Chapter Text
The dinner had long since gone cold.
The noble’s screams echoed off the marble walls of his opulent manor, bouncing between velvet drapes and crystal chandeliers, disturbing not a single one of the black-armored guards standing outside the dining hall.
They knew better than to interfere.
At the head of the long banquet table, Lloyd Garmadon sat reclined in his chair, one gloved hand raised casually over his wine goblet, the other tightening slowly around the noble’s wrist.
The snap of another finger breaking made the noble wail again—sharp, pathetic, and wet.
“Patience,” Lloyd murmured, as though correcting a child. His voice was soft, low. “I’m only halfway through.”
Kai stood to his left, arms crossed over his crimson chestplate, eyes burning with thinly restrained rage. His foot rested against the noble’s chair, pressing it back whenever the man tried to wriggle free. “You should’ve thought about loyalty before sharing our troop movements with the Blackhorn Resistance.”
“I didn’t—” the noble gasped, tears streaking down his powdered face. “I swear, I didn’t say anything—!”
Kai leaned forward, smiling like a wolf. “Then you won’t mind telling us who did, will you?”
Silence. Trembling lips. Eyes darting to the floor.
Lloyd sighed.
With the flick of his wrist, he twisted the noble’s hand until bone snapped like dry twigs.
Then, smoothly, almost gracefully, he rose from his seat and drew a dagger from his belt—an obsidian blade with a dragon’s spine etched into the handle.
“You broke your oath,” Lloyd said simply. “And I don’t like repeating myself.”
The dagger sliced clean across the noble’s throat. Blood spilled onto the linen tablecloth like wine, and the noble crumpled forward, lifeless and still.
For a long moment, no one spoke. Only the sound of the blood dripping echoed in the lavish chamber.
Then Nya stepped forward from the shadows, wiping her boots delicately on the hem of the dead man’s expensive rug. “Well, that was dramatic,” she muttered, casting a glance at Lloyd. “Do you ever not make a mess when you eat?”
Lloyd didn’t answer. He withdrew a soft handkerchief from his cloak—a pale silk square, embroidered in delicate gold thread.
Harumi.
He wiped his bloodstained fingers with it, gently, as if polishing a royal gem.
Kai snorted. “Of course she’d put her name on it. She just has to remind everyone that you belong to her.”
Nya rolled her eyes. “I think it’s cute. Maybe I should make one for Jay.”
Lloyd tucked the stained handkerchief away, indifferent. “She said it was to ‘mark her favorite thing.’"
Kai gagged. “Spare me.”
They left the manor in silence, the dying firelight from the great hall casting long shadows behind them. Outside, the air was sharp and cold, the sky heavy with clouds.
A black, gold-trimmed carriage waited by the gates—its doors flanked by soldiers in onyx armor and veiled helms.
The three climbed inside, the interior plush with wine-red cushions and curtained windows.
As the wheels began to turn, Kai muttered, “Maybe I should ask Skylor for one of those handkerchiefs. With flames stitched in. Or my name. I bet she’d do it.”
Nya chuckled. “So you do like sentimental things.”
Kai shrugged. “Sometimes.”
The carriage curved through the starlit roads of the capital, past flickering lanterns and bowed citizens who kept their eyes down.
In the distance, the silhouette of the Obsidian Palace rose into view—a tower of darkness and jagged spires, scraping at the sky like a cursed cathedral.
Their home.
And the place where no light had touched in a very long time.
...............
The clang of steel rang across the training grounds.
Rows of soldiers—barely past adolescence—were lined up in perfect formation, sweat soaking through their tunics as they clashed swords, blocked strikes, and endured the brutal pace.
Their instructors barked orders, and the scent of blood and dust filled the hot air.
From the edge of the black stone courtyard, Cole watched in silence, arms crossed over his armored chest.
His onyx pauldrons gleamed under the gray sky, and his expression was carved from stone. Every mistake caught his eye. Every weak grip, every misplaced step.
He didn’t speak often.
He didn’t need to.
His presence alone made the soldiers stand straighter.
Behind him, leaning lazily against a column, Jay twirled a dagger between his fingers, his sharp blue eyes watching the chaos with amusement.
His smirk widened as he glanced toward the high tower where the royal banners flew—black and green silk rippling in the wind.
“So, tell me,” he called to no one in particular, “is it just me, or do Lloyd and Harumi look like long-lost twins?”
Cole raised a brow without looking at him. “Don’t let Lloyd hear you say that. He’ll snap your jaw in two.”
Jay grinned. “Worth it. Honestly, their matching hair is almost too perfect. White-blonde royalty. Cold stares. Perfect posture. It's giving... family reunion vibes.”
From across the field, Zane approached—calm, composed, and clean-cut in his silver-trimmed uniform. His eyes scanned the soldiers in the pit below, every movement analyzed, every detail noted with ruthless precision.
“Your jokes are noted, but irrelevant,” Zane said, his voice quiet but cutting. “Focus. We’re here to assess their worth, not gossip about our prince’s aesthetics.”
Jay rolled his eyes. “Fine, fine. You know, sometimes I forget you’re not a machine.”
“I’m flattered,” Zane replied flatly, eyes still on the line of recruits. “But I suggest you pay attention. That one’s about to collapse.”
Jay followed his gaze.
One of the young soldiers—a boy, perhaps sixteen—was pale and shaking, barely holding his sword upright. Another shove from the instructor, and he stumbled, falling to his knees.
Jay exhaled through his nose. “Poor kid. Hope he survives.”
Cole stepped forward finally, hands clasped behind his back. “If he doesn’t, he wasn’t meant to.”
“No mercy?” Jay asked, but it was more rhetorical than accusing.
Cole didn’t answer. He simply raised his voice, cutting through the noise like a blade.
“Pick him up!” he barked. “Or someone else takes his place in the blood pits tonight!”
The soldiers moved faster, more frantic.
Zane nodded. “A few of them show promise. That one there—number fourteen—strong shoulders, clean footwork. He’ll make it through. The rest... questionable.”
Jay muttered, “Always such an optimist, huh?”
“Always precise,” Zane corrected.
Above them, the black banners of the Obsidian Palace snapped sharply in the wind—reminders of where power lived, and what it demanded.
Here, there was no sympathy.
Only strength.
And the cruel laughter of friends who had long since stopped caring what innocence looked like.
.........
The Obsidian Palace was quiet.
Heavy snow tapped against the high glass windows, the sound softened by layers of velvet curtains.
Deep within the west wing, far from the echo of guards and court politics, the royal nursery was aglow in candlelight.
Gilded shadows danced across the ceiling—carved with dragons and lotuses—as the gentle lull of a mother’s humming filled the room.
Arabella sat on a chaise of dark velvet and gold filigree, cradling her daughter close.
Lysandra, now nearly a year and a half, was a vision of pale curls and sleepy eyelids, nestled against her mother’s silk-draped chest.
Her small fingers were curled in Arabella’s gown, breathing slow and steady. The child's presence warmed the coldest parts of the woman’s soul.
Arabella gently brushed a fingertip over her daughter’s cheek.
So soft. So perfect.
So untouched.
And yet…
Her eyes drifted to the window. Beyond the nursery, the rest of the palace stirred with violence—quiet executions, silent orders, cruel diplomacy masked behind etiquette and charm.
She could feel it, always, like something heavy in the walls.
The Empire called it order. Law. Glory.
But in truth… it was cruelty. Quiet. Constant. Expected.
How long would it take before Lysandra learned to hate softness?
Arabella closed her eyes.
She had never been weak. She had grown up with daggers at her back and silk around her throat. She was cunning, poised, dangerous when needed. And yet—she feared for her daughter.
“Will she become like them?”
Like her father. Like her brother.
She loved Garmadon, fiercely and without question. The world called him a warlord, a monster, the Iron Prince. But with her… he was only a man.
Her husband. Her steady protector. He had never raised his voice to her, never lifted a hand. He kissed her gently, listened to her thoughts, tucked her hair behind her ears during court meetings.
Even as the Empire burned under his boots, she was his only sanctuary.
She trusted him.
And she feared him.
He had crushed rebellions with a smile, reduced cities to ash in her name, destroyed bloodlines without remorse. He loved her, worshipped her—but how many others had suffered because of that love?
And Lloyd…
Her only son.
Once he had been quiet, thoughtful. A serious child with wide green eyes and a longing to prove himself. Now—he was colder than Garmadon had ever been. Detached. Calculated.
His cruelty was not wrath, but logic. Not passion, but ice.
He ruled without hesitation. Without empathy.
And Harumi only sharpened that.
Arabella clutched Lysandra closer, breathing in the soft, milk-sweet scent of her hair.
“Please,” she whispered, pressing her lips to her daughter’s temple. “Let there be something left in you. Something kind. Something gentle.”
Lysandra stirred, yawning softly.
Arabella smiled faintly.
“I will protect it,” she murmured. “Even if the world tells you to crush it. I will protect the sweetness in your soul.”
Because even in a kingdom of shadows and tyrants…
Arabella had not yet surrendered to the darkness.
Not fully.
Not while Lysandra still smiled.
..........
The east tower was silent.
Up here, the air was thinner, the wind colder, and the light from the moon poured in pale silver through the arching windows.
Shadows danced along the walls, softened by silk canopies and enchanted lanterns that glowed with ghostly blue fire.
Aurora sat curled into a window alcove, high above the palace grounds, her arms wrapped tightly around her daughter.
Helena, only two years old, rested her head against her mother’s chest, small fingers clinging to the strands of Aurora’s long, ice-blonde hair. Her cheeks were rosy from sleep, her breath warm against her mother’s skin.
The child was quiet, gentle, with wide violet eyes that always seemed to be watching.
So still. So soft.
Aurora rested her chin atop Helena’s head and stared into the wintry night beyond the glass.
Everything below them—the frost-covered courtyards, the blackened gardens, the silver-roofed halls—belonged to the Wicked Family.
Her family.
The ones who ruled Ninjago like a clenched fist wrapped in satin gloves.
Aurora's arms tightened around her daughter.
Helena was the only one who still giggled when given sweets. The only one who blinked when people were hurt. She was polite, tender, and frighteningly observant.
And in this empire, those things were liabilities.
Aurora had seen it before.
She had seen it in Abraxas, once a curious boy who brought her violets in the spring, and Adler, who once used to cry when sparring made the other children bleed. They had been kind once. Hesitant. Innocent.
Now they stood with cold smiles and sharper swords. Now they enjoyed watching people fall.
She remembered the moment she realized they were gone. Her sons hadn’t become cruel out of punishment or fear—they had become cruel because they were praised for it. Because cruelty was rewarded in this house.
And who had taught them that?
Wu.
Aurora exhaled shakily.
Wu, her husband. The second prince. The cold mind behind the empire’s most brutal decisions.
He was cruel.
He was merciless.
But never with her.
In all their years together, he had never raised his voice. Never struck her. Never looked at another woman. He brushed her hair after long days, poured her wine in silence, held her when her hands trembled after executions. He was her peace in a world made of knives.
And still—he was one of them.
Just like his brother. Just like his father.
Just like their sons.
Aurora looked down at Helena, who stirred softly and curled closer.
“Stay sweet,” she whispered, her voice catching in her throat. “Stay quiet. Hide that heart if you have to—but don’t let them take it from you.”
Because if there was even one part of their family left untouched by this world…
It was this child.
The softest one left.
And Aurora would die before she let that softness be taken.
...............