terrible enough to be eternal."
Her whisper turned hoarse. She wasn't weeping—but something cracked inside her. Not regret. Just exhaustion. No general who burned the world had room for self-pity, but she was alone at the top of the ash heap.
That's when the wind died.
A silence too deep for nature settled like a mantle.
Then came the presence. Not fire. Not light. But gravity—as if the air remembered the shape of something greater.
And then, a voice like iron smothered in velvet:
> "Many have asked. You are the first to offer something worth the asking."
Seraphine didn't flinch—but her breath hitched. "What are you?"
> "I am called Samael. Once the herald of silence, now the watcher of war."
From the shadows, a figure emerged—not radiant, but real. An angel without wings, without gold. Clad in charcoal robes that folded like battle flags. Eyes like molten amber that saw more than they looked.
He walked as if he carried no weight—yet the floor cracked beneath each step.
Seraphine did not bow. She never bowed. But she did not speak.
Samael circled her like a final thought before madness.
> "You seek conquest. I seek continuation. The universe speaks to few. Even fewer answer.
But you… Empress, you are empty in a way only purpose can fill."
She raised her chin. "Then give me what I ask. Win me the war."
Samael smiled—but it was a sad thing.
> "There is a cost. The universe does not give power. It sows it. And I am its hand."
Seraphine narrowed her eyes. "Tell me the cost."
He stepped closer. There was no malice in him. Only the weight of truths too old to kneel.
> "You will not bear a successor of your blood. You will bear a child of mine."
Silence.
A full minute passed before she blinked. Her hand gripped her sword, not out of threat—but to remind herself that she still could. "A demi-god? You want to plant your seed in the heart of my empire?"
Samael's gaze didn't waver. "No. I want to plant it in you. And the empire will change because of her."
"…Her?"
He nodded.
> "Her name will not be known to you. But she will remember me. And one day, she will remember herself.
You will forget this bargain, in time. It is better that way."
Seraphine stood slowly. The fire in her spine didn't waver.
"She will take my throne?"
> "She will not need it."
Seraphine laughed—not cruelly, but bitterly. "You think a child born of conquest and cosmos will redeem me?"
"I think she will choose. And that is redemption enough."
Her voice dropped to a growl. "And if I say no?"
> "Then you will win your next war. But not the one after. You will die unremembered.
The child you bear will inherit fire without meaning."
She stared into his eyes. Into the truth behind them.
Her legacy was a bloodline already rotting. She had destroyed too much to leave anything intact. And yet, here he was—offering her a different kind of immortality.
Then she knelt once more, not in worship, but in agreement.
"Then make her strong."
Samael raised a hand and placed it just above her brow.
> "She already is."
The light around them cracked, not like glass—but like time itself. Seraphine's body pulsed with something more than divine.
She fell into darkness.
And in the cold void of unconsciousness, something ancient stirred within her.
Not yet born.
But watching.