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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.

...............

Chapter Text

The corridor stretched long and dimly lit, its obsidian walls veined with crimson light that pulsed faintly like a living thing.

Silken banners hung between towering columns, the imperial crest stitched in dark green thread—a dragon coiled around a bleeding lotus.

Lloyd walked ahead of the group, boots echoing sharply on the polished stone floor. His cloak trailed behind him like a shadow, freshly changed since the incident at the manor.

The faintest stain of blood still clung to the edge of his cuff.

Behind him came Kai and Nya, fresh from the city, flanked by Jay, Cole, and Zane, who had left the training grounds only minutes earlier.

"That noble squealed like a pig,” Kai said, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. “Didn’t even make it past the third finger before he started shaking.”

Jay winced with a half-laugh. “Wasn’t that the guy with the stutter and all those daughters? What was his name again?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Lloyd said coldly, without turning. “He was a traitor.”

Nya rolled her eyes. “It’s always the quiet ones.”

“Did he say who he was working with?” Cole asked, voice low.

Kai shook his head. “Didn’t get the chance. Lloyd ended him before he could open his mouth again.”

Jay clucked his tongue. “So much for intel.”

“I was done listening,” Lloyd said.

They walked in silence a moment longer, until Cole spoke again, folding his arms behind his back. “The new batch of soldiers is rough. Young. A few of them might survive if they don’t lose limbs before their second spar. But some… they’ve got potential. Maybe even command-level talent, with enough suffering.”

Zane nodded faintly. “I’ve marked six for advanced observation.”

“Only six?” Jay teased.

“Survival is not democratic,” Zane replied without humor. “Our standards are high. They must meet them. Or die.”

They turned a corner, the hallway leading toward the central spire. The air here was colder, darker. The scent of blood and incense lingered.

Zane’s gaze shifted toward Lloyd. “Still, you should consider restraint. Next time, think before you act. Slitting the noble’s throat might’ve felt satisfying, but it cost us a confession. And it cost you favor with your uncle.”

Lloyd didn’t stop walking. “My uncle can tolerate a little mess.”

Jay tilted his head. “Speaking of messes, did you go see your mother yet?”

Lloyd’s expression didn’t shift. “I’ll go later.”

“She’s probably with Lysandra,” Nya offered.

“I know where she is,” Lloyd said sharply, tone final.

Jay raised his brows but said nothing.

Lloyd’s gaze flicked toward Zane. “Where’s my father?”

“Occupied,” Zane replied calmly. “With the ministers.”

Cole smirked. “Ah, the untrustworthy ones.”

Jay let out a low whistle. “That means screaming behind closed doors for at least another hour.”

“Longer if he’s feeling creative,” Kai added, grinning.

Lloyd only nodded once. “Good. They deserve it.”

The six of them continued down the corridor, cold laughter and quiet confidence echoing between the stone.

Together, they were the finest—and darkest—blades the Empire had ever forged.

And in this palace of cruelty,

they were the closest thing to family.

..............

The Obsidian Palace had many rooms—too many, even for a royal family that thrived in shadow and silence.

But only one room in all the west wing ever felt truly warm.

Arabella’s sitting room had been empty when Lloyd entered. The hearth still crackled softly, and a half-finished embroidery hoop rested on the chaise, her golden thread glinting in the firelight.

A maid bowed low as he stepped in, then straightened with a nervous breath.

“She’s in the nursery, my prince,” the maid said softly. “With the young princess.”

Lloyd gave a nod and turned without a word.

He knew the way.

The hall curved gently, wrapped in dark wood and violet curtains. The nursery door, carved with dragons and peonies, stood slightly ajar, pale golden light spilling into the corridor.

He paused there, for a moment—silent as a shadow.

Inside, his mother sat in the rocking chair near the tall window, bathed in the flicker of enchanted candlelight. Arabella, still dressed in the rich onyx silks of court, looked like a dream from another world.

Her braid had unraveled slightly, loose waves of chestnut tumbling over her shoulder. In her arms, nestled close, lay Lysandra—barely a year and a half, wrapped in a soft blanket of gray velvet.

Arabella swayed gently, her lips moving in soft whispers—prayers Lloyd hadn’t heard since he was small.

“Let her stay gentle,” she murmured. “Let her smile. Let her love. Let her be untouched by what we’ve become…”

Lloyd knocked once on the frame, and Arabella turned.

Her expression softened, and she gave him that familiar smile—half relief, half worry.

“Lloyd,” she breathed. “You’re back.”

“I am,” he said. His voice echoed low in the quiet room.

Arabella’s gaze roamed over him quickly, her mother’s instinct searching for wounds. “Did anything happen? Something… that might fall back on you?”

He stepped inside, boots soft on the embroidered rug. “He betrayed us,” he replied, casual. “I ended it.”

Arabella’s smile faded. She looked back down at Lysandra and brushed a small curl from the baby’s cheek.

“I don’t like it,” she whispered. “Even if it was justice. Even if he was a traitor. I don’t like… what it does to you.”

Lloyd’s brow furrowed faintly. “You never say that to Father.”

She met his eyes then—sad, but unflinching. “Your father became that way for the empire. You were born into it.”

Silence hung between them, thick and cold.

Lloyd crossed the room, stepping beside the rocking chair.

He looked down at his sister—her breathing soft, her little hand tucked beneath her chin. Her hair was dark, like his, like Garmadon’s, curling faintly at the edges. Her lashes were long and thick, fluttering in dreams.

“She’s small,” Lloyd said quietly, crouching beside his mother. “Small for her age.”

“She was born during the winter famine,” Arabella replied. “We had what we needed, but still… she came early. She was so quiet when she arrived. So still.”

Lloyd reached out, brushing a finger gently along Lysandra’s hair.

So delicate. So warm.

“She looks nothing like me,” he murmured.

“No,” Arabella said. “She looks like herself. And I hope it stays that way.”

Lloyd didn’t reply.

His fingers paused on the curve of Lysandra’s tiny ear.

Arabella watched him closely, her voice soft. “Will you protect her?”

Lloyd’s green eyes stayed fixed on the sleeping child. His face was unreadable—cold and calm—but his voice, when it came, was sure.

“Always.”

Arabella exhaled, almost as if she'd been holding that breath for days.

“I hope that means something,” she said quietly.

“It does,” Lloyd said, still watching Lysandra. “Even here.”

For a moment, there was peace.

Outside, the wind howled past the towers. Somewhere, a minister screamed behind closed doors.

But in this room—in the nursery wrapped in candlelight—there was only a mother, a son, and a child still untouched by the storm.

...............

The War Wing of the Obsidian Palace never slept.

Here, the air was heavy with the scent of blood, parchment, and smoke. The darkstone walls were inscribed with the kingdom’s countless conquests—etched in silver and ash.

Braziers burned low, casting shadows over the rows of maps, spiked weapons, and polished armor displayed like sacred relics.

Lloyd entered without a word.

The doors creaked open and closed behind him with a sound like a coffin lid being shut.

The chamber was thick with silence, save for the low groan of a dying man chained to the far wall—face pale, lips cracked, blood dripping slowly from his bruised jaw.

Beside him, another body lay motionless on the black marble floor.

A minister.

Once powerful. Now just a warning.

Garmadon stood at the long obsidian table, back turned to the carnage, fingers laced behind him. His broad frame was draped in his black robes. He looked every bit the warlord the world feared.

He didn’t glance at the corpse.

“Take that one to the dungeon,” he said coolly.

The guards obeyed at once, dragging the broken man out with armor-clad hands. The heavy doors shut again.

Only father and son remained.

Garmadon turned slowly, his expression unreadable but his gaze sharp. The firelight reflected in his eyes, making them seem molten.

“Lloyd,” he said, with the faintest nod. “How did your visit to the manor go?”

Lloyd stepped forward, calm as stone. “Swift. Clean.”

Garmadon’s gaze swept over him. “Messy, from what I’ve heard. But efficient.”

There was no reprimand in his tone. Only calculation.

Lloyd approached the map table, resting his gloved hand on the edge. “I hear the whispers. About me. About my… methods.”

Garmadon gave a low chuckle, like a blade sliding from its sheath.

“Let them whisper,” he said. “Fear is good. Fear is necessary. The heir to the throne must be more than respected—he must be unquestionable.”

“I’m your heir,” Lloyd said quietly. “But also his.”

Garmadon’s gaze narrowed slightly. He didn’t need the name.

The First Spinjitzu Master was a shadow that loomed over them both.

“That’s why your influence must stretch far beyond the palace,” Garmadon said. “Beyond the throne, beyond blood. You must root it in loyalty. Cultivate fear. Choose your allies with precision, and when the time comes, cut down the rest.”

Lloyd studied him.

“Is that what you did?”

Garmadon’s eyes glinted. “Every day since I was twelve.”

A pause stretched between them.

Then, softer—curious—he asked, “When was the last time you had a proper conversation with Harumi?”

Lloyd blinked at the sudden shift in topic. “We’ve exchanged letters,” he said. “She sent me a handkerchief last week. White silk, gold thread. Her name stitched on the corner.”

Garmadon’s face broke into the faintest smile.

“She’s clever,” he said. “Dangerously so. That girl plays court politics like it’s a game of knives. She’ll be a help to you—and to the kingdom. Treasure her. She’s not weak, and she’s not naive.”

“I know,” Lloyd said.

Then, after a beat, “Do you think the same about Mother?”

The room chilled slightly.

Garmadon’s expression changed—hardened at the edges. The general, the warlord, the executioner, all fell back behind his eyes like an iron gate slamming shut.

“You leave your mother out of these matters,” he said, low.

Lloyd straightened. “I didn’t mean—”

“She doesn’t belong in this world,” Garmadon said sharply. “She walks through it, yes. She’s seen its horrors, yes. But she is not made of the same black steel you and I are. That’s why I love her.”

He turned fully now, voice quieter but heavier.

“Arabella is the only softness I have left. The only light in this cursed place. When I hold her, I remember that I’m still a man. Not just a blade. Not just a crown.”

Lloyd said nothing.

Garmadon stepped closer, his expression serious now. Almost vulnerable.

“I’ve broken cities for her,” he said. “Burned nobles alive for slandering her name. And yet, she never asks me to. She doesn’t want cruelty. She despises it.”

“But you still love her,” Lloyd murmured.

“Because she never flinched from who I am,” Garmadon said. “And yet—she never became me.”

He stared at the burning brazier, voice quieter now.

“She reminds me there’s something worth keeping alive. Even if I’ll never have it.”

Lloyd looked down at the table again. His thoughts were far, far from war maps. 

He pictured his mother’s hands, so gentle as they cradled Lysandra.

Her voice whispering prayers.

The only warmth he had ever known in a house of frost.

Garmadon placed a hand on his shoulder—firm, heavy, and rare.

“You’ll understand,” he said. “Someday. When Harumi bears you a daughter.”

Lloyd didn’t answer.

But in the silence that followed, he didn’t pull away either.

.............

The Imperial quarters of the sons of Wu were high above the rest of the palace—gilded halls, silk-draped windows, and chambers filled with artifacts from fallen kingdoms.

But even gold could not purify sin.

The air in Adler’s chambers was warm with perfume and sweat, the faint scent of spiced wine staining the edge of the carpet.

Pillows lay scattered, the sheets disheveled.

The glow of the moon poured in through the tall glass lattice, casting patterns over two bare shoulders entangled under silk.

The girl—young, flushed, her noble cloak half undone—giggled breathlessly against his chest.

Adler grinned lazily, brushing dark strands of hair from her face as he took another sip of forbidden wine. “You know,” he drawled, “if we were born in any other land, they’d call us normal for this.”

“I’m just glad you’re not like your brother,” she whispered. “So uptight. So—”

The door slammed open.

The air snapped like a whip.

Adler shot upright, silk slipping from his shoulders, eyes blazing.

Abraxas stood in the doorway, face like a thunderstorm, the hem of his dark robes swirling as he stepped inside. His fists were clenched, jaw locked.

Behind him, the imperial guards had wisely turned away.

The noble girl gasped and scrambled from the bed, clutching her half-undone dress. Abraxas didn’t even glance at her.

“Out,” he growled.

She fled without a word, nearly tripping over herself as she disappeared into the corridor.

The door slammed shut again.

Adler stood slowly, dragging the sheet around his waist, smirking faintly. “That’s rude, brother. You could’ve knocked.”

Abraxas’s voice cut like a blade.

“Do you know what you’ve just done?”

Adler scoffed. “Enjoyed myself?”

“You’ve broken sacred law,” Abraxas hissed, stepping forward. “Our grandfather’s law. Our kingdom’s law. Do you think you’re above it because you wear fine robes and carry the family crest on your spine?”

Adler rolled his eyes and walked toward the wine decanter, pouring another glass. “You sound just like him.”

“I should, because he’s right!” Abraxas’s tone rose. “The brothels and taverns are ashes because of our Grandparents. Mistresses and Concubines were outlawed under pain of death when Ninjago was formed! Copulation before marriage is a sin! And here you are—bedding a noble’s daughter as if you were some cheap merchant prince!”

“I’m not marrying her, am I?” Adler snapped.

“That’s not the point, and you know it!” Abraxas’s voice shook with restrained fury. “You humiliated our bloodline. If our grandfather hears of this—if Father does—”

Adler's eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t.”

Abraxas stepped closer. “You think I won’t? After you killed a servant to keep your secrets?”

Adler flinched.

Abraxas’s eyes were like ice. “I cleaned up after that. I lied for you. Again. I told Father it was a misstep with a weapon. But I can’t keep covering for you.”

Adler’s jaw clenched. His fingers trembled slightly, but he set the cup down hard.

“You’re so perfect, aren’t you?” he hissed. “The good son. The loyal blade. Tell me, did it hurt? When Father made you kneel outside for nine hours in the snow because you showed a flicker of mercy?”

Abraxas didn’t answer.

Adler’s voice dropped, bitter and dark.

“He caned me thirty times, remember that? Thirty. For saying that Mother—our own mother—was too soft. Do you know how humiliating that was? How he stood there with that rod like I was some peasant boy? Do you think that made me better?”

Abraxas’s fury dimmed slightly, his eyes scanning his brother’s face. The bruises from weeks ago still lingered like smoke under Adler’s skin.

“You think I don’t remember?” Abraxas said quietly. “You think I wasn’t the one who stood outside that room, listening to you scream and beg?”

Adler’s mouth tightened.

Abraxas exhaled through his nose and shook his head slowly. “We are not invincible, Adler. We’re worse. We’re princes. And that means we do not get to act on impulse. We uphold every law or we become the thing our father fears the most—a weak, dishonorable legacy.”

Adler turned his back, shoulders tense.

“I’m not weak.”

“No,” Abraxas said grimly. “You’re reckless. And reckless gets you chained, not crowned.”

The room fell silent.

Finally, Adler turned halfway, the light casting a shadow over half his face. There was something broken behind his anger—something hollow and flickering.

“You won’t tell him?” he asked.

Abraxas stared for a long moment.

Then, with a quiet voice, full of warning, he said, “Not this time.”

He turned and left, the door closing behind him with a heavy thud that seemed to echo through the palace walls.

Alone, Adler stood in the cold silence of his ruined room.

And for the first time, he didn’t feel pleasure or rage.

Only fear.

The palace corridors were silent at this hour, lit only by amber lanterns swaying gently in the summer breeze.

The silk banners above whispered with each breath of wind, carrying with them the murmurs of old spirits, long-dead ancestors, and laws carved into stone by divine hands.

Abraxas walked with his usual precision—footfalls quiet, shoulders straight, his eyes fixed forward.

But his hands were clenched.

He was halfway through the red-lacquered passage near the imperial nursery when a familiar figure emerged from the shadows near the wall, her silhouette illuminated by the golden glow of a hanging lantern.

“Abraxas.”

He paused at once, every muscle tight.

Aurora stood there, wrapped in a deep violet robe embroidered with the white sigil of the House of Wu.

Her golden hair had been let down, cascading softly over her shoulders. In her arms she still carried the faint scent of lavender oil and milk—evidence that she had only just put her youngest child to bed.

His expression softened for a moment, and he bowed his head.

“Mother,” he greeted gently.

She gave him a slow look. “You’re out late.”

“I was walking off the heat.”

“I just put Helena to sleep,” she murmured, voice warm but weary. “She refused to let go of my hair again. Said it keeps the nightmares away.”

Abraxas managed the barest flicker of a smile. “She’s strong.”

“She’s two,” Aurora said with dry fondness. Then her gaze sharpened just slightly. “Unlike her older brother, who looks like he's just swallowed fire.”

He blinked once. “I’m fine.”

But Aurora had been a mother for long enough to know the tone. She tilted her head, watching him. “What happened?”

Abraxas turned his face slightly, jaw tight. “Nothing. A minor annoyance.”

Aurora exhaled, stepping forward to gently tuck a lock of hair behind his ear, something she hadn’t done since he was a boy. “Abraxas, you forget—I knew you before the palace did. You’re your father’s sword, but you’re my son first.”

He stood still for a moment, silent beneath her touch.

Aurora’s voice turned quieter, almost wistful. “I’ve been thinking about Adler. Ever since that night. You remember.”

Abraxas said nothing.

She lowered her hand. “Your father shouldn’t have done that.”

Abraxas didn’t respond at first. When he finally did, his voice was careful. “He shouldn’t have said what he did. About you.”

Aurora’s mouth tightened.

“I should have stopped it,” she whispered. “I should have stepped in.”

“You tried,” Abraxas replied quietly. “He didn’t listen.”

“He’s his father’s son,” she murmured, bitterness brushing the edge of her words. “The First Spinjitzu Master believes discipline is sacred. But... thirty canings? For a cruel remark made in a moment of arrogance?”

Abraxas swallowed, casting his gaze to the carved tiles beneath his feet.

Aurora turned toward the open balcony, where the wind rustled the paper lanterns. “He is... Still a child. My child.”

She looked over her shoulder at her eldest. “Do you know where he is?”

Abraxas straightened a little too fast. “With the guards. Playing chess, I think. He mentioned it earlier.”

Aurora gave him a long look, her eyes searching his face.

Abraxas did not flinch. But his voice was practiced, too smooth, too rehearsed. And a mother always knows when her son is hiding something.

Still, she didn’t push. 

She simply nodded, slowly. “I see.”

“I should go,” he said, bowing again.

Aurora stepped aside, and he passed her.

As he walked down the corridor and vanished around the bend, she stood in place, arms folded loosely, heart weighing heavier than it had all week.

The corridors were quiet again.

But she could feel something unspoken.

Something hidden.

Something broken.

*****

Chapter Text

The moon was pale silver through the tall arched windows of the tower chambers, bathing the room in ghostlight.

Lloyd sat at his writing desk, a flickering oil lamp casting soft shadows across his face and shoulders. His emerald eyes were lowered, the curve of his brow marked with focus.

The sharp scratch of his pen against parchment echoed in the stillness.

He hesitated. Then continued.

Dearest Harumi,

Things move quickly here. Father continues his meetings with the ministers—some of which, I believe, end more violently than others. I won’t detail what I saw today. You would not be shocked, but I still think of how you’d smile and say: “Efficiency, not mercy.”

I saw Mother today. She was in Lysandra’s nursery. She didn’t see me at first. She was holding the baby and whispering things—prayers, I think. She asked me if I would protect Lysandra. I told her I would. I meant it.

Sometimes I wonder what kind of man I’m becoming.

You would tell me not to question it.

You embroidered me a handkerchief. I’ve kept it on me. Strange how something so delicate could feel like armor.

I look forward to your next letter. Or better yet, your voice.

—Lloyd

He folded the parchment with clean precision, tying it with the black ribbon she had once sent him, then sealed it with the crest of House Garmadon. He did not smile—but his expression softened, briefly. Then, as always, it vanished.

Elsewhere in the palace, past spiraling staircases and stone-carved archways, the master bedchamber of Prince Garmadon and Lady Arabella was cloaked in a warm, quiet hush.

The fire had been dimmed to embers, the air scented with burning cedarwood. Arabella sat at her vanity, brushing her long hair out slowly, her silk robe loose over her shoulders.

Behind her, Garmadon stood removing his heavy outer coat, placing it carefully over the tall carved screen. His armor had long since been shed—what remained was the man beneath the steel. He moved with quiet strength, always alert.

Arabella watched him in the mirror. “We need to speak of Lloyd.”

Garmadon paused, glancing her way. “He’s safe. I already asked.”

“I know,” she murmured, setting her brush down. “But it’s not his safety I question tonight. It’s his future.”

He stepped forward, watching her reflection as she turned to face him more fully.

“His future with Harumi,” she added, her voice soft but edged.

Garmadon arched a brow, lowering himself into the chair beside the hearth. “What about it?”

Arabella rose from her seat and crossed the room slowly. Her steps were graceful, deliberate. She sat beside him, folding her legs beneath her. “I don’t like her.”

He didn’t laugh—but there was a twitch of amusement in the corner of his mouth. “You rarely like anyone.”

Arabella gave him a sharp glance. “She’s too cunning. She hides cruelty behind that calm face. She doesn’t love him. She admires him. There’s a difference.”

Garmadon tilted his head slightly. “Admiration can build loyalty. And she has a clever mind. She’ll be useful.”

Arabella’s voice dropped lower. “That’s what you care about? Usefulness?”

Silence.

She looked down at her hands in her lap. “Lloyd doesn’t need someone to drag him further into darkness. He’s already… cold. So unlike how he used to be. If Harumi fans that fire, what’s left of the boy we raised will vanish.”

Garmadon rested his hand on the arm of the chair, drumming his fingers once, slowly. “And yet she can rule beside him. She understands this world—what it demands. When war breaks out, when the people rebel, when the blood must be spilled—would you have him alone?”

Arabella’s eyes flicked to him. “Then what am I? You say these things, but I have never encouraged cruelty. And yet you love me.”

His gaze shifted, more serious now. “That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because you are the only softness I’ve ever allowed myself,” he said, voice low. “You are… light. I’ve never raised my voice to you. Never harmed you. Never even thought to. You, Arabella, are the only part of my life that remains untouched by darkness.”

He paused. His jaw clenched slightly.

“And I will not let anyone sully that—not even Harumi.”

Arabella looked away, her throat tightening.

After a moment, Garmadon’s voice softened. “How is Lysandra?”

She smiled faintly, though it was weary. “Fussy today. She wouldn’t nap until I sang her lullaby twice. Her appetite’s been odd too.”

Garmadon nodded, his eyes growing distant in thought.

Then came a quiet question.

“Do you… wish for another?”

Arabella blinked, surprised. She looked at him—truly looked. And then shook her head.

“No,” she whispered. “Not now. Two are enough. One has already grown too far from me. I’m afraid if we had another, I’d lose even more.”

Garmadon didn’t press.

Instead, he reached over, and gently took her hand.

She didn’t pull away.

In the silence of their gilded prison, the warlord and his empress sat side by side, cloaked not in conquest or law—but in something far rarer in their world:

Quiet understanding.

.................

The Rose Garden was breathtaking.

Nestled at the southern edge of the Obsidian Palace’s grand grounds, it had been designed with obsessive devotion.

Velvet-petaled roses climbed up black iron arches. Crimson, ivory, and deep violet blossoms tangled like warring queens across marble paths.

The air smelled of rich earth, sweet blooms, and faint ash—remnants of the past still clinging to the present like smoke.

Aurora sat beneath a domed gazebo of wrought obsidian, its shadow-laced columns twined with blooming white roses.

She was draped in a lavender gown threaded with silver vinework, a matching sun parasol resting by her shoulder.

Beside her, a small table of polished glass shimmered with fine porcelain teacups, silver trays of sugared petals, lemon tarts, and spiced fruits.

And beside that, on a silken chaise half-swallowed by pink blossoms, sat little Helena.

The toddler princess wore a frilly ivory frock with lavender ribbons at her sleeves. Her curls were tied back with a violet bow, her round cheeks flushed with sun and warmth.

She giggled softly as a lady-in-waiting offered her a candied fig, tiny hands gripping the treat like treasure.

Around them were six courtly noblewomen, each poised with painted smiles, silken gloves, and corseted grace.

They bowed politely, sipped their tea, and spoke in delicate tones—but their eyes were alert, sharp with calculation.

Guards lingered at the garden gates. Their black armor gleamed beneath the sun, faces expressionless behind obsidian-visored helms.

A reminder: no place, not even the Rose Garden, was free from fear in the Obsidian Palace.

One of the ladies leaned forward with a coo. “She’s so charming, Your Grace. And clever, I can tell. Her eyes—just like yours.”

Aurora smiled faintly. “She’s her father’s daughter. She rarely sleeps and breaks whatever we give her.”

Polite laughter followed. One of the younger women murmured, “Princess Helena will be a force one day, just as you are now, Lady Aurora.”

Another chimed in, lowering her eyes coyly, “If I may be bold, Your Grace… I do have a daughter of age. Gifted in poetry. She’s recently mastered Flame Spinjitzu. We often wonder if her talents might be… of interest to the royal family.”

Aurora said nothing. 

But her eyes flicked up.

Because they were coming.

Down the winding path between rose walls, beneath hanging wisteria, strode her sons: Abraxas and Adler.

Both tall, both sharp in finely tailored robes—Adler in crimson and Abraxas in muted steel-blue. They moved with power—one calm, the other all fire and charm.

The ladies noticed instantly.

Adler grinned at the sight of the women. He adjusted his collar as though the sunlight itself were his mirror.

Abraxas offered a polite nod. “Forgive us, Mother. We did not mean to intrude.”

Aurora raised her teacup, her voice smooth. “You’re not intruding. I was just listening to how many noble daughters I apparently need to meet.”

The ladies tittered. One immediately stood, smoothing her skirts. “My lady, this is Lord Adler, yes? The younger prince? You are every bit as striking as I have heard.”

Another added eagerly, “And Lord Abraxas—your reputation precedes you. Such discipline. I’ve heard you train even in storms.”

Adler basked. “Only storms strong enough to be interesting.”

More laughter.

Abraxas gave a tight smile. “We’re flattered. But our presence was accidental.”

“No accident is unwelcome when it brings such guests,” a third lady purred, her fan fluttering over her mouth. “If I might introduce my niece—”

Aurora continued to sip her tea.

She watched. Silently. Coolly.

She saw the way Adler leaned slightly toward the women, basking in the warmth of admiration, letting the compliments wrap around him like velvet.

And she saw Abraxas—the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes flicked from lady to lady, calculating, protective.

And perhaps a little irritated.

Little Helena burbled and clapped at a bee darting near her tray. The women turned their coos back toward her.

“She’s so strong already,” one gushed. “She could make a formidable match too, someday.”

Aurora set her teacup down.

“She is not a match,” she said lightly. “She is a future. One that will not be bartered like cattle.”

The smiles stiffened.

Adler arched a brow, but said nothing. Abraxas straightened. 

Helena began humming, entirely unaware of the knives behind smiles.

Aurora gently reached over and adjusted her daughter’s bow. Her voice came softly, almost like a lullaby—soothing, but laced with steel.

“This garden was a gift from my husband,” she said, “for when he disappointed me gravely.”

Silence fell over the gazebo like a dropped curtain.

The breeze turned cooler.

“I accepted the roses,” she continued, brushing a blossom aside, “but I do not forget the fire.”

The ladies lowered their eyes.

Adler cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should let you return to your tea, Mother.”

Aurora finally looked at him. “Yes. Perhaps you should.”

Adraxas gave a small bow. “We’ll leave you in peace.”

As the princes turned and walked back the way they came, the noblewomen turned their smiles back on, flickering, trying to regain their footing.

But Aurora merely turned back to Helena and brushed her curls aside.

“You’ll never be traded,” she murmured.

And the roses, drenched in sunlight and silence, swayed gently around them—beautiful, sharp, and eternal.

********

Chapter Text

The sitting room in the eastern wing of the Obsidian Palace was one of its rare sanctuaries.

Though still carved of onyx and veined black stone, the space was softened by draping silks of deep burgundy and creams, tall arched windows that allowed twilight light to pour through sheer curtains, and low-burning lanterns that filled the air with a golden, gentle haze.

In the middle of the room, Aurora knelt on a plush carpet embroidered with cranes and clouds.

Her red and gold robe was loosened at the sleeves, and her crown sat on a nearby cushion, replaced by a simpler clip of jade pins. Her hair spilled down like ink around her shoulders.

Before her, swaying unsteadily on stubby feet, was Helena.

The toddler wobbled with all the grace of a drunken duck, arms outstretched, cheeks flushed, golden eyes gleaming with determination. Her little mouth opened in concentration as she took a step. Then another.

Aurora opened her arms wide, smiling. “That’s it, darling. Come to mama. One more step.”

Helena teetered, lost balance—then righted herself with a squeal. Her tiny fists clenched with victory.

Across the room, Wu sat in a velvet-backed chair, one leg folded over the other, chin resting on his knuckles as he watched.

His long white robes were undone at the collar, making him appear younger—less the Lord of Cruelty, more a weary scholar indulging in a moment of peace.

He had removed his outer armor and crown, and though the coldness still lingered in his eyes, it had softened into the ghost of amusement.

“She walks like she inherited your stubbornness,” he murmured, voice gravel-warm.

Aurora snorted. “She’s too quiet to be me. But the determination? That’s yours.”

Helena reached her mother’s arms and collapsed into them, giggling wildly, as though she had conquered the palace with just five steps.

Aurora kissed her head. “Bravo, little dragon.”

Helena immediately tried to toddle off again.

Wu watched, silent.

His gaze moved from his daughter’s tiny limbs to his wife’s soft expression—so unlike the woman others knew in court.

This was not the sharp-tongued consort who wielded words like knives, nor the woman who walked beside him through fire and war.

This was Aurora, mother of his child, quiet flame in his night.

He allowed himself to smile.

Then—

The door creaked open.

Minoru stepped inside.

Wu’s smile vanished.

Minoru was clad in his dark robes, the insignia of the Jade Lotus embroidered into his breast, his posture rigid with purpose.

He bowed deeply, but his eyes—sharp as obsidian glass—spoke volumes. He crossed the room swiftly, silent as a shadow, until he reached Wu’s side and leaned down.

The whisper was brief. Six words.

And they cracked the entire world.

Wu’s hand tightened around the carved armrest. His jaw set, and his golden eyes dimmed to iron.

Minoru bowed again and left without another word.

Aurora looked up from Helena, immediately alert. “What is it?”

Wu did not answer.

He stood slowly, like a great beast roused from slumber.

“Wu,” Aurora said more firmly, rising with Helena still in her arms. “What’s happened?”

His voice was like a blade slipping from its sheath.

“Adler.”

That one name. Heavy. Dangerous.

Aurora frowned. “What did he do?”

Wu didn’t look at her. “I’ll deal with it.”

“Wu.”

He paused in the doorway, silhouetted against the flickering torchlight beyond. For a moment, he said nothing. Then his voice returned, quieter, but laced with restrained wrath.

“I gave him a second chance.”

Aurora’s brow creased, holding Helena tightly against her shoulder. “He’s just a boy.”

Wu turned, and his gaze met hers—so sharp it could wound.

“He is a son of Spinjitzu,” he said coldly. “Not a boy. And he knows our laws. Our legacy. If he soils it—if he defies it—then mercy is not what he will receive.”

Before she could stop him, he vanished into the dark.

And Aurora, left standing in the golden hush of the room, held their daughter tighter.

Helena, oblivious, tugged at her mother’s sleeve and said, “Papa?”

Aurora kissed her forehead.

“Yes, my love,” she whispered. “But not now.”

Because far away in another part of the palace, shadows had begun to stir—and her husband’s wrath would not be quiet.

..........

Steam curled from the surface of the sunken marble bath like a serpent, rising through the candlelit mist of Adler’s private bathing chamber.

The scent of rose petals soaked in the water and mingled with expensive sandalwood oil, clinging to the carved obsidian walls and lacquered beams like a ghost of perfume.

Velvet screens, drawn back, revealed thick rugs of gold thread on polished floors.

The windows were shuttered, save for slits of fading sunlight seeping in from the latticework, casting shadows like claw marks on the floor.

Adler reclined in the center of the steaming pool, naked but for the garland of petals clinging to his wet chest.

His dark hair was slicked back, and a crooked smile curled on his lips as he allowed one of his chambermaids to pour warm water over his shoulders.

Another was curled at the edge of the pool, her silk robe fallen to her waist, fingers trailing teasingly in the water.

They laughed quietly—whispers and sighs, scented sweat and slippery limbs.

One maid straddled the stone rim beside him, massaging his neck with lavender oil, while another nestled against his side.

Their expressions were honeyed, submissive, delighted to serve not only a prince but a rogue, the one bold enough to challenge the laws whispered in every corridor of the Obsidian Palace.

Adler leaned back, arms spread lazily across the edges of the pool. He let his head tilt toward the ceiling. "The court can lecture all they want about sin, but no one ever says sin feels so damn divine."

The women giggled, breathless.

Another poured sweet wine into a silver cup and placed it at his lips. He drank deeply, liquid running down his throat and onto his chest.

It was indulgent. Blasphemous. Glorious.

Until—

Boom.

The doors to the chamber slammed open with thunder.

The perfume and candlelight turned bitter with dread.

In marched two guards clad in obsidian armor, halberds gripped with white-knuckled tension. Behind them followed a single figure, composed yet cold as stone.

Minoru.

Wu’s ever-silent shadow. Loyal beyond question. Feared more than war. 

He stood at the threshold, the steam of the room hissing against his skin as if offended by his presence.

His eyes swept across the scene: the naked maids, the defiled water, the scent of pleasure.

He said nothing.

He didn’t need to.

Adler stiffened, immediately sitting upright in the pool, his lazy grin fading to annoyance. “What is this?” he barked, water sloshing around him. “Did I summon you, mutt?”

Minoru didn’t respond.

His face remained still—glacial.

The guards stepped aside.

And behind them—

Wu.

The Lord of Spinjitzu stepped through the mist without sound.

There were no weapons on his person, no armor—only the chilling stillness of a man who did not need them to kill.

The room went dead silent.

Adler froze mid-motion, one arm shielding his chest instinctively as if it mattered. His mouth parted, but words failed him.

Wu took in the scene without a word.

The maids trembled. One started to cry softly. Another attempted to rise, but her legs shook.

Adler tried to speak, voice cracking, “F-Father, I—it wasn’t—They—I was merely—”

Wu raised a hand.

The single motion turned the air to ice.

The maids whimpered. One of them fell to her knees, muttering apologies. Another clutched at Adler’s shoulder, only to have him shove her away in panic.

Wu’s voice came like thunder after silence.

“Out.”

The maids scrambled from the pool, limbs bare and shivering as they scrambled to cover themselves. Guards herded them like vermin, one dragging a robe over his shoulder as they filed out in shame and terror.

Minoru stepped aside to let them pass, watching them like a blade watches flesh.

Once the doors slammed shut again, the chamber echoed only with the sound of water dripping.

Adler sat there, alone, exposed.

Wu stared at him.

The silence stretched long enough to feel like death.

Then, low and lethal:

“You disgrace your name.”

Adler’s lips parted. “I didn’t mean—”

Wu’s voice sliced through the steam like a blade:

“Do you know what legacy means, Adler?”

The boy swallowed hard. “Yes, Father…”

Wu walked slowly along the perimeter of the bath. Not toward Adler—never that merciful. Just circling. Each step was measured, paced to purposefully unnerve.

“No brothels. No mistresses. No consorts. No carnality without bond. No pleasure without honor. No touch without oath.” His words were soft, but they thundered. “These laws were carved before you were born. Before your mother was born. Before I was born.”

Adler bowed his head.

Wu continued. “And still, you mock them. You think yourself above them.”

“Please, Father—”

“You bribed your maids. You killed a servant. You stained the pool.”

Adler’s face turned pale. “I—I didn’t know—”

Wu stopped moving.

He turned fully to face his son.

“I have forgiven your words against your mother once,” he said darkly. “I will not forgive your actions against our legacy.”

Adler could barely breathe. His pulse thundered in his ears.

“From this moment,” Wu declared, “your chambers are locked. You will not leave without my word.”

Adler flinched. “No—Father—”

“Your coffers are seized. Your title suspended.”

Terror overtook Adler’s face.

“Please—”

“Your name will not be spoken in court until I decide you are worthy of it again.”

And then, suddenly, Wu turned and walked away.

No scream. No strike. No caning. No theatrics.

Just silence, colder than any punishment.

As the doors opened again and Wu disappeared into the torchlight, Adler slumped back into the water—alone now, and colder than ever.

His bath of roses had turned to a pool of shame.

And the petals sank like corpses.

......

Training Grounds, Morning

The clang of metal against metal echoed across the frost-swept stones of the Obsidian Palace’s eastern yard.

The morning sun cast long shadows from the rows of royal guards training under Cole’s watchful eye. Commands were sharp, every movement precise.

Zane stood slightly off to the side, his hands folded behind his back, eyes like glacial steel tracking every motion. His precision never dulled, not even when idle.

Beside him, Lloyd, shirtless under his training cloak, spun his blade in an arc, sweat gleaming down his spine as he dispatched an armored dummy with brutal force.

The dummy’s head clattered to the floor.

Lloyd turned to Zane, panting. “Anything?” he asked.

Zane gave a small nod. “Something… disappointing.”

Lloyd raised an eyebrow, wiping his brow. “Speak.”

Zane’s voice was as smooth and clipped as always. “Adler was found in the bath with several of his personal chambermaids. Disgraceful conduct. Against Palace Law.”

Lloyd straightened.

Zane continued. “Lord Wu arrived personally. The maids were dismissed permanently. Adler has been locked in his chambers, his coffers frozen, and his title suspended.”

There was a short, heavy silence.

Lloyd tilted his head, green eyes narrowing slightly. “He what?”

Zane’s tone remained neutral. “He lost himself to indulgence. And disrespected your aunt’s household sanctity.”

Lloyd scoffed and threw his blade onto a rack with a hard clank. “Idiot. Reckless idiot. Has he no restraint?”

Zane gave no answer, only observed as Lloyd rubbed his temples.

Lloyd let out a cold laugh. “It’s always the second sons, isn’t it?”

Zane gave a tilt of the head. “That is statistically inaccurate.”

Lloyd ignored the remark. “He’s weak. All glitter and no discipline. At least Morro knows how to control himself.”

Zane's brow lifted slightly. “You hold Morro in high regard.”

Lloyd nodded once, firm. “He’s worthy. Even though he’s not blood, Uncle Wu trained him. And it shows.”

Zane hummed quietly. “Perhaps Adler will take this lesson seriously. Or not. We will know by whether he learns… or erupts.”

Lloyd narrowed his eyes, the wind brushing his sweat-matted hair. “He better not. I don’t have time to babysit nobles with wounded pride.”

Aurora’s Solar Room, Midday

Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting golden warmth across the soft cushions and velvet-lined daybeds of the solar.

A sweet floral scent drifted from the small bowl of dried rose petals beside the teapot.

Helena, now awake, lay quietly in her wicker bassinet near the window, babbling to herself as she played with a silver rattle shaped like a phoenix.

Aurora was seated near the fire, brushing out her hair when Lady Ophelia entered, curtsying low, her expression tight.

“Speak,” Aurora said without turning.

“My lady… there’s been an incident. Regarding Prince Adler.”

Aurora froze, brush mid-stroke. She slowly turned her head.

Ophelia hesitated. “He was discovered… with several of his personal chambermaids. In the eastern bath.”

Aurora slowly lowered her brush. “What?”

Ophelia’s voice grew softer. “Lord Wu himself intervened. The maids were dismissed. His chambers have been locked. His title and privileges—revoked.”

The Lady of the Moon Palace stood in one fluid motion, her gown trailing behind her like clouds. “Are you certain?”

“I am.”

Aurora stared out the window, watching Helena grasp at nothing.

Her lips parted. “Why would he do something so… stupid?”

Ophelia said nothing.

Aurora whispered more to herself than anyone else. “My second son. Always chasing fire, always burning himself on it.”

She walked to the window, arms folding across her silk robe. “Wu was right to punish him,” she murmured. “But… will Adler accept it?”

Ophelia gave a quiet nod of understanding. “He is proud, my lady. And pride… bruises darker than skin.”

Aurora’s fingers tightened around her sleeves. “He’ll do something rash.”

“My lady?”

“Because he cannot stand silence. And he hates shame.” Her voice turned low. “If he thinks we’ve all turned our backs on him… he might strike back.”

A quiet pause settled between them, broken only by Helena’s gentle coos.

Then Aurora turned sharply. “Send word to Abraxas. Tell him I need him. Privately.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“And… increase the guards near Adler’s chambers.”

The soft scent of jasmine still lingered in the solar, though the warmth had drained from the room.

The sun had begun to lower beyond the snow-glazed peaks, casting the pale walls in hues of gold and mauve.

Aurora stood by the window, her back to the door, her figure draped in a robe of soft violet velvet and silver thread. One hand rested lightly on the windowsill, the other still clenched around a forgotten brush.

She expected Abraxas any moment now.

But the soft creak of the doors and the heavy silence that followed made her still.

She didn’t turn.

The steps were calm, precise. Familiar.

Wu.

He said nothing upon entering. His boots brushed over the velvet carpet, stopping only when he reached Helena’s bassinet.

She lay there, kicking her feet softly, her fingers curled around her rattle.

Aurora slowly turned her head, cautious. Her husband's presence always carried weight, like the pressure of a coming storm.

She studied him quietly—tall, austere in his obsidian robes embroidered with shadowy clouds, his expression unreadable.

He did not acknowledge her. Not yet.

Instead, he leaned over the bassinet.

“Papa,” Helena chirped, her small voice light and sticky with baby sweetness.

Wu’s face softened only slightly. He reached down, brushing a hand through her curls, thumb tracing her cheek gently. Helena reached up, grasping at his gloved finger, babbling happily.

He picked her up with the care of a man handling porcelain.

Aurora watched from across the room, her mouth pressed in a fine line.

Helena nestled against Wu’s chest, curling her tiny fingers in the black trim of his robes.

“She missed you,” Aurora said finally.

“She always does,” Wu replied, voice quiet.

He paced slowly, rocking Helena in his arms. Aurora still hadn’t moved from the window.

There was a long pause.

Then Wu spoke, his tone flat. “You’ve heard.”

Aurora’s arms folded loosely. “Only parts of it. Lady Ophelia.”

He nodded once. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

Aurora's jaw tensed. “Why? Why would he—?”

Wu's expression didn’t shift as he turned away from the window’s glow. “Wine on his breath. Surrounded by half-naked maids—chambermaids he hand-selected, I imagine. He was laughing. Drunk. Brazen. Unbothered.”

Helena nestled deeper into his arms, murmuring nonsense.

Aurora’s gaze dropped to the floor. “That’s not like him. He’s reckless, yes, arrogant—but not shameless.”

Wu’s voice turned colder. “He’s been slipping. Growing too used to the luxuries of his name. Testing how far he can go without consequence.”

Aurora walked toward them slowly, her eyes on Helena but her heart wound in knots. “You punished him.”

“I had no choice,” Wu replied. “If I let it pass… what would that say about our household? Our rule?”

She looked up at him. “And what will he do now?”

Wu’s eyes darkened like storm clouds over ice. “Something stupid, if he hasn’t already. Pride rots when wounded.”

There was a silence. Aurora’s lips parted to say something—then stopped. She looked at him as though seeing not just her husband, but a man carrying the weight of a crumbling lineage.

She stepped forward.

And slowly, she wrapped her arms around him.

He stiffened briefly, unused to the gesture. But then relaxed, just slightly, allowing her to press her cheek against his chest.

One of her hands rested against Helena’s tiny back, the other grasping the edge of his sleeve.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to help him. I raised him—I taught him better than this.”

Wu closed his eyes.

“He’s not a boy anymore,” he said. “And the world we rule is not one of softness, Aurora. He needs to bleed to understand consequence.”

Helena stirred gently between them, her small hand brushing Aurora’s collarbone.

Aurora swallowed hard. “You’re not wrong… But he’s still our son.”

Wu didn’t respond. His hand merely cradled Helena’s head as the fire crackled behind them.

For a fleeting moment—between their silence, between their hurt—there was peace.

But only for a moment.

Because beneath it all, they both knew—

Adler would not accept humiliation.

Not quietly.

.........

Chapter Text

The chambers of Prince Adler were in ruins.

The once immaculately organized suite of lacquered furniture, silk hangings, and crystal trinkets now lay overturned and shattered.

Books were flung across the floor like fallen birds, the velvet pillows of the divan torn and scattered.

A ceramic vase lay in jagged pieces, its floral pattern bleeding into the rug beneath.

Adler paced like a caged wolf.

Barefoot, shirtless, his hair disheveled and eyes bloodshot from a fury he could not contain.

A crimson mark still bloomed faintly across his cheek where a shard had grazed him in the midst of his tantrum.

His breathing was ragged, chest heaving with rage as he hurled a gold-framed mirror to the floor.

A crash. Another. And another.

He let out a growl, voice hoarse from shouting into the void, before collapsing into the armchair by the hearth, running his fingers through his ink-dark hair.

“Bastard,” he spat aloud, voice cracking. “Heartless old tyrant.”

The door creaked open.

Adler didn’t look up—he only snarled, “Get out.”

But the voice that responded was familiar. And colder than any servant’s.

“Still destroying everything except your own pride, I see.”

Abraxas.

He stepped in, shutting the door behind him with a calmness that made Adler want to rip something else apart.

Abraxas was dressed in black robes trimmed with pale garnet. His long hair was tied neatly, and not a crease marred his clothing.

Always composed. Always in control.

Adler glared at him from the chair, a scowl etched deep into his youthful face. “Come to sneer at me too, brother?”

“No,” Abraxas replied. “I came to say ‘I told you so.’”

Adler stood, fists clenched. “Spare me your lectures.”

“No,” Abraxas said again, firmer this time. “Because I warned you. I told you months ago that your indulgence was turning into weakness. That our father wouldn’t tolerate it. You laughed.”

“I didn’t ask for your approval!” Adler snapped. “He’s been breathing down my neck since I was ten. All eyes on you, never on me. You could spit on a minister and still be praised!”

“Don’t be childish,” Abraxas said coolly. “This has nothing to do with me. You embarrassed yourself. Not just to the court—but to our mother.”

Adler froze.

The silence between them tightened like a noose.

Abraxas took a step forward. “You think I’m here to gloat? I’m here to tell you that Aurora is disappointed. And that—should matter to you.”

“She’s always disappointed,” Adler hissed, voice low. “She never defends me. Not once. Not when Father berates me. Not when you outshine me. She just watches, like I’m a stranger she regrets birthing.”

“Enough,” Abraxas snapped, his voice cutting the air like a blade. “You want pity? You won’t find it here. You were caught in the bath with your maids like a lowborn prince from some merchant dynasty. That’s not how we were raised. That’s not our blood.”

Adler turned away, jaw tight.

Abraxas stepped around the overturned table and stood before his brother.

“You want Father’s respect? Earn it. You want Mother’s trust? Stop acting like a reckless animal. You’re nineteen, Adler. Not nine.”

Adler’s shoulders rose and fell.

“And what?” he asked bitterly. “What do you suggest, brother-dearest? Apologize? Beg at his feet?”

“No,” Abraxas replied, “but show discipline. Take up command over the Obsidian Guard for a time. Shadow Minoru. Clean up some of the noble estates Father’s planning to seize. Show initiative. Be useful."

Adler laughed bitterly. “Useful? You mean obedient.”

“I mean survivable,” Abraxas corrected. “In this Palace, obedience is survival. You think Father respects me because he loves me? No. He respects me because I give him results. You want your coffers back? Your status? Then play the game and play it well.”

Adler’s face twisted into frustration—but it was fading, softening into a deeper shame.

“…You think it’ll work?” he muttered after a pause.

Abraxas looked at him, eyes dark and steady. “It’s your only shot." 

There was a long pause.

Adler sat back down heavily into the ruined armchair, rubbing his eyes with both palms. “…Fine.”

Abraxas watched him for a moment longer before turning for the door. His tone was flat but not cruel.

“I’ll speak to Minoru. He won’t make it easy. And I won’t cover for you again.”

He stopped at the threshold, adding more quietly, “Make her proud. If not for you… then for her.”

He left.

Adler sat in silence, the crackle of the hearth the only sound.

In the shadows, he whispered into his own hands—more a confession than a prayer.

“…I didn’t want her to look at me like that.”

...........

The Obsidian Palace's eastern barracks rang with the clang of steel and the rhythmic thuds of combat boots in formation.

The sun, a dim presence behind heavy storm-clouds, cast no warmth over the final training grounds, where the newest recruits of the Shadow Legion were finishing their final evaluations.

Mud clung to their uniforms. Blood streaked some of their faces. The strongest remained upright, panting, bruised, but standing.

Dozens had died in the previous weeks. This was survival by design.

From above, standing on the stone terrace overlooking the field, Crown Prince Lloyd watched with an unreadable expression.

His armor was polished onyx, trimmed with dragonbone filigree. A thin black sash wrapped around his waist—a symbol of his absolute rank.

He rarely spoke during these inspections. His presence alone was enough to inspire silence and dread.

But today, he heard them.

Voices. Too low for ordinary ears—but Lloyd was no ordinary man.

He heard them from the shadows of the barracks wall. Four of the surviving recruits. Young. Arrogant. Stupid.

One whispered:

“Monsters, all of them. That whole family drinks blood and calls it honor.”

Another snorted. “The mother might be pretty, but I’ve heard what she let them do to villages. Makes you wonder if she has a spine.”

A laugh. “You’d think the Crown Prince would be better than his father, but he’s just colder.”

Then—

A final voice, quieter. “When the people rise, they’ll fall. No throne lasts forever.”

The training field grew silent.

A cold wind passed.

Suddenly, the four soldiers straightened, stiffening as they sensed something.

And then, they saw him. He was already there.

Lloyd stood only a few paces from them—silent, still, and impossibly close. His green eyes glowed faintly beneath the edge of his obsidian crown, reflecting something feral.

The traitors froze.

“Repeat that,” Lloyd said softly.

The men said nothing.

He gave them a moment. Only a moment.

And then he moved.

It was not a battle. It was a massacre.

The first man didn’t have time to blink before Lloyd’s blade was drawn and slashed across his throat with surgical precision.

The second tried to flee—but Lloyd threw his blade through the air, and it pinned the man to the training post like a mounted beast. He screamed. Briefly.

The third raised his sword in desperation.

Lloyd caught it in his hand.

And broke the man’s wrist.

The man howled, falling to his knees—before Lloyd pressed two fingers to his forehead and pushed.

Something cracked.

The body collapsed.

The fourth—who had spoken of rebellion—tried to plead, but Lloyd’s expression was still. Merciless.

“You’d have betrayed us the moment you saw opportunity,” Lloyd murmured. “And for that, there is only one penalty.”

He didn’t kill the fourth quickly.

He made sure the others watched.

When it was over, the remaining soldiers—young, sweating, pale—stood in stunned, terrified silence. Blood pooled beneath Lloyd’s boots as he stepped forward, retrieving his sword without effort.

He turned to the rest of them.

His voice was clear, sharp, and calm:

“Treason, even in whispers, is still treason. Your complaints mean nothing. Your lives are borrowed. And you exist because the Empire allows it. If you want mercy, go back to your pig-farms. If you want to wear the dragon crest, know this: weakness will not be tolerated. Disrespect will not be forgiven.”

He paused, sword slick in his grip.

“You should be grateful. Without us, this Empire would be splintered and poor, ruled by soft-tongued fools and drunkards. You stand on order because we built it. We bled for it. And you—will obey.”

None dared speak.

None even breathed.

Lloyd looked over them one final time. “Dismissed.”

He walked away, blood dripping behind him like petals in his wake. 

He stormed from the training grounds, his cloak dragging a line of blood along the polished onyx floors.

His boots echoed, each step a thunderous reminder of the rage simmering beneath his quiet façade. His jaw was locked. His shoulders stiff. But inside his skull, a tempest raged — wordless, howling.

Treason.

Treason in whispers, like rot beneath a golden surface.

They thought themselves clever. Sharp-tongued. Safe. Laughing in the corners of his Empire.

Laughing at his family. At his mother, his father, his bloodline. They thought his silence made him blind.

Lloyd had done what he had to. He had made it clear: cruelty was the cost of order.

But he did not feel peace.

As he turned into one of the side corridors that connected the inner palace wings, his senses sharpened — and something pierced through the cloud of fury: the fluttering voices of two handmaidens beyond an open arch.

“Did you hear?” one whispered, giggling. “The little princess spoke this morning!”

“I heard she called General Iroh ‘Toad’ and laughed about it for half an hour,” the other replied with a snort. “Arabella says she’s been mimicking voices too. Already clever, that one. So young.”

Lloyd slowed.

Lysandra.

His baby sister.

Just a year and a half old, and already gathering the palace's attention like morning sunlight on snow.

He stopped, still in the shadow of the stone corridor, his chest rising with a different kind of weight.

He remembered her chubby hands curled in Arabella’s hair. Her bright, curious eyes. The way she babbled with glee when he walked into the nursery—how she reached for him, called him “Lo-lo” in a high, sweet voice.

She did not yet understand the cruelty of their family. She did not yet know what power demanded.

She was pure.

And he hated the thought that purity would not survive long here.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his blond hair, sweat and blood on his knuckles. A tremor passed through him — not of fear, but of memory. Of what it meant to feel. And how dangerous that was.

Would Lysandra grow up like them? he wondered. Cold. Sharp. Hardened into something forged by blood and obedience?

Or would she resist the rot?

He didn’t know. He didn’t even know what he wanted. To protect her—or to teach her to survive.

His steps resumed. Quieter now.

But his thoughts shifted… toward another woman. One who wasn’t pure. One who never had been.

Harumi.

Cunning. Beautiful. Dangerous.

She slithered through court like a shadow, poised and smiling with eyes that missed nothing.

She charmed the ministers with practiced elegance, remembered which lords had which weaknesses, and always knew when to speak — and when to remain silent.

She wasn’t like Lysandra.

She was like him.

More and more, he found himself watching her. Not with longing, but with fascination. Admiration.

She could be useful, he reminded himself, as he approached the stairwell to the royal wing.

She could hold the court in place when I rule. She would understand the weight of power. She would never crumble under the gaze of a blade.

But something else stirred behind that logic. A question he had long refused to ask.

Could admiration become more?

Lloyd hissed through his teeth, disgusted by the thought—not because it was vile, but because it felt like a crack. A hairline fracture in the armor he'd spent years perfecting.

He did not want to feel. Not tenderness. Not longing. Not desire. They were soft things. Dangerous things.

Weaknesses.

And yet, her name lingered like incense on his breath. Harumi. White-haired and red-lipped, her gaze just as sharp as her tongue. A storm hiding in velvet.

Was that what he wanted beside him?

Or would she someday be the blade at his throat?

He reached his chambers and paused before entering. His hand curled around the obsidian doorknob.

He exhaled again, this time slower.

No answers tonight.

Only more shadows.

And more silence.

...

Night crept in through the arched windows of the Obsidian Palace, washing the study in blue moonlight and the golden flicker of oil lamps.

The scent of parchment, ink, and sandalwood smoke curled in the air, mingling with silence.

Wu sat behind his heavy stone-carved desk, a quill in hand, his face half-lit by flame. His expression a mask of aloof contemplation as he reviewed dispatches from the southeastern trade provinces.

Reports of corruption. Smuggling. Dissension. Pestilence.

Rot breeds rot, he thought darkly.

A soft knock.

Then the heavy doors creaked open.

Adler entered slowly, eyes downcast. The flickering torches along the corridor cast long shadows behind him, but the shadow beneath his eyes was darker still — the result of three sleepless nights locked in his chamber, deprived of court, coin, and companionship.

He walked like a man dragged behind his own pride.

And then he sank.

Kneeling on the cold onyx floor.

“Father,” Adler said, his voice hoarse. “I—I’ve come to beg for your forgiveness.”

Wu didn’t look up at first. The scratching of the quill continued.

“Have you?” he murmured, finishing a flourish before setting the quill down in silence. “And what, Adler, do you imagine you’re apologizing for?”

Adler swallowed. “For my behavior. The chambermaids. The wine. My… my lapse in judgment.”

Wu’s lip twitched upward, but it wasn’t a smile. He finally raised his gaze — sharp and cold as northern steel.

“A lapse?” Wu said with amusement. “No, boy. That wasn’t a lapse. That was your nature. Reckless. Weak. Vain. You drink like a merchant’s bastard and spend like a minor noble at a brothel. Tell me, do you think the world waits for you to grow up?”

Adler said nothing. His fists clenched against the stone.

Wu stood, the long folds of his robe sweeping like a shadow behind the desk. He moved slowly, deliberately, circling Adler like a hawk watching a wounded hare.

“You disgrace yourself. You disgrace me,” Wu murmured, hands clasped behind his back. “No medals. No conquests. No scars. No service. No fear earned. What have you done, Adler?”

He stopped in front of him, voice lowering.

“What woman would marry you? What general would follow you? You look pretty in a velvet coat and parade around like a prince, but I see through you. A boy drunk on wine and entitlement. That’s all.”

Adler’s breath hitched, and something cracked in his voice when he spoke. “Why are you always so hard on me?”

Wu raised an eyebrow.

“You—You treat others better than me!” Adler cried. “You’re kinder to Morro, and he isn’t even your blood! You always favored him! Or the ninja—those outlanders you call your students. Kai, Jay, Zane, Cole, even Nya—you always preferred them. Why? Why do they get your respect?”

A slow, heavy silence fell.

Wu’s jaw clenched. But he did not speak. Not at first.

He stared down at his kneeling son.

When he did speak, his voice was calm. So calm it froze the air.

“…You dare to compare yourself to them?” he said softly.

Adler’s anger faltered in his chest.

Wu bent down slowly, his voice close to his son’s ear.

“Kai earned his stripes in fire. Cole shattered bone and held a wall alone for twelve hours. Zane nearly died protecting Helena before she could even walk. Jay bled for this family. And Nya—Nya would let herself drown before letting this empire fall.”

He stood back up.

“And Morro…” His eyes narrowed. “Morro, orphaned and broken, still carries out my every order with discipline and precision. Without complaint. Without shame.”

Adler was trembling.

Wu’s face was carved in stone. “You think I should love you for your name? Your birthright? Love is not owed. Respect is not inherited. It is taken.”

Adler bit his lip, trying to suppress the sting in his eyes. He wanted to scream. To run. To strike something. Anything. But he knelt instead, silent, shaking with shame and rage.

Wu studied him in that state for a long moment.

And then — the cruelness shifted.

A new tone entered his voice: smoother. Icy. Almost polite.

“…Then again,” Wu murmured, returning to his desk, “if you are so desperate to prove yourself worthy of your name, I suppose I could offer you an opportunity.”

Adler glanced up.

Wu opened a lacquered scroll case and pulled out a parchment stamped with a foreign crest — scarlet and gold.

“A foreign minister from the Taien Federation,” he said, rolling it flat. “He and his vile little family have been embezzling funds from the northern ports, hiding illicit wares in grain shipments. Wine. Spices. Gold. A cancer, slowly draining our lands.”

He looked up, smile bitter.

“And they’ve done this under the guise of ‘friendly trade.’”

Wu flicked the parchment aside.

“I want them dead. The minister. His wife. Their children. All of them.”

Adler blinked, stunned. “Y-You want me to—?”

“Assassinate them,” Wu said, voice like a closing coffin. “Make it look like an accident. Quiet. Clean. No public fuss. If you succeed, I will restore your coffers. Your chamber. Your title. Fail, and I will have Morro clean up the mess—starting with you.”

Adler’s face drained of color.

“Am I understood?” Wu asked softly.

“…Yes, Father.”

“Good.” Wu sat back down, already returning to his ledgers. “You may go.”

Adler rose, his legs stiff. Every step away from that study was a step toward blood. A step toward shadow.

But in the back of his mind, another voice rose — not of fear, but purpose.

He would do it.

He would prove them wrong.

Even if it meant killing an entire family in their sleep.

Even if it meant becoming a monster like his father.

*****

Chapter Text

The sun had begun its slow descent, casting slanted golden light through the crimson-stained glass of the palace’s eastern corridor.

Courtiers glided like serpents between pillars of black marble, their silks whispering secrets as they passed.

This part of the palace—ornate, glittering, and echoing with laughter—was where tongues were sharper than any blade, and a glance could damn or elevate.

Nya walked alone through the corridor, her boots clicking softly on the polished obsidian floor. Her armor had been traded for a sapphire-toned court robe, though she hated the way the silk clung to her arms.

She had never been one for frills. But attending court was expected now. Her reputation as a soldier was respected, feared ev

en—but among the wives and daughters of nobility, it earned her little more than sneers behind fans.

Her pace slowed.

Laughter.

Just around the corner.

Hidden behind a gilded pillar, she heard them before she saw them—five women clustered like crows in the garden loggia, their voices laced with wine and venom.

Their gowns shimmered in creams and violets, embroidered with blossoms, but their words were anything but delicate.

“She’s pretty, yes,” one purred, referring to Arabella. “But honestly—too soft. Always quiet. Never raises her voice. You’d think she was a bird in a cage, not a queen beside a warlord.”

“I’ve seen her in the courtyard,” another chuckled. “Such lovely hips. It's a shame Garmadon’s only given her two children. With a body like that, you’d expect seven.”

“Maybe he’s tired of her softness,” a third whispered. “Or maybe he’s too loyal. A shame, really. With men like that… loyalty’s wasted.”

The women giggled.

Nya’s eyes narrowed, her hands curling into fists.

“And Lady Aurora?” a fourth added, her tone saccharine. “She should be grateful for her face. If she weren’t so beautiful, I doubt Master Wu would stay by her side at all. He’s far too powerful for a delicate thing like her.”

“Too delicate,” the first chimed in. “A fragile flower. Garmadon and Wu both married women who make them weak.”

“Soft men need softer wives,” came another voice, doused in fake sweetness. “If they’d married real women, strong ones… well, they’d never be caged by love.”

The laughter rose again like a wave crashing.

Before Nya could step forward and say something she might regret, a hand brushed her sleeve.

Lady Ophelia.

Aurora’s Lady-in-Waiting.

Clad in a wine-colored gown with a high collar and braided silver hair pinned neatly, Ophelia offered Nya a calm glance and a shallow bow. Her voice was cool, quiet, but firm.

“Don’t,” she whispered. “Not here.”

Nya grit her teeth. “They’re speaking about your lady like she’s worthless. About Arabella, too. You want me to ignore it?”

Ophelia’s expression remained composed. “Yes. Just as they would.”

Nya’s eyes flared. “Why?”

“They've heard it all before,” Ophelia murmured, stepping beside her and glancing toward the women without moving her head. “And the first time they spoke of it—years ago—Lady Arabella told Garmadon. Lady Aurora, too, told Lord Wu.”

“…And?” Nya asked, voice sharp.

Ophelia's tone dipped.

“They burned villages, Lady Nya. Entire districts. Noble homes, merchant halls. Their husbands did not spare the guilty alone. They punished every family connected to those voices. Men were executed, daughters disowned, wealth stripped to the bone.”

Nya’s breath hitched.

“Arabella and Aurora learned quickly,” Ophelia went on. “They stopped reporting such gossip. They knew too well the cost. Garmadon and Wu may be loyal, but their fury is not… measured. It scorches everything.”

She looked at Nya then, her gaze cool but laced with quiet reverence.

“To speak against their wives is to speak against the Empire itself. And the Empire burns traitors. No matter how pretty. No matter how noble.”

Nya turned her gaze back toward the chattering women, now laughing about something else entirely, oblivious to the death they had flirted with in words.

She exhaled slowly.

“So they just live with it?” she muttered. “Let them talk?”

Ophelia’s voice grew softer. “No. They endure it. That is strength. Not in silence, but in restraint. Lady Aurora and Lady Arabella are not weak. They simply choose not to stain the Empire in blood each time a fool opens her mouth.”

There was a pause.

Then Ophelia added with a dry smile, “Of course, should one of those women step out of line more physically… I imagine Lady Aurora might not be so restrained. She does have a collection of knives.”

Nya’s lips curved into a rare grin, despite herself.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

The two women moved on, leaving behind the garden of whispers and petty cruelties.

But Nya’s heart burned with a newfound respect—for the women of the Empire who held back fire with grace, and for the terrible men who would burn the world down for love.

..

The sun had long dipped below the jagged silhouette of the palace walls, and the torches along the upper corridors burned in quiet defiance of the night.

Nya made her way through the quiet marble halls, the distant hum of courtly music fading behind her.

She passed through shadowed archways and hollow bronze doors, drawn not by anger now, but by the low, measured stillness she always found in him.

Zane was seated in one of the palace's observation rooms, surrounded by scrolls, ledgers, and celestial maps.

A dim candle flickered beside him, casting dancing shadows on the pages he marked with delicate precision.

His expression, as always, was calm—almost serene—as his fingers moved across a lacquered tablet, calculations etched in fluid strokes.

Nya hesitated in the doorway.

He didn’t look up. “You’re pacing like someone planning a murder.”

She smirked faintly. “I might be.”

Zane set his quill down and finally turned, the icy light in his eyes flickering softly. “Then you're here to ask whether it's justified.”

She entered, folding her arms across her chest as she leaned against the edge of his table. “The court ladies were talking,” she muttered. “About Arabella and Aurora. Filthy things. Cruel. They called them weak. Said their husbands were loyal despite them. That Aurora’s beauty is the only reason Wu hasn’t cast her aside. And that Arabella’s hips are wasted with only two children.”

Zane blinked once. “Disgusting.”

“They think softness is weakness,” Nya went on. “They mock their kindness, their gentleness, like it’s a flaw. Like it doesn’t hold this court together.”

There was silence as Zane resumed writing, marking a pattern of star alignments that meant nothing to her but were vital to someone.

Then he spoke.

“Kill them.”

Nya blinked. “What?”

Zane didn’t pause. “You asked what to do. Remove them. Quietly. Gossip is disease, and rot spreads. If those women can insult the wives of our Empire’s rulers in broad daylight, unafraid, then the infection is already deep.”

“Lady Ophelia told me that Aurora and Arabella let it happen,” Nya said. “Because when they spoke of it before… Wu and Garmadon burned entire homes. Whole families.”

Zane finally looked up again, his voice still calm.

“Then they were merciful this time.”

Nya frowned. “You’re saying Aurora and Arabella are wrong? That mercy is wrong?”

Zane stood then, moving to the window. The moonlight framed him, pale against his pale skin, reflecting coldly in the glass. He stood still, the way only he could—perfectly motionless, like a statue carved from winter itself.

“They are smart,” he said at last. “But not immune to sentiment. They protect those who would destroy them if given the chance. Those women in court—if they could have Wu or Garmadon for themselves, they’d slit Aurora’s and Arabella’s throats without blinking. That is the truth.”

Nya’s jaw tightened.

“They believe goodness is a shield,” Zane went on, his tone soft and almost… soothing. “That kindness wins loyalty. That compassion tempers cruelty. But this world does not reward softness. It chews it, swallows it, and leaves bones.”

Nya looked down at her hands.

“But if we don’t try to be good…” she whispered. “What’s the point of surviving in a world like this?”

Zane turned, stepping closer. His voice was so gentle it chilled her. “Survival is the point. You think it cruel to silence them. But is it not crueler to allow their poison to spread? To let them one day influence their husbands, their children, their court? And what then? A whisper today becomes a dagger tomorrow.”

She searched his face, hoping for even a flicker of warmth behind his logic. But what she saw wasn’t cruelty. It was clarity. There was no hate in Zane’s voice.

Just inevitability.

“We should be less merciful,” he said finally. “Not because we lack compassion. But because we cannot afford illusions.”

Nya breathed in, the words hanging heavy in the air. She didn’t disagree.

Not entirely. But something in her rebelled still. A dying ember of idealism, flickering under ash.

Zane watched her carefully.

“You don’t have to become heartless,” he added. “Only careful. Kill not for vengeance, but for stability. You know as well as I do—empires do not fall by war. They fall from whispers.”

Nya nodded slowly.

She was no fool. Not anymore.

And perhaps Zane was right.

Perhaps fire had to be guided by ice.

..........

The palace garden, nestled deep within the inner sanctum of the imperial walls, shimmered with late morning dew.

Each flowerbed was a carefully curated masterpiece — orchids from Shintaro, blood roses from the Western Isles, and blossoms so rare they had no name but the ones the Empress gave them.

Aurora sat beneath the shade of a sprawling white jade pergola, her silks soft and shimmering like starlight around her.

A cup of jasmine tea cooled in her hands, mostly forgotten. Her gaze was fixed ahead, soft and tender.

Little Helena was toddling across the path, her nursemaids cooing behind her like protective birds.

Her hair caught the light in curls, and her chubby fingers grasped the petals of a golden lily before releasing them with a squeal of delight.

Aurora smiled faintly. The sight was perfect. Gentle. Quiet.

But peace in the palace was like glass — delicate, and always on the edge of shattering.

From a garden arch beyond the magnolia trees, she heard them.

Whispers.

Not the soft, harmless ones shared by bored ladies — but venom masked in velvet. It was always like this, cloaked in silk and perfumed breath. Aurora remained still, letting her body language suggest disinterest even as her ears sharpened.

“…Adler, oh he’s wild, that one,” one woman murmured, with a honeyed laugh. “Now that he’s more… open with his desires, I see an opportunity.”

“My niece is just of age,” another purred. “She’s been trained in the mountain courtesan arts. Imagine if she got with child. Marriage would be inevitable.”

“Imagine being a princess,” a third said, voice low. “Even a disgraced one is still royalty.”

Their laughter was low and brimming with ambition.

Aurora’s jaw tightened, her fingers curling slightly around the teacup.

The conversation shifted, as it always did, toward him.

“Master Wu… I don’t understand how he’s remained loyal all these years,” one woman drawled. “A man like that? With power? Discipline? Why would he chain himself to one woman?”

“Because she’s beautiful,” another replied simply. “You’ve seen her. If Aurora were plain, we wouldn’t be having this discussion. Men may be loyal to ideals, but they stay for beauty.”

“They say a few years ago, one of the younger maids was sent to him on purpose. By the Head Maid.”

The second lady scoffed. “The same Head Maid who hates Lady Arabella? Why am I not surprised?”

“She thought Wu would break,” the third giggled. “He didn’t. The girl barely reached the study before she was… well. She and her entire bloodline were put to the sword. Distant relatives. Cousins. Even a grandmother, I hear.”

Aurora blinked.

She had known about the execution. Wu had told her. One brief comment over dinner that night — as if mentioning a weather change. ‘She was trying to test me. They’re all gone now.’

At the time, Aurora had only nodded. She had thanked him, quietly, for staying loyal. For refusing the bait. She hadn’t asked about the family.

And now… now she thought of it.

A poor girl, likely desperate, flattered, frightened, manipulated — sent like a lamb to slaughter.

She had known what she was doing, yes. But had she known the cost?

Her family hadn’t.

An ache stirred behind Aurora’s ribs. The tea in her hands grew cold.

She didn’t care about the Head Maid — that woman was long a thorn in both her and Arabella’s sides. A woman embittered by her lack of power, too cowardly to confront them directly.

She had always sown her poison through others.

But the family…

Did the girl have siblings? A mother who kissed her goodnight? A little cousin who cried when she vanished? Were they rounded up by guards in the night and dragged from their homes before dawn?

Aurora felt sick.

She had not ordered their deaths. Wu had. But she had said nothing.

She had worn her pearls and gone to court, smiled at Helena’s lessons, kissed Wu’s hand, and acted as if nothing had happened.

Because in the court of Ninjago, nothing had.

That was the horror of it.

A single breath of scandal could be snuffed out with fire and steel. The people learned not to whisper.

But Aurora — Aurora had always dreamed of a world where fear didn’t sit on every shoulder like a vulture.

And yet… she said nothing.

Not because she agreed.

But because she was no longer naive.

She glanced at Helena again — the baby had flopped down into the grass, giggling as she squashed flowers beneath her tiny palms.

Her nursemaids surrounded her like a shield, unaware of their mistress’s expression tightening beneath the morning sun.

Aurora forced herself to breathe.

This was the world they lived in.

A world where one whisper, one wrong look, could lead to ruin. And she was not foolish enough to cry over every cruel consequence.

She had seen too much to pretend she could change the tide with mercy alone.

But still…

She would not forget the girl. Or her family.

Not because it made her noble.

But because someone had to remember.

She rose, setting down her untouched tea, and walked toward Helena — whose face lit up at the sight of her mother, babbling and reaching up.

Aurora scooped her daughter into her arms, soft silk brushing over chubby legs, and pressed a kiss to her temple.

“Come, my love,” she whispered. “We’ll play somewhere quieter.”

Far from the women who only saw beauty as a chain, and ambition as a weapon.

...........

The heavy silence of Master Wu’s study was a cathedral to order.

Scrolls, maps, and thick volumes lined every polished surface.

Moonlight ink glistened on fresh parchment. Incense curled lazily from a corner brazier, blending with the scent of aged paper and iron-rich wax seals.

Even the air itself seemed disciplined — still, precise, reverent.

The ministers had only just left, their footsteps receding beyond the thick doors.

Wu stood behind his desk again, black robes pristine, sleeves tucked, silver hair untouched by time. His hands moved over a report on resource shipments from the outer provinces, eyes skimming lines with razor-edged focus.

Until he heard it.

Giggling.

Soft. Unmistakably childlike.

Then — a crash.

Sharp and final, like glass against marble.

Wu’s eyes rose slowly, like a tide pulling away from shore.

Across the study — a decorative Ziyun vase, an heirloom of the Second Dynasty, lay shattered across the floor in a spray of violet and white porcelain.

And in the middle of it… was Helena.

His daughter.

The little girl stood wobbling, her chubby legs just steady enough to betray her, tiny arms raised in victory as if she had just conquered a great battlefield.

Her hair was in crooked twin buns, one already loosening into curls. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes sparkling with mischief as she squealed in delight.

Wu blinked.

She saw him.

“Dadaaa!” Helena squeaked, then promptly tripped over the rug.

She landed on all fours, unbothered, and began crawling again — this time with focused determination.

She crossed the room like a tiny beast, babbling nonsense that sounded vaguely like court jargon mangled through a milk-drenched mouth.

Wu hadn’t moved.

Not until she reached him and stood — unsteady, clinging to the edge of his robes — and began pawing at his leg.

“Up!” she demanded.

He stared down, speechless.

In all the years of battle, of ruling, of war councils and executions and decrees that shaped the empire’s bones — nothing had prepared him for this.

She wanted him.

Not because he was feared.

Not because he held power.

But because he was her father.

Slowly, with the hesitation of a man handling divine flame, Wu knelt and lifted her. Her tiny body was warm against his arms, impossibly soft, her face radiant with delight as she wriggled in his grip.

She squealed again and grabbed his long silver hair, yanking playfully.

Wu flinched.

“Careful,” he muttered — not angry, but bemused.

She cooed. Then, with a glint of mischief, she leaned forward and bit his nose.

“Ah—!” Wu grunted in genuine surprise.

Her four tiny teeth barely scratched him, but the intent was clear.

Helena giggled, triumphant, as if she had defeated a great general. Her little hands clapped.

Wu held her away from his face, peering at her like a perplexed scholar inspecting a magical creature.

“You are feral,” he muttered, voice dry.

She babbled again in response — something that may have included the word “no” — before nuzzling against his shoulder, drooling without care onto his high-collared robes.

Footsteps pounded into the corridor.

The doors burst open and two panicked nursemaids stumbled in, out of breath.

“Master Wu! Forgive us — she slipped past the guards — we didn’t think she—”

“She ran, Your Grace — we tried to catch her, we truly—”

Wu turned to face them, Helena now lazily swaying in his arms.

The nurses fell silent immediately under his gaze.

He raised a hand.

“Leave.”

They bowed so low their foreheads nearly touched the floor before scrambling out.

Wu didn’t look back.

Instead, he returned to his desk, now ruined by shattered porcelain and speckled ink, and sat down with Helena on his lap. Her little fingers found a scroll, reaching with interest.

“No,” he said quietly, pulling it away.

She pouted, then leaned forward and tried to steal his quill.

Wu placed it just out of reach.

She whined.

He ignored her.

Then — she rested her head against his chest, thumb in her mouth, eyelids fluttering.

A breath escaped him.

Not quite a sigh. Not quite a laugh.

More like a moment breaking through his armor.

He rested his hand lightly on her back, tracing small circles through her silks.

The weight of her against him — her heart, so fast and alive — reminded him why he fought so ruthlessly to keep this empire from falling.

Not for glory.

Not even for legacy.

But for her.

His daughter. His blood. His most delicate, chaotic creation.

The storm that smiled.

And so, the great Master Wu — tactician, killer, conqueror — remained at his desk that afternoon not writing orders or issuing death, but holding a tiny girl who had bitten his nose and shattered an artifact worth more than a fortress.

And in the quiet that followed, he did not scold her.

He simply let her sleep.

***

Chapter Text

The night was unusually quiet. 

A heavy fog clung to the eaves of the great stone palace like a curtain of ghosts.

The torches outside sputtered low, struggling to breathe against the damp air.

Inside their bedchamber, the fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting long shadows over the black-and-gold lacquered walls, the carved screens, the glistening vials that lined Arabella’s apothecary table like jewels.

She was brushing her hair when she heard the sound: his footsteps.

Unmistakable. Weighted, calm, steady.

She didn't need to turn to know.

“I’ll be gone for a few hours,” Garmadon said lowly, his voice like rumbling stone as he adjusted his bracers.

Arabella’s hand paused in her hair.

There was no explanation. No preamble. Just the words.

Her eyes remained on her reflection — not at herself, but at the man moving behind her in the mirror. Black cloak, dark armor, sword slung low.

His hair was brushed carelessly, eyes already set elsewhere, in that faraway, dangerous place that only blood could reach.

She said nothing at first. She didn’t need to.

They both knew what “gone” meant.

Another errand. Another disappearance under moonlight. Another name — or many — that would vanish before dawn.

“Will you kill tonight?” she asked softly, her tone feather-light.

He didn’t answer directly. He merely pulled on his gloves, tugging them tight over calloused fingers.

Arabella sighed and rose to her feet.

She crossed the room and reached for his belt, adjusting the clasp with delicate hands. It was her silent way of helping, of showing love even in the dark. Her fingers lingered near the blade’s hilt.

“You always return with blood on your collar,” she whispered, smoothing the fabric near his throat. “Do you ever wonder if there's another way?”

Garmadon tilted his head slightly, eyes unreadable. “There are no other ways,” he murmured. “Only delays.”

Arabella's hands dropped.

“You could spare them.”

“Would you have me spare them,” he said, “only so they live long enough to come for you next time?”

That silenced her.

Still, she stepped forward and rose to her toes, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw. Her hands cradled his face briefly, her thumbs ghosting over the faint shadow of stubble.

“Don’t make them suffer,” she whispered. “Just… make it quick.”

There was a pause — long, silent, ancient.

Then he bent down, kissed her forehead gently — almost reverently — and murmured into her skin, “You shouldn’t wait for me.”

With that, he pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and turned away.

Arabella watched him go, her lips parted, her eyes holding back emotion too complicated to name. She didn’t follow him. She didn’t call out.

She simply crossed the room, pulled the heavy velvet curtains aside, and watched as his shadow vanished into the darkness beyond the courtyard.

She said nothing.

But in her heart, she prayed — not for her husband, not for the mission.

But for those unfortunate enough to find themselves on his list.

Garmadon moved like a phantom through the Monastery’s inner passageways, his cloak barely whispering against the stone.

None dared stop him. Even the guards knew to avert their eyes when the Warlord Prince moved with purpose.

He met Lloyd near a secluded corridor beneath the Hall of Ancients — an unlit wing few had reason to wander.

Lloyd was already waiting, leaning against the wall in quiet frustration, still clad in ceremonial black. The torchlight glimmered against his green eyes, sharpening the frown on his face.

“You’re late,” he muttered.

Garmadon said nothing. He walked past his son, reaching behind the statue of the Ninth Gatekeeper. A metallic click sounded, then the stones behind the statue shifted.

A hidden tunnel revealed itself — black as coal, colder than the crypts.

Lloyd blinked.

“I didn’t know this existed." 

“You aren’t meant to,” Garmadon replied. “Yet.”

Without hesitation, he stepped inside. Lloyd followed.

The tunnel was narrow and steep, with damp stone walls lined with old torch brackets and etched with forgotten seals.

The air was heavy with old dust and cold iron. The only sound was their boots and the occasional drip of water echoing from the deep.

“Where are we going?” Lloyd asked, voice low.

“To the people,” Garmadon replied.

Lloyd frowned. “You mean the cities?”

“No. The people. The ones who sell their children for a grain sack. The ones who trade secrets to feed their dying wives. The ones who smile at you with one hand open and the other hiding a dagger.”

They turned a corner, descending deeper.

Lloyd narrowed his eyes. “What do you expect me to learn?”

“That the world is rotting beneath its polished crown,” Garmadon answered darkly. “And if you’re to rule it, you must know its decay intimately. Not from scrolls. Not from ministers.”

Lloyd was quiet.

His father’s voice grew softer, colder — laced with something like old memory.

“You’ll see tonight what kind of ruler you might become. And more importantly—” he looked at him out of the corner of his eye “—what kind of king you’ll have to kill to survive.”

A flicker of excitement stirred in Lloyd’s gut.

Not fear.

Not hesitation.

Excitement.

He didn’t want to admit how ready he felt.

The tunnel opened to a narrow passage behind an old stone bakery on the outskirts of the central city — a secret exit used by warlords and spies long before Ninjago’s royal conquest.

Garmadon stepped out first, the shadows peeling away from his cloak as he emerged into the cooler night air.

Lloyd followed silently, eyes narrowing as he adjusted to the shifting glow of lanterns and the warm murmur of life beyond the walls.

The city lay before them, sprawled in structured rows of whitewashed homes with tiled roofs and open squares filled with soft music and the scent of spiced meat.

A palace city like no other. Here, even the commoners had fine linen garments and ivory bangles — remnants of an empire so vast and rich, it spilled even into the gutters with elegance.

But it wasn’t beauty Garmadon had come to show his son. It was something far older. Far deeper.

As they walked through the winding avenues, Garmadon kept his pace slow, his voice low — for the teachings of tyrants did not require volume, only weight.

“This,” he said, gesturing to the calm bustle of the city, “is not peace. Don’t mistake it.”

Lloyd glanced around. Families walked together, vendors called out soft praises for their goods, children played in the corners with toy scrolls and wooden dragons.

“They look content,” Lloyd said.

Garmadon chuckled — not kindly.

“They act content because they know what lies beneath disobedience. Because the First Spinjitzu Master taught us one truth no scroll ever dares write: A kingdom ruled only by love crumbles at the first storm." 

They passed a merchant arranging bronze mirrors.

“He ruled with discipline,” Garmadon continued. “With fear. And yes—some tyranny. But do not confuse cruelty with chaos. He made laws that bit deep and cut swift. He gave the people enough so they would not starve, but never so much that they forgot who fed them.”

He glanced sideways.

“You must be a storm they cannot tame, Lloyd. When they whisper your name, let them sit straighter. Let them lower their eyes.”

Lloyd’s jaw tightened. “That’s no way to be loved.”

Garmadon scoffed. “Then don’t waste time trying to be. Love is a gift. Power is an obligation. Your duty is to be a ruler, not a sonnet.”

They turned down a broad plaza lined with oil lamps and canopied stalls. Richly dressed vendors hawked red peaches, scrolls of silk, crystal vials of southern perfume. The people bowed when they saw Garmadon. Some smiled warily. Others quickly looked away. 

But all of them bowed.

Respect mingled with fear like incense in the air.

Lloyd exhaled slowly. He didn’t speak for a long while.

When he did, it was with a note of something softer — a rare crack in the green steel.

“Harumi.”

Garmadon gave a small grunt of acknowledgement.

“I know why I’m to marry her,” Lloyd muttered. “She’s sharp. Quick. She commands a room like she owns it. She plays ministers like game pieces, and even I can’t always tell when she’s lying.”

Garmadon said nothing.

“I’m not foolish. I know she’ll be useful. She’s already made alliances before ever touching a crown.”

Lloyd looked out across the street, where a noble girl was being dressed by her nursemaid in a golden shawl.

“But what happens after she marries me?” he asked quietly. “What happens when I bring a snake into my garden?”

Garmadon’s eyes glinted.

“Then you tame the snake,” he said. “Or you feed it.”

They passed a fountain, its dark water gleaming under moonlight.

“Loyalty,” Garmadon said, “is the only coin that matters in court, in war, in marriage.”

“How do I ensure it?”

“You don’t. You test it. You trap it. You create conditions where betrayal is more dangerous than devotion.”

He paused at a small kiosk nestled between a silkseller and a perfumer’s stall.

A carved box sat open, displaying hairpins of every make — jade, sapphire, garnet, onyx.

Garmadon’s eyes landed on one made of obsidian with a delicate silver thread curling through the center, like a night sky split by starlight.

He reached into his cloak, withdrew a gold coin stamped with the sigil of the imperial throne, and flicked it to the stunned merchant.

“A gift for Arabella,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone.

Lloyd watched the exchange with a strange expression.

“She’ll wear it twice,” Garmadon added, slipping the pin into a hidden pocket. “Then hide it away somewhere with the others.”

Lloyd hesitated.

“Why do the daughters get that kind of love?” he asked, not bitterly — just curiously. “Lysandra. Helena. You soften your voice for them. Wu lets that baby bite his nose, and he doesn’t even flinch. Meanwhile, you train me like a blade. Wu shouts at Abraxas until he bleeds from his ears.”

He looked at his father. “Why them? Why the softness for them?”

Garmadon’s expression did not change. But something old stirred in his gaze. 

“Because you are the legacy,” he said. “You are the sword. And a sword cannot be soft.”

Lloyd looked away.

Garmadon began walking again, voice lowering.

“I made a promise to Arabella when Lysandra was born. Just as Wu made one to Aurora. We said we would shield them from this world. That we would not let our darkness stain them.”

A pause.

“And maybe… maybe that promise is our last attempt at keeping something sacred.”

Lloyd’s steps slowed.

Garmadon turned to face him, the torchlight painting deep shadows on his face.

“Do not envy your sister, Lloyd. One day, you’ll see. She gets a garden and a crown of flowers. You get an empire — and a war. And only one of you will survive your fate.”

Lloyd said nothing.

But something inside him clicked. Like a lock being turned. Or a door quietly closing behind him forever.

..

The teahouse was quiet — tucked behind the merchant lanes, bathed in warm lamplight and the subtle steam of ceramic pots.

The floor was lacquered redwood, polished by years of silent footfall. Wind chimes clinked softly in the open windows, and the scent of roasted barley mingled with dried plum and smoke.

Garmadon sat cross-legged, his cloak discarded and draped across the bench beside him. His hand curled around a simple porcelain cup, the steam curling around his fingers. He sipped slowly, eyes half-lidded, like a beast in hibernation.

Lloyd sat opposite him, hands unmoving near his own cup. He hadn’t touched the tea yet.

There was a long stretch of silence between them.

Then:

“You really don’t believe in mercy, do you?” Lloyd asked quietly.

Garmadon did not lift his eyes.

“Mercy is a flower,” he said, calmly, “in a garden of knives.”

Lloyd’s brow furrowed.

“This empire… it thrives, yes. But not because it’s kind. You’ve created peace, but only because people are too afraid to breathe wrong.” He leaned in slightly. “Is that really the world we want to rule? One that shakes at our name?”

Garmadon placed his cup down gently.

“We rule the real world,” he said, voice even, “not the world of books and poems. Our father, your grandfather — the First Spinjitzu Master — rules through blood and spine. He understood that peace is purchased. That kindness, if left unchecked, becomes rot. Rebellion. Treason.”

He looked up at Lloyd now, eyes sharp and unblinking.

“You want to be a ruler? Then rule through awe. Let them admire you, yes — but let them fear you more. Spread your shadow. Let your name be a ward against disobedience.”

Lloyd exhaled, staring at the surface of his untouched tea.

“And if it makes me into something I hate?”

Garmadon smiled faintly. “Then you have two choices. Burn that part of yourself to ash… or lock it in a room, and feed it silence.”

Before Lloyd could reply, the door clattered open.

Three men entered — ruffians in tattered black leather, faces twisted with the gnarled arrogance of lowborn scum who thought cruelty made them kings. One had a crescent scar on his temple, another had golden teeth, and the last carried a dagger on his belt like it was a badge of honor.

They sauntered in with the stink of stale rice wine and pride.

The teahouse patrons stiffened. A young girl at the counter shrank behind the old tea mistress. Someone near the corner quietly slipped out the back.

The men began to jeer, prodding tables, demanding free drinks. One knocked over a porcelain cup. Another grabbed a man by the collar and laughed when he begged.

Garmadon merely sipped his tea, unmoving.

Lloyd’s eyes tracked them. He said nothing — not yet.

The third man — the one with gold teeth — spotted their table.

“Well, what’s this?” he sneered, swaggering over. “Noble robes in a rat’s den?”

Lloyd didn’t even blink. Garmadon didn’t look up.

Gold Teeth leaned in, grinning wide, clearly oblivious to what stood before him. “You two lords lost? Should’ve brought some guards. Not safe for darlings like you.”

Lloyd moved so fast, the man barely saw it coming.

Snap.

The sound of bone breaking was crisp. Gold Teeth howled as his wrist twisted back the wrong way, veins pulsing, pain overtaking bravado.

Lloyd turned to him, eyes glowing faintly with green.

“Did I say you could speak?” he asked coldly.

Then he shoved the man backwards, straight into the arms of his shocked companions.

The room had gone dead silent.

Scarface snarled and lunged — only for Lloyd to step sideways, grab his shoulder, and drive his elbow cleanly into the man’s ribs. Scarface crumpled, gasping.

The last ruffian pulled a knife.

Garmadon raised a brow. “Oh good,” he murmured, “he brought a toy.”

Lloyd ducked the first swing, caught the man's wrist, and twisted it so hard the blade clattered to the floor. Then, with swift, brutal grace, he drove the man forward and slammed his face down into the center of their table — splitting the wood, tea scattering like blood from a cut vein.

The teahouse flinched.

The man groaned, nose broken, face smeared with tea and blood.

Garmadon, still seated, nudged a fallen tea cup upright with one finger.

He glanced at the ruffian twitching on the table and said dryly, “Careful, son. You’ll bruise the finish.”

Lloyd exhaled, brushing dust off his sleeve, eyes bright with rage barely leashed. The air hummed with the leftover echo of violence.

He looked at Garmadon.

“What do you want me to do with him?”

Garmadon tilted his head, thinking.

“Well,” he said, “we could always break his knees, drag him through the alleys, and tie his tongue to a bell tower for the crows. Or… have his skin flayed in the city square. He’d last longer.”

The ruffian whimpered, blood leaking down his chin.

Garmadon raised a hand. “But. I did tell Arabella I’d keep it quick tonight.”

Lloyd nodded, a slow smile spreading on his lips. Not kind. Not warm.

Cruel.

Calculated.

He leaned close to the ruffian and whispered, “You should’ve begged before I broke your friends.”

The man groaned again, and Lloyd stood upright.

The other two ruffians were groaning on the floor, too battered to crawl.

Garmadon rose at last, dusting off his cloak.

He looked at Lloyd with something like quiet amusement. Not pride — that was too strong a word.

But approval, measured and cool.

“Well done,” he murmured. “A little more practice, and you’ll be terrifying.”

As they stepped out into the night again, the chimes behind them rattled like bones.

And the teahouse fell silent once more.

..

Chapter Text

The execution square had been dressed in ceremonial blood-red silks. Banners of obsidian and silver snapped in the high wind, bearing the crest of the Imperial House: a coiled dragon pierced through the eye with a blade.

The gallows had been constructed anew for this occasion — towering, reinforced with iron, surrounded by dozens of guards clad in black armor, their visors shaped like fangs.

A sea of people stood shoulder to shoulder in the square, nobles in elevated balconies, commoners crammed at the base, priests and magistrates forming a ceremonial circle around the central dais. The Obsidian Legion patrolled the crowd like silent shadows.

And above them all, sitting high in the Royal Box on its blackened dais carved from stone older than memory, was the ruling family.

The King himself — the First Spinjitzu Master — sat in his great throne of darkwood and silver bone, robed in shadow-gold silk, his aged face carved like a monument to war.

Beside him sat Queen Sera, veiled and regal, her gaze hidden beneath jeweled shadowglass, her hands folded like the wings of a sleeping serpent.

To the right sat Crown Prince Garmadon in onyx armor, a wide sash of crimson crossing his chest. Beside him, Arabella — pale and statuesque — wore a gown of storm-colored silk and black lace, her dark hair pinned with silver needles, her expression still, though her eyes shimmered with something unspoken.

Next came Prince Wu — grim, expression unreadable — dressed in austere robes of black and ivory. His wife Aurora sat beside him, delicate and elegant in her twilight-blue gown, her gloved hands clasped tight in her lap.

Before them, their sons.

Abraxas, cold-eyed, stood at attention, his posture perfect, every inch the firstborn of a merciless house. Adler stood beside him, chin lifted, the crowd's cheers beginning to thrum in his ears. He was armored, newly shaved, polished like a blade.

He had delivered the traitor.

The executioner stood tall beside the condemned — a foreign minister caught embezzling funds, trading illegally, and plotting rebellion.

Adler had found him in a northern villa, cornered him beneath his own banners, and dragged him back to the capital in chains. The man’s face was swollen from interrogation, but he held himself upright, defiant.

The King rose.

The crowd hushed instantly.

The First Spinjitzu Master’s voice was low, but every syllable echoed through the courtyard like iron dropped on marble.

“Loyalty,” he said, “is the spine of empires. And treachery — whether done with blade or coin — is the decay of that spine. Today, we remove rot.”

He turned slightly, his gaze falling on Adler. “It was my grandson, Prince Adler, who brought this man to justice. He proved his blood, his worth, his loyalty. Today, his punishment is lifted.”

The crowd erupted.

Nobles clapped with gloved hands. Commoners screamed. The drums thundered once, twice, three times.

Wu rose next, his voice like polished glass.

“Adler has atoned. He has obeyed. And thus, he is restored. “Let it be known,” he announced, “that Prince Adler’s punishment is lifted. His honors restored. His coffers returned. Let this be a lesson—all sins may be cleansed with loyalty.”

More cheers. Adler stood straighter.

Arabella turned her face slightly. She couldn’t watch.

She felt Garmadon’s hand slip into hers — rough, firm, steady. Not squeezing, not comforting… but reminding. This is who we are. This is what the world demands.

She didn’t look at him. But she didn’t pull away either.

Garmadon’s gaze remained on the block. But he curled his fingers gently around hers.

A silent reassurance.

A silent warning.

He wouldn’t stop it.

But he’d stand by her, always.

Aurora’s hands had grown cold. Her breath was shallow. She watched the condemned man fall to his knees, watched the executioner lift the curved obsidian blade from the stone pedestal.

She trembled.

Wu’s hand rested atop her thigh — not hard, but weighty. Grounding. A silent anchor.

His voice near her ear was almost inaudible.

“Breathe.”

Wu’s hand remained on her thigh.

His thumb brushed her gently, an intimate motion, a cruel comfort.

He did not apologize. He never would.

But he understood. And he was with her.

The blade rose.

The crowd held their breath.

And with a single, clean arc, it came down — fast, final, merciless.

The man’s head dropped into the black velvet basket.

Blood stained the stones red.

The crowd roared.

Adler closed his eyes, basking in it — not the gore, but the vindication. The redemption.

Abraxas and Lloyd nodded in acceptance. 

Arabella kept her gaze fixed on the horizon.

Aurora sat still, but her fingers twitched once, tightening over her gown.

The King said nothing more. He did not need to. The message had been made clear.

In this empire, loyalty was rewarded. Treason was erased. 

And the shadows that ruled from the obsidian heights would ensure that this truth was never forgotten.

.............

The sun had barely passed its zenith when the royal family returned from the execution square. The echoes of the crowd’s roars still lingered in the wind, but within the palace, silence reigned.

A cold, pressed quiet filled the air like fog as the family separated, guards bowing as they filed through the obsidian halls.

Aurora said nothing as she walked beside Wu.

Her steps were deliberate, elegant, the posture of a true princess—gowned in frost-blue and pearl, hair pinned with silver blossoms.

But her complexion was too pale, her gloved hands trembling slightly as they clutched her skirts. Her eyes stared ahead, seeing nothing, walking not with purpose but by sheer command of will.

Wu noticed. Of course he noticed. But he said nothing. 

They reached the outer corridor of her chambers when Aurora staggered slightly, the world around her tipping.

A shiver rushed through her spine, and she braced a hand against the cold stone wall, inhaling sharply.

Wu moved instantly, reaching to steady her.

"Don’t," she breathed, voice shaking.

He froze.

“I said don’t touch me,” she hissed, jerking her arm away as if his touch burned.

Wu’s mouth tightened. “You’re pale. Sit down—”

“You made him into a monster!” she cried suddenly, fury bursting from her chest like a storm contained too long.

The guards turned subtly, eyeing the exchange, but did not intervene.

Wu remained silent.

Aurora trembled, a hand now pressed to her stomach, her breath shallow. “He was our son, Wu. He still is. And you used him like a weapon. Like a—” She choked on the word. “Like a blade you wanted bloodied again.”

“He was reckless,” Wu said at last, low and tight. “Sneaking out. Gambling. Drinking. Bedding nobles’ daughters without thought to consequence. Do you forget that? Would you rather he stay that way? A weak, untamed dog to shame our name?”

Aurora looked at him as if she didn’t recognize him.

She took a step back, her eyes shimmering, fury swimming behind the silver-blue irises. “You call that sin? Foolishness? Yes, he was committing sins, and he was dishonorable, but atleast he wasn't a cold blooded killer." 

“And now he is useful.” Wu’s voice was flat, like steel cooled on stone. “He is feared. He is respected. He served the Empire.”

She shook her head slowly. “At what cost?”

There was silence.

Wu said nothing.

Aurora’s hand trembled as she reached up—and then, before thought could betray restraint, she slapped him.

It cracked through the corridor like a whip.

Wu didn’t flinch.

He simply stood there, the red mark blooming on his cheek, perfectly still as his wife trembled before him.

“That was our son,” Aurora whispered, voice breaking now. “And he came back successful. Do you know what that means? Do you know what you’ve made him capable of now?”

Wu stared at her for a long, unreadable beat.

And then, softly: “Yes.”

Aurora swayed.

The blood drained from her face.

Her breath hitched once — her hand pressed again to her stomach — and her knees buckled.

“Aurora—” Wu stepped forward just as she collapsed.

He caught her before she could hit the ground, arms folding around her like a cage of shadows. Her head lolled against his shoulder, pale lips parted, breath shallow.

His brows furrowed. His hand instinctively brushed the hair from her clammy forehead.

She weighed little.

Too little.

“Get a physician,” he barked toward the guards. “Now.”

They scrambled away.

Wu looked down at her. The slap still tingled on his skin, yet his chest felt heavy, thick with something that shouldn’t be there.

Concern. Guilt. Regret. Or perhaps all three, knotted like thorns behind his ribs.

He shifted her gently in his arms and began walking toward her chambers, the coldness in his expression thawed by something rawer.

Aurora did not stir.

But as he carried her beneath the carved archways of the palace, Wu whispered—so softly no one could hear—

“I didn’t want this for him either.”

....

The clang of metal echoed through the lower courtyard, sharp and rhythmic like the beating of a war drum.

Lloyd stood at the center of the sparring ring, his tunic damp with sweat, green and black catching the gleam of torchlight as he parried a strike from one of the elite ninja.

His footwork was quick, almost graceful, and though his strikes weren’t the strongest, they were precise—measured, honed.

His eyes didn’t waver, his mind focused on not just the fight, but the posture, the balance, the subtle shifting of his opponent’s weight. He was studying even as he attacked.

Above, along the stone-balustraded terrace overlooking the courtyard, two figures watched in silence.

Adler stood with his arms folded across his chest, posture stiff and proud, a wolf sheathed in black silk. His gold earrings shimmered with every twitch of his jaw, his sharp eyes locked on his cousin like a falcon sizing up a rival bird.

Beside him, Abraxas was still as the evening fog, hands calmly folded behind his back, face unreadable.

Where Adler bristled with hunger and heat, Abraxas carried the cool, steady chill of a looming winter.

“Look at him,” Adler muttered, voice low but venomous. “The favored son. The polished blade. Training with those masked relics like he’s some sort of heir born of the gods.”

Abraxas said nothing, though his eyes remained on Lloyd.

“I’d train too if it earned me everything,” Adler continued, scoffing. “Crown. Power. Legacy. Our uncle holds him like a prince of jade, shaping him to be everything Father wanted us to be—but he’ll never be enough.”

“You say that,” Abraxas replied quietly, “but he learns quickly. Faster than you did. Faster than I did. And Father says he listens.”

“Of course he listens,” Adler sneered. “He was raised by Uncle Garmadon like a prized dog. Tamed. Loyal. Sharp-toothed only when told to bite.”

His gaze narrowed, the scorn in his expression hardening into something more twisted.

“But he’s still soft. Look at him. No anger in that swing. No fear in his face. No joy in the fight. He doesn’t feel it. He’s cold steel, not black flame.”

Abraxas turned toward him finally, his voice even. “And yet you speak of feeling as if it’s strength. You were punished for feeling too much, Adler. Remember?”

Adler’s jaw tightened.

There was a long pause before he spoke again—more quietly now, more bitter. “It was worth it. Every broken rib and every scream. If that’s all it took to earn Father’s favor again…” He smiled, cruel and hollow. “I’d do it every day. I’d kill every day. I’d bleed every noble dry if that’s what it cost.”

Abraxas didn’t flinch.

“Do you think that makes you strong?” he asked, voice quieter still. “Is that what you’ve come to believe?”

Adler looked away, a hollow chuckle slipping from his throat.

“I have my title again. My chambers. My coin. My place in the court.” He turned, meeting his brother’s gaze with a glint of arrogance. “Isn’t that what strength buys?”

“Strength,” Abraxas replied evenly, “buys only as much as fear allows it to last. Loyalty—that’s harder. Rarer.”

Adler waved a dismissive hand and turned his gaze back to the courtyard.

Lloyd had just disarmed the ninja and sent him to the ground with a clean sweep. He didn’t gloat. Didn’t smile. Just stepped back, offered a hand to help the man up, and bowed.

The ninja bowed back, respect evident in every motion.

Adler scoffed.

“See that? Soft,” he muttered, though a thread of unease curled under his words.

“He’s strategic,” Abraxas countered. “Uncle Garmadon trained him to be more than a weapon. That’s the difference between a king and a killer.”

Adler’s expression faltered for a moment, then sharpened again.

“I don’t want to be a king,” he said darkly. “I just want what should’ve been mine. What he took from us.”

“He took nothing,” Abraxas said, though quietly. “We were never promised anything.”

Adler didn’t reply. He watched Lloyd, who now walked calmly off the field, a towel handed to him by a servant. The soldiers bowed to him as he passed. The people looked at him as if he already wore the crown.

Adler’s eyes narrowed.

He would not bow.

Not to him.

....

The wind that blew across the high veranda carried the scent of night jasmine and distant ash.

The flickering torches swayed in iron sconces, casting long golden shadows over the black marble floor.

Below, the imperial palace slumbered in eerie silence—save for the occasional clang of a patrolling guard or the howl of a restless hawk circling the towers.

Two figures stood at the edge of the terrace, cloaked in silence and the slow swirl of wine in black porcelain cups.

Abraxas leaned against the ornate railing, his dark eyes cast out toward the horizon where the lights of the outer city dimmed like dying embers. He sipped quietly, thoughtfully, before finally breaking the silence.

“Mother fainted,” he said, without ceremony. “After the execution.”

Adler, sprawled lazily in a cushioned chair with his feet propped on the stone balustrade, snorted in response. His wine sloshed over the rim of his cup, staining the sleeve of his dark silk robe. He didn’t care.

“Of course she did,” he muttered, voice tinged with venom. “Sickened by blood, poor fragile queen. I wonder sometimes how Father ever found her tolerable, let alone desirable.”

Abraxas’s gaze flicked toward him, cold and steady. “She is still our mother.”

Adler turned, a crooked smirk playing on his lips. “Is she?” He tossed back the rest of the wine, the bitterness a welcome burn. “She didn’t feel much like a mother when we were boys. When Father had us stripped and flogged for speaking out of turn. Or when we were forced to kneel outside his chambers for hours in winter storms as punishment. She was there. She watched. She said nothing.”

“That was discipline,” Abraxas said, quieter now, but firmer. “We are not peasants to be coddled. We were born to rule. We had to be forged in iron.”

Adler laughed—short and cruel. “Forged, were we? No, brother, we were shattered and reshaped into things Father could use. Tools. Not sons.”

His face twisted as he refilled his cup, the wine dark and viscous, like blood. The flickering torchlight danced across his features, making him look like something carved from obsidian and fire.

“She let him do it,” he spat. “Every strike. Every word. She let him reduce us. She was weak then, and she’s weaker now.”

Abraxas didn’t reply immediately. He stared down into his own cup, letting the silence settle like dust between them.

“Perhaps she could have done more,” he said finally. “But she endured him. She gave us life. That counts for something.”

“Does it?” Adler growled. “She gave us life, and then gave all her love to that mewling little girl. Helena. Look at how they cradle her. No harsh words. No cold hands. No discipline. Just silks, sweets, and songs.”

He stood abruptly, pacing to the edge of the veranda, his fingers clenching the rim of the cup until it cracked faintly in his grip.

“Why did she have to bear another?” he hissed. “Why did he allow it? The man who once said emotions were chains now walks softer around her than a servant at court. He—restrains himself for her sake. Since when does Father restrain himself for anyone?”

“Because she is his wife,” Abraxas answered, low and warning, “and Helena is still a child.”

Adler turned to him slowly, his face sharp with scorn.

“And we weren’t?” he snarled. “We were children once, too. Younger than Lloyd is now. But we bled and bowed and broke bones before we could count the stars in the sky. Where was her mercy then?”

He tossed the cracked cup to the floor. It shattered on the black stone like brittle bone.

“I don’t care if she’s Mother,” he muttered. “I don’t care if he’s our father. None of this is real. Not family. Not love. Only survival. That’s the truth no one dares say.”

Abraxas stepped forward now, slow and purposeful. The air seemed to still between them.

“You’re walking a dangerous path, brother.”

Adler smirked again, a hollow grin. “We’ve been on dangerous paths since the day we were born. You just haven’t noticed.”

He turned away, walking back into the shadows of the palace corridor, his voice drifting behind him like smoke.

“Let them keep their songs and softness. We know what we are.”

Abraxas remained alone on the veranda, the cracked cup at his feet, the stars distant and indifferent above.

He took one last sip of his wine and whispered into the dark, more to himself than anyone else—

“Then Ninjago help us all.”

****

Chapter Text

The chamber was dimly lit, the only light flickering from a cluster of beeswax candles atop the carved ebony mantle.

Their flames danced across the high, vaulted ceiling of the room, casting long shadows on the stone walls and tapestries.

A cool breeze slipped through the open lattice windows, stirring the sheer silken drapes that veiled the bed and whispered against Aurora’s skin.

She moved quietly, gracefully, her bare feet padding across the polished obsidian floor. The door clicked softly shut behind her. Wu looked up from where he sat, removing his gauntlets with slow, deliberate motions.

Aurora did not greet him.

She crossed the room, unfastening her pale lavender robes as she went, slipping out of them with silent precision.

Beneath, she wore a pink nightgown—soft silk that clung to her delicate frame, the neckline modest but laced, the hem brushing just above her ankles.

Her chestnut hair was still half-pinned, tangled slightly from the long day and the restless hours spent tending to Helena.

“She was fussy tonight,” she said quietly, voice clipped and formal as she reached for her brush. “Didn’t want to sleep. Took nearly an hour.”

Wu said nothing for a moment. Then:

“You fainted,” he reminded her, his voice low and calm. “You shouldn’t have gone to her. The nursemaids—”

“I’m her mother, Wu,” Aurora replied, sharply, her back still to him. “Not a governess. Not a bystander. And certainly not an obedient doll to be tucked away and protected when things grow inconvenient.”

He inhaled slowly, hearing the coldness in her tone, understanding the barbed edge laced within her words.

She brushed her hair in long, brisk strokes, but her hand was trembling—whether from exhaustion or fury, he couldn’t yet tell.

“Our children are not just heirs or swords to be sharpened,” she added, voice quieter now, more bitter. “They are our blood. Our purpose.”

It was not a conversation. It was a condemnation.

Wu stood, slow and deliberate, removing the rest of his armor and pauldron belts as silence pulsed between them. The firelight caught the silver threads in his robes and hair, casting him in hues of steel and flame.

He walked up behind her, pausing for a breath. Then, without asking, he reached out, gently taking the brush from her hand.

Aurora stiffened.

“You don’t have to—” she began, but Wu had already begun to draw the brush through her thick hair with practiced precision. Each motion was smooth, reverent, as though undoing a knot in her soul.

Still, she remained cold, her expression distant in the mirror before them.

“They would have devoured Adler,” Wu said, finally. “Ripped him apart. The court. The ministers. Even Garmadon’s brood. He’s not like Abraxas. He can’t pretend to be calm. He had to become something else.”

“Something monstrous,” Aurora murmured, her tone frayed, her eyes not meeting his in the glass.

Wu nodded slightly. “Yes. But a living monster is better than a dead son.”

The brush stilled in his hand. Their eyes met in the mirror. Hers were damp—not with tears, but with restraint.

“You asked him to torture,” she said, barely above a whisper. “And he did it. Not because it was just. Not because he believed in it. But to win back your approval.”

Wu said nothing at first. Then, he set the brush down gently on the vanity and placed his hands on her shoulders.

“I never said I was a good man,” he said softly.

Aurora stood slowly, uncertainly. He turned her gently to face him. She looked so small in the candlelight—ethereal, fragile, like a dying flower clinging to grace. But her eyes burned. Always, they burned.

He scooped her up without a word—his hands under her knees, her back cradled in the curve of his arm. She didn’t fight it, but neither did she melt into him.

He carried her to the bed, the silk canopy rustling above them like a breath of wind.

“You can’t make me a queen in bed,” she whispered bitterly, her fingers resting coldly on his collar. “Then expect me to stay quiet about all the blood you spill in my name.”

His head dipped lower, his lips brushing her temple. A sigh ghosted from him, low and hoarse.

“I know,” he murmured. “I know.”

He laid her down gently on the sheets, her hair splayed across the pillows like dark ribbons. The pink nightgown clung to her shape, the soft candlelight drawing shadows along the slope of her throat, the curve of her collarbone.

He traced his fingers up her arm, then leaned in, kissing her with a quiet intensity that was neither demanding nor pleading—only real.

Aurora kissed him back, but her hands trembled against his chest.

They did not speak again that night. Not of Adler. Not of executions. Not of motherhood or thrones or what it meant to raise kings in a world like this.

But somewhere in the way she let him hold her—tight, as if bracing herself for the next storm—and in the way he stroked her hair afterward, like a man unsure how to comfort the very woman he broke—

Something was understood.

Even if nothing was forgiven.

..........

The morning light slanted in through the high, narrow windows of the royal office, casting pale gold across the dark wood of Wu’s sprawling desk.

Incense smoke coiled from a black iron censer, the scent of myrrh and sandalwood thick in the chamber.

Scrolls lay opened and sealed alike across the tabletop, maps splayed and notes etched in sharp, meticulous calligraphy—rebellion reports, noble liaisons, whispers from the northern borders.

Wu sat behind the desk, his silver-white hair neat, dressed not in his princely robes but in a high-collared black tunic.

His expression was stoic as always, sharp eyes trained on the report he read, though the rings under them were darker than usual. The echo of footsteps came—bold, confident, and familiar.

The door opened without a knock.

Adler stepped inside, the polished black of his uniform catching the light, his boots clicking crisply on the marble floor. There was a smirk tugging faintly at his lips—a predator pleased with itself.

“You summoned, Father?”

Wu set the scroll down and looked up, eyes flicking briefly over his son. There was blood still faintly crusted beneath Adler’s nail beds, though he had clearly attempted to scrub clean. His posture was a picture of arrogance—spine straight, jaw squared, confidence blooming from cruelty.

“You did well,” Wu said flatly. “The man you brought in held valuable information. The ministers are… satisfied.”

Adler grinned.

“I’m glad to know my usefulness has value again. After all, what’s nobility without favor?”

Wu said nothing to the barb. He instead reached beneath the desk and pulled a sealed scroll—marked with a dark crimson wax. He held it out.

“There are remnants of that man’s cell in the southern quarters of the city. Discreetly placed. You’ll find names on this list—some known, some still being watched. You are to investigate quietly. Extract the truth. Burn what cannot be bent.”

Adler’s grin widened as he accepted the scroll.

“I’ll enjoy this,” he said simply, tucking it into his coat.

Wu’s voice sharpened: “Enjoy it, but don’t be reckless. I won't protect you if your carelessness costs the court its order.”

Adler’s grin faltered slightly. He bowed his head.

“I understand, Father.”

A beat passed between them—tense, yet strangely respectful.

Then Adler stepped back with a flourish and exited, closing the door with only a faint click. Silence fell again.

But it didn’t last.

Moments later, another knock came—quiet, composed, like water over stone. Wu didn’t look up as the door opened again.

“Abraxas.”

The elder son entered with his usual calm stride, dressed in ceremonial dark blues, his long coat flowing behind him. His gaze was cooler, less theatrical than his brother’s, but far more calculating.

“You gave Adler another task,” he said after a pause, eyes flicking to the now-absent scroll seal on the desk.

“He’s proven himself,” Wu replied. “And his presence in the public’s eye, after the execution, cannot be wasted.”

Abraxas nodded once, folding his arms behind his back.

“He’s brash. Hot-headed. No true discipline. Mother coddled him less than Helena, but he still learned how to whimper and rage when denied. You’ve rewarded him too quickly.”

Wu’s lips twitched. It could not be called a smile.

“Discipline is not always measured by silence. He obeyed. He succeeded. That is all I asked.”

Abraxas paced a few steps closer, the faintest crease on his brow.

“But you know as well as I do—Adler enjoys what you give him too much. Power should be respected. Not lusted after.”

Wu’s gaze sharpened.

“You think I don’t know my own son?”

Abraxas paused. He bowed his head lightly, a deferential motion—yet one laced with quiet challenge.

“No, Father. I think you know all of us… far too well.”

Wu stared at him for a moment longer before turning his eyes back to his scrolls. The tension thinned—but it did not vanish.

“I assume you didn’t come to lecture me about your brother.”

Abraxas inclined his head. “No. There’s been movement. A few of the grain houses in the eastern wards were vandalized. We suspect it's not petty theft—some of the marks left were symbolic. Old rebel signs.”

Wu stilled. His fingers tapped once on the desk.

“Small group?”

“Smaller than the last. But better coordinated. These are not children playing war in the alleys. We think they’re being funded. Possibly by the merchant faction that fled during your reforms.”

Wu hummed low in his throat.

“Investigate it. Quietly. Don’t let Garmadon’s court get wind. He’s already watching the southern nobles too closely.”

Abraxas nodded. But his voice dipped again.

“Will Mother be informed?”

Wu didn’t look up. “She doesn’t need more on her mind.”

A silence.

“She fainted,” Abraxas said softly. “Yesterday. You know why.”

Wu’s eyes flicked up. Cold. Final.

“Our private life is ours,” he warned, a quiet weight behind each syllable. “And she knows the cost of this crown as well as I do.”

Abraxas inclined his head again, respectful but unreadable.

“Yes, Father.”

Wu sighed faintly, then waved a hand in dismissal.

“Go. And tell your mother I’ll be late this evening.”

Abraxas turned and left, the door closing quietly behind him.

Wu leaned back in his chair at last, the fire in the brazier flickering lower, the shadows crawling up the walls once again.

The world outside moved like chess pieces across a bloodstained board.

And Wu, Prince of Shadows, had no intention of losing a single square.

.....

The fire had long since burned low in Garmadon’s study, leaving only the glow of emberlight licking across the edges of his desk.

Lloyd stood near the tall window, hands folded behind his back, the moon’s reflection catching faintly in his eyes.

The young prince was still—far too still for his age—but Garmadon had grown used to that silence in his son. It was a strength.

Harumi would be arriving in two days. The official engagement ceremony would be held in the grand court, with the wedding soon after. Ministers were already gathering gifts. The court seamstresses worked day and night.

“It is a good match,” Garmadon said, sipping from a dark porcelain cup. “Powerful bloodlines. She will command well at your side.”

Lloyd nodded once. “I understand, Father.”

He did not smile. He rarely did.

But Garmadon could see the tension in the boy’s jaw, the stiffness of his stance.

Lloyd was no child anymore—tall and lean, eyes colder than frostbite. Yet there was still something unfinished in him, something Garmadon didn’t name.

Not weakness. Not emotion. Something more dangerous: hesitation.

“You’ll do your duty,” Garmadon said quietly, setting his cup down. “And in time, you will be Emperor. That throne will need no softness.”

Before Lloyd could reply, a quiet knock came at the door. One of the household maids bowed deeply, eyes to the floor.

“My lord… forgive the hour. Lady Arabella… she has begun her bleeding. The pain is… worse than usual.”

Garmadon’s expression did not shift, but he stood immediately.

Lloyd’s gaze followed him, unreadable.

“Go rest,” Garmadon said curtly to his son. “We will speak more tomorrow.”

And without another word, he swept out of the room, his black robes whispering against the stone floor like silk over a blade.

By the time he entered the royal bedchamber, the fire there had been stoked to a low, soothing glow. The scent of lavender and clove lingered in the air—Arabella’s doing, no doubt.

The heavy curtains had been drawn closed, muffling the howling winds outside. A few of her books sat untouched on the nightstand, their pages curled faintly at the edges.

Arabella lay curled on her side beneath the embroidered sheets, her breathing soft but uneven. Her long, honey hair spilled like ink across the pillow.

She was pale, brow faintly damp from feverish pain. Her hand pressed to her lower abdomen in a futile attempt at relief.

Garmadon shed his robe silently and slipped into the bed behind her, his warmth meeting hers. She stirred faintly as he wrapped one arm around her waist, his large hand resting against her cramping belly.

She exhaled shakily. “You don’t have to… come to me every time this happens.”

Her voice was quiet, slurred slightly from fatigue and discomfort.

Still, Garmadon merely began to massage her abdomen gently, his fingers practiced and firm in the right way.

She relaxed under his touch—gradually, like a woman uncoiling from iron.

“I am your husband,” he murmured low against her hair. “Would you rather I be like most men? A scoundrel with a mistress? Gone to war while his wife weeps?”

Arabella made a soft noise—a tired, amused sound.

“I suppose not,” she whispered. “You’re faithful. Devoted. Possessive…”

She trailed off before her voice turned softer still.

“I am grateful, Garmadon. Even if you don’t want to hear me say it. I just…”

He felt her hesitate.

“… I just wonder,” she said drowsily, “if I asked you to stop being cruel—if I said, please stop, would you listen?”

Garmadon was silent for a moment.

She was delicate tonight, already in pain—her blood, her womb, her body raw. He would not bruise her with politics.

He bent and kissed the nape of her neck, the gesture intimate and slow. His voice was soft—softer than she had heard it in weeks.

“Don't speak of heavy things tonight, my dove,” he murmured. “Let the world be wicked without dragging it into our bed.”

Arabella blinked sleepily, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks. “Avoiding the question…”

“And protecting your peace,” he murmured again, his lips brushing her skin.

His hand resumed its slow, careful movement over her abdomen.

She sighed, melting against him again. The room was still, the wind beyond their windows howling but kept at bay.

“You always know how to make me quiet,” she muttered faintly.

He let a ghost of a smile touch his mouth.

“You bleed, and the world turns red,” he said, a whisper against her ear. “I have no wish to make it worse.”

She murmured something unintelligible—half asleep now, warm in his arms, cradled in his presence despite all that he was.

He did not speak again. He merely held her there, whispering silence into the shadows as the candle burned lower.

....

Chapter Text

The drums sounded just after midday, low and ceremonial, echoing through the marble halls of the imperial palace like the beating of a great, ancient heart.

The Jade Princess had arrived.

Dressed in an opulent gown of emerald silk and layered brocade, she stepped from the royal carriage flanked by her noble parents—Lady Emiko and Lord Akihiro of the Southern Jade Houses.

Her hair was snow-white, intricately pinned into a twisted crown of braids and golden combs. Her skin was pale, nearly porcelain, but not fragile. Her crimson lips curved faintly, knowingly, as she glanced up at the towering palace gates.

The guards bowed low. Trumpets blared. Servants scattered flower petals along the white marble steps.

Above them, banners bearing the symbol of House Spinjitzu and the Jade Houses billowed in the breeze—black dragons and green lotuses entwined.

Inside, the court watched from their columns and balconies.

Whispers rippled.

“She’s lovely…”

“Look at that smile—poison or promise?”

“Wears green like the prince…”

And there, standing at the top of the stairs in a black and forest-toned ceremonial robe, stood Prince Lloyd.

Tall, austere, his golden hair caught the light like a fallen halo. But it was his eyes that marked him—the unnatural, gleaming green of his father's line. Eyes that held no softness.

When their gazes met, the air tensed. He descended one step, then another, offering his hand.

“Princess Harumi,” he said.

She curtsied deeply, the silk of her gown whispering against the stone. Then, with deliberate grace, she placed her gloved hand in his.

“My prince.”

Later that day, the court had retreated to its business, and the sun hung low over the sky, gold bleeding into deepening blue.

In the hush of the imperial gardens—where thorned roses grew beside black lotuses and the koi ponds reflected blood-orange clouds—Lloyd and Harumi walked in quiet rhythm.

It was peaceful. But never simple.

“You wear green well,” Lloyd said after a time, glancing sideways at her. “You should wear it more often.”

Harumi tilted her head, a small, knowing smile tugging at her lips. “Is that so? Or do you say that because your favorite color is green, my prince?”

She gestured to him subtly—his deep green robes, the shimmer in his eyes, even the jade crest on his collar.

Lloyd gave a rare, quiet laugh. “Perhaps. But I don’t compliment lightly. You wear it better than I ever could.”

Her smile deepened, painted lips like a soft cut of rubies. “You have wit, my lord. But also taste.”

They continued walking. A crane flew overhead, the rustling of wings a brief interlude.

“I admire your father,” Harumi said after a time. “His cruelty is… magnificent. The old stories of his conquests, how he razed cities with a blade in one hand and fire in the other. Your family does not rule because of love, but because the world fears what would happen without you.”

Lloyd looked at her for a long moment.

“You admire bloodshed,” he said quietly.

“I admire order,” she replied. “And power. Your father kept both. And I think you will too.”

There was silence again. But it was comfortable this time.

Electric, even.

Lloyd turned to her fully, studying her face beneath the gilded glow of the descending sun.

She tilted her chin up slightly in return—unflinching, inviting.

His hand reached up without thought, fingers brushing against her cheek.

Her skin was cool silk beneath his calloused hand. His thumb traced slowly across her lower lip—leaving behind a smudge of crimson.

Harumi’s eyes gleamed. “Now look at that,” she murmured. “Your fingers are stained red. Is that symbolic, my prince?”

Lloyd’s lips curved into something sly, almost boyish—yet never soft.

“Perhaps,” he said. “Or perhaps it’s a warning.”

She arched a delicate brow, but before she could respond, he pulled back. The warmth of his touch vanished like smoke.

“Come,” he said with calm finality. “The court will be expecting us at the evening feast.”

And with that, he turned and walked ahead, leaving Harumi with her lips still red and her thoughts humming.

She smiled to herself—sharp, pleased, and entirely unafraid.

..........

The throne hall of the imperial palace had been transformed into a glittering courtly banquet. Tall, arched windows let in the last of the sun’s gold, which pooled against obsidian-tiled floors and spilled across the red lacquered tables.

The walls were draped in black silk banners embroidered with the symbols of Ninjago’s ruling houses—dragons, lotuses, and jade flames stitched in gold.

Lanterns hovered in the air above the tables, flickering with enchanted light that cast an amber glow over the assembled nobles.

Music played faintly from the side—a quartet of court musicians plucking at shamisen strings and flutes that weaved a serene, noble melody into the air.

The First Spinjitzu Master sat at the highest table, a goblet of black wine in hand. His long silver hair was bound in a ceremonial knot, his golden robes sweeping as he leaned slightly toward his ministers.

They spoke in hushed tones—grain yields from the eastern provinces, rising unrest in the lower districts, foreign coin entering the royal mint.

His wife, Queen Sera, sat beside him, cradling Helena in her lap with grandmotherly pride, her eyes lit with joy that softened even her sharp cheekbones. Aurora sats beside her, smiling. 

On the lower tables, nobles feasted—braised lotus root, spiced duck, candied plums, and steaming bowls of rice scented with saffron and pine.

Wu and Garmadon stood slightly apart, speaking with Lord Akihiro, Harumi’s father, who was dressed in a regal emerald robe lined with sable. Their conversation was measured, if sharp-edged.

“You will find,” Garmadon murmured, sipping wine, “that we honor alliances in blood, not just parchment. This union will bind our realms. Trade shall flow as long as loyalty does.”

Wu, ever colder, added, “And we expect that trade to include arms. Not just silks and grain.”

Lord Akihiro bowed his head. “Of course, Prince Wu. The south is eager to serve the empire’s will.”

Meanwhile, at a far table, Lloyd sat surrounded by the elemental masters. His green robes were formal, fastened with silver clasps shaped like coiled dragons.

“I can’t believe you’re actually getting married,” Jay said between mouthfuls of duck. “Is it weird? It’s weird, right?”

“I think it’s impressive,” Zane commented calmly. “Princess Harumi is clearly intelligent, educated, and diplomatic. A well-suited match.”

“Sounds like you’re marrying a scroll,” Kai muttered, elbowing Lloyd.

“She is impressive,” Lloyd replied simply, picking at his plate but eating little. “And not easily read. That makes her interesting.”

Cole raised a brow. “You like interesting, or dangerous?”

“They’re often the same thing,” Lloyd said quietly, glancing over to where Harumi stood across the hall.

Arabella sat near the head of the noblewomen’s table, her long hair twisted into a crown braid, and her purple gown edged in violet crystals that shimmered in the lamplight.

In her arms, little Lysandra squirmed slightly, already speaking in half-formed words and eager chirps, her small hands clutching the gemstone pendant around her mother’s neck.

“Eyes!” Lysandra babbled, pointing at something—or someone.

Arabella smiled faintly, brushing a soft kiss against her daughter’s crown. “Yes, little star. Eyes.”

A rustle of silks announced the approach of Princess Harumi and her mother, Lady Emiko.

Both were clad in elegant shades of green—Harumi in a sleeveless jade gown with golden embroidery shaped like leaves winding up her bodice, her white hair loose in gentle waves, and Lady Emiko in a more structured gown of forest silk, her high collar ringed with emeralds.

“Crown Princess Arabella,” Harumi said with a practiced curtsy. “And little Princess Lysandra. May I say—how radiant you look this evening.”

Arabella inclined her head, regal yet warm. “Princess Harumi. You honor us with your grace.”

Lysandra tilted her head and pointed again, eyes wide. “Green,” she said, somewhat clearly this time.

Harumi gave a gentle laugh. “She’s sharp. She’s noticed the color of her brother’s soul.”

“She has his eyes,” Lady Emiko added, smiling as though she’d planned the remark for days. “That brilliant green—unnatural, but beautiful.”

Arabella’s lips curved softly. “She was born under a hunter’s moon. All fire and instinct. I suppose green suits her after all.”

A group of noblewomen had drifted closer, their jeweled gowns rustling like wind through leaves. They formed a semi-circle—curious, listening, watching.

One of them, Lady Yukiko of House Tarin, smiled graciously. “Princess Harumi, your composure is remarkable. Your court back home must weep at losing such elegance.”

“You speak kindly,” Harumi replied with a polite bow of her head. “I only hope to serve this house well and become worthy of it.”

Another, Lady Reina, tilted her head with feline interest. “It is rare to see such beauty paired with such humility.”

“My daughter is trained in everything from philosophy to poison,” Lady Emiko said proudly, sipping her wine. “She was raised to rule beside power, not beneath it.”

The ladies chuckled lightly. Arabella did not.

She sat still, stroking Lysandra’s back, eyes never leaving Harumi’s face.

“You must be very proud,” Arabella said, her voice soft and unreadable.

“I am,” Emiko said without hesitation.

Harumi only smiled, meeting Arabella’s gaze with calm serenity, her red lips a perfect, unbroken line.

The ceremonial gong sounded once, low and deep, echoing through the great hall like the beat of a distant war drum.

Silence fell like a shroud over the assembled court. Goblets were lowered. Conversations died mid-sentence.

All eyes turned toward the raised dais where a pair of golden thrones had been set, entwined with jade serpents and draped in pale green silk.

Before them stood the First Spinjitzu Master, regal and cold-eyed, his robes trailing like mist across the obsidian floor.

At his gesture, the engagement ceremony began.

Lloyd stepped forward, the Crown Prince in his full glory—his green cloak fastened with a brooch shaped like a burning dragon, his golden crown resting lightly on his forehead. He looked calm, collected, but in his green eyes was a flicker of something unreadable. Perhaps doubt. Perhaps calculation.

Harumi joined him a heartbeat later, her gown of deep jade hugging her form like it had been poured over her skin. Her silver-white hair shimmered under the lantern light, her lips still painted that signature red. She offered her hand, gloved in sheer silk, and tilted her chin upward with quiet poise.

The Master of Ceremonies presented the rings—both forged from obsidian and set with emeralds mined from the northern mountains, a symbol of unbreakable union and unyielding rule.

Lloyd took her hand, his fingers warm and steady as he slid the ring onto hers. Harumi returned the gesture, her fingers brushing over his before she slid the matching ring onto his.

There was no kiss. There never was at royal engagements. But the silence that followed carried a weight more binding than vows.

Applause erupted, led by Queen Sera herself. It echoed across the banquet hall in steady, polite rhythm.

Lady Emiko beamed with pride, her hands clasped at her chest as she turned toward the nearby noblewomen.

“Do you see,” she said, her voice loud enough for those behind her to hear, “what vision looks like? My daughter—blessed with wisdom, wit, and a soul as sharp as a blade. She’s no meek flower wilting in the shade. She was born for a throne. And now she will be beside one.”

Lady Reina nodded approvingly. “A crown for her, and a legacy for your house.”

“And children soon, no doubt,” added Lady Yukiko. “Royal blood passed on—how thrilling.”

“She was reading political texts at seven,” Emiko continued, not bothering to disguise her pride. “She debated foreign envoys by twelve. When she was fifteen, a lord from Ryu offered his entire province for her hand. She declined, wisely. She knew better things were coming.”

The women around her laughed with admiration—or at least the performance of it.

At a corner alcove, hidden behind a heavy velvet curtain near the side corridor, the noble lady in question had her back pressed against the carved wall, her breath ragged.

Her hands tangled in the silk belt of Adler’s half-undone robes. Her lips were red and swollen, her voice breathless as she whispered something into his ear.

Adler, the younger son of Wu, stood above her, his golden hair tousled, one hand still at her waist, his mouth brushing her neck.

Then—

“You reek of desperation.”

The voice was a blade, and it cut through the heat like ice.

Abraxas stood in the corridor entrance, his expression furious beneath his ceremonial robes. His black gloves clenched at his sides as he stared down his younger brother with a disgusted sneer.

The noble lady gasped and fled, her heels clicking rapidly across the floor as she disappeared into the safety of the crowd.

Adler turned lazily, fixing his robes with a smirk. “Must you always ruin my fun?”

“Must you always be the fun that needs ruining?” Abraxas snapped, stepping forward. “You’re a disgrace. You think just because Father is distracted with the court, you can indulge your base urges at every opportunity?”

Adler scoffed. “Forgive me for craving pleasure in a court full of ice-hearted tyrants.”

Abraxas grabbed him by the collar. “Do you ever think before you act? This is the Crown Prince’s engagement night—our family is under a thousand eyes. And you’re groping noble daughters behind curtains like a brothel rat?”

“I have a high libido, brother,” Adler hissed. “It’s not a sin to desire release.”

“You sound like a dog in heat,” Abraxas spat, shoving him back. “You have no control, no dignity—nothing but lust and a pretty face. Do you think Father would ever name you heir? You can’t even keep your pants fastened.”

Adler’s smirk faded. For a moment, shame flickered in his eyes.

But then he shrugged. “At least I know how to feel, unlike you.”

Abraxas said nothing. But his silence was heavier than words.

Harumi, having returned to the company of court ladies near the western gallery, sipped delicately from a goblet of lotus wine. Her smile was serene as she listened to a small circle of noblewomen who had huddled near the garden doors, whispering like sparrows.

One of them, Lady Sato, leaned in. “Princess Arabella is lovely, truly. But don’t you think she’s… rather docile?”

“She reminds me of a porcelain doll,” said another. “Pretty, yes, but fragile. A wife, not a ruler.”

“She rarely speaks in council. She mostly just holds her daughter and listens,” another chimed. “Even when she disagrees with the First Master, she simply lowers her eyes.”

“She was just a minor princess from the south, after all,” Lady Reina said. “Charming, yes—but hardly prepared for the high court.”

Harumi tilted her head slightly, as if in thought. “She seems well-liked,” she said softly. “Especially by Prince Garmadon.”

“Oh, certainly,” Lady Sato replied. “But men are often fond of softness. It doesn’t mean they respect it.”

The ladies laughed behind their fans, and Harumi laughed too, sweetly, eyes unreadable.

But deep within, her mind was sharp, cutting through every word.

Arabella was beloved. Respected? Perhaps not.

Harumi could use that.

She turned her gaze toward the royal table where Arabella sat, cradling Lysandra with gentle patience, speaking only when spoken to, her soft smile never faltering.

Harumi sipped her wine again, her red lips curling ever so slightly.

The hour crept past midnight, its passage veiled behind silken curtains and the flickering dance of candlelight.

The banquet at court still pulsed with gentle music and half-empty goblets, laughter softening into a low, luxurious hum across the marble hall.

Yet Arabella’s body ached—deep, relentless cramps pulsed in her lower abdomen like clenched fists. She had borne through the night with silent grace, her features calm, though every step sent discomfort crawling up her spine.

She adjusted her grip on the child in her arms. Little Lysandra—Lloyd’s green eyes mirrored in her small, tear-bright ones—clung to her gown, cheek nestled against her breast.

Arabella had tried to hand her over earlier, whispering softly that she needed to rest, but the little girl had shrieked in heartbreak, her tiny fingers clutching her mother’s silk sleeves like a lifeline.

And so Arabella bore her pain with composure, lips faintly pressed together, arms steady around her daughter.

With a brief nod to her attendants and a soft excuse to Sera, who was deep in delighted conversation with a minister, Arabella began the quiet retreat toward the nursery.

The lantern-lit hallway was empty but warm, shadows playing upon the ornate stone walls, echoing the soft footfalls of the nursemaids trailing behind her. Lysandra was babbling softly now—broken, babyish syllables that mimicked words she’d only just begun learning.

Arabella responded gently, low murmurs meant to soothe, her tone full of affection and calm despite the quiet war in her body.

They reached the archway to the nursery.

Then—a whistle, a blur, a breath too sharp to belong to peace.

Arabella flinched back instinctively, twisting to shield Lysandra just as a masked man lunged from the shadows, blade flashing in his hand. A scream from the nursemaid—cut short. Time slowed. Arabella clutched her child tighter, pivoting away.

But before the attacker’s blade could meet flesh—a streak of silver and black.

The sound of steel meeting bone.

A spray of blood.

And the man’s head fell to the floor with a sickening thud, his body following in a graceless slump.

Arabella gasped—but not from the blood.

Garmadon stood there, panting, eyes like burning coals under shadowed brows, his dark cloak swirling with residual motion. His sword gleamed, slick with fresh blood, his face carved in grim fury.

Lysandra shrieked. Loud, high, inconsolable wailing erupted from her as her small eyes locked onto the gruesome scene.

Arabella instinctively turned her daughter’s face away, holding her close, her heartbeat racing as she shielded the child with her trembling arms. Her lips pressed to Lysandra’s crown as if she could smother the horror with love.

Garmadon dropped the blade with a clatter, striding toward them. His arms slid gently around Arabella’s shoulders, enveloping both mother and daughter in a secure embrace. One hand stroked Lysandra’s back, the other cupped the back of Arabella’s head.

“I’m here,” he murmured gruffly. “You’re safe.”

Arabella leaned into him faintly, her body still stiff with aftershock. Garmadon gently pried Lysandra from her arms, rocking her against his broad chest. His voice, so often sharp, softened into something rarely heard—deep and low, a rumbling lull to calm a crying child.

Footsteps thundered down the hall. Lloyd arrived first, followed closely by Harumi and her mother, Lady Emiko.

Lloyd’s sharp eyes took in the corpse instantly, his body already tensed for battle before realizing the danger had passed. Harumi’s breath hitched. Emiko gasped, stumbling backward, her gloved hand flying to her mouth.

“Oh Heavens—!” she whispered in revulsion, unable to look at the beheaded corpse a second longer.

Garmadon did not flinch. His voice was low and cold. “Silence. No one speaks of this outside these walls.” His crimson gaze flicked to the guards now arriving. “Clean it up. Scrub the floors. No trace of this should remain by morning.”

“Yes, my lord,” they said in unison, dragging the body away swiftly.

Arabella’s legs wavered beneath her, and Garmadon caught her again, one arm wrapping tightly around her waist. Lysandra, now hiccuping, nuzzled into her father’s chest, one fist grasping the black of his collar.

“She will sleep with us tonight,” Garmadon stated firmly. “Her chambers will be cleansed and guarded until I say otherwise.”

Harumi’s lips parted slightly as she observed the tableau before her.

The Warlord prince—the cruel conqueror, the scourge of nations—was gently rocking a toddler in his arms, speaking soft nothings into her hair while his hand rested protectively on his wife's waist. And Arabella—though pale and shaken—was not just standing beside him. She belonged there. That bond, that intimacy, that power through devotion—Harumi’s sharp eyes took it all in.

She tilted her head thoughtfully, her expression unreadable.

Lloyd reached for his mother’s arm, helping steady her. Arabella gave him a weary smile.

“I’m alright, darling,” she whispered.

And yet, as they turned back toward the royal quarters, Lysandra cradled between them, and the guards hurried to erase blood from marble—Harumi could not help but think:

There was a lesson in this.

And she would not forget it.

****

Chapter Text

The air in Garmadon’s private chambers was heavy with candlelight and the distant hum of guards murmuring down the corridor—heightened after the masked assassin's sudden, brutal demise.

Shadows flickered along the marbled walls and rich silken drapery, and the faint scent of blood still lingered faintly on Garmadon’s robes.

He stood by the tall arched window, arms folded, eyes narrowed with storm-silent fury as he spoke to one of his most trusted soldiers in low, crisp tones.

“Find out who he was. How he entered. Who allowed it. If you must burn half the city to uncover the truth, do it quietly.”

The soldier bowed deeply and disappeared into the shadows.

Garmadon’s jaw was clenched, his breath steady but slow. When he turned back into the room, his steely façade softened just slightly at the sight before him.

Arabella sat upon their vast bed of dark velvet and jade green brocade, her posture stooped gently as she nursed a now calmed Lysandra.

The baby girl, still teary-eyed from the earlier chaos, suckled slowly with one tiny hand curled against her mother’s chest, the other clutching the folds of Arabella’s lavender silk nightgown.

Arabella’s long curls fell around her face, damp with sweat. She winced subtly as a wave of cramps twisted through her abdomen, her expression exhausted but composed.

“She’s calming down,” Arabella murmured, not looking up. “Though she was scared. She saw too much.”

Garmadon strode silently toward the bed, his expression unreadable. He signaled a maid waiting just outside.

“Bring hot tea. Ginger and clove. Now.”

As the door closed again, he pulled off the outer layer of his robes, his sharp features drawn with lingering tension. Yet his voice, when he spoke next, was low and measured.

“You shouldn’t have walked back alone. I should have escorted you. I was… distracted.”

Arabella looked up then, her eyes gleaming under the low golden light. “You came when it mattered.”

She shifted slightly, hiding a grimace. “And it wasn’t Lysandra’s nursery that was unsafe. It was this palace.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I asked about the banquet,” Garmadon said, his voice laced with the cool calm of someone testing waters. “Did anything catch your eye?”

Arabella’s gaze flickered. “Harumi. She’s clever. Knows when to speak and when to listen. She’ll survive the court. She may even control it soon.”

That caught Garmadon’s interest. He moved to sit beside her, careful not to disturb Lysandra, who was now blinking drowsily, full and pacified.

“She’ll try,” he mused, leaning back against the carved headboard. “But control is never simply taken. It is earned… or bought. Or spilled in blood.”

Arabella adjusted her nightgown, shifting Lysandra upright against her chest to burp her. Her tone was soft, but not aimless. “If I asked for more power… would you give it to me?”

His head turned sharply toward her, intrigued. The corner of his mouth curled into the faintest, most dangerous of smirks. “You’ve never asked before.”

“I ask now,” she whispered, her eyes on Lysandra, who let out a tiny hiccup before snuggling into her mother’s shoulder. “Not because I am ambitious. But because I must protect her. Myself. Aurora, Sera. Even Helena. We are soft things in a kingdom of blades. I need to learn to be sharper.”

Garmadon said nothing for a long moment. Then he slowly reached out and touched the edge of her hair, smoothing it behind her ear with an oddly tender motion.

“I have waited,” he murmured, “so long to hear you say that.”

Arabella looked down at their daughter, whose breath had evened into sleep. “If I am to survive this place, I must not just wear pretty gowns and smile at noble women who would be happy to see me fall.”

“You are my wife,” Garmadon said, rising to take Lysandra from her arms with practiced ease. “You were born to rise, Arabella. But power has a price.”

Arabella exhaled. “Then let me pay it, before it’s demanded of me.”

He cradled Lysandra against his shoulder, swaying gently, his sharp expression tempered by the softness only his daughter could evoke. Her tiny green eyes fluttered open, sleepy and confused, before closing again.

“Rest now,” he said, his voice low. “I’ll see to her. You’ve done enough tonight.”

Arabella allowed herself to lie back slowly, the comfort of the bed finally catching her weary body.

Her fingers curled over the covers, her eyes never leaving the pair across the room—father and daughter—cocooned in the flicker of warm candlelight and dark power.

As she drifted into sleep, her final thought was not of fear, but of strategy.

Power would no longer be something Arabella feared. It would be something she learned to wield.

.....

The warm golden hue of lanternlight danced softly across the ivory stone walls of Wu and Aurora’s private bedchambers.

A low fire crackled in the hearth, casting gentle shadows that flickered over the long silk curtains and intricately embroidered tapestries lining the high, curved ceiling. Outside, the moon reigned in full splendor—cold, distant, and watchful.

Inside, however, the mood was intimate and tense.

Aurora stood in a pale blush nightgown of lace and silk, her long hair loose and cascading like a veil over her back. She cradled Helena gently in her arms, rocking her with a quiet rhythm that matched the hush of the room.

The toddler whimpered faintly, restless and unsettled, her small fists clenching the fabric of her mother’s gown.

Aurora had refused to place her in the nursery tonight—ever since the attack on Arabella’s side of the palace, the mere thought sent a cold lance of dread through her heart.

“No one will touch you,” she whispered to Helena. “Not while I still breathe.”

Wu, seated near the hearth on a carved chair of black oak and deep red velvet, watched them in silence. His long white robe was half-unfastened. He looked tired, and older than he had in years, though his gaze was still as sharp as the blade he wore daily.

“You looked beautiful tonight,” he said quietly.

Aurora didn’t look at him. Her attention was still on Helena, but her posture shifted almost imperceptibly. A faint red crept up her neck to the tips of her ears, betraying the effect of his words.

“I wore gold,” she murmured. “You never liked gold.”

“I never liked it on others,” he replied. “But it suits you.”

Aurora pressed a kiss to Helena’s brow and murmured a soft lullaby in their old tongue.

Helena’s eyes fluttered shut, then blinked open again with a frown. Still fussy. Still unwilling to sleep.

The quiet was broken by a firm knock at the doors.

Wu rose, his face hardening instantly. He moved with the swift grace of a man who had spent his life in discipline, opened the doors, and stepped outside.

The servant spoke in a low voice, barely above a whisper, but Aurora could still catch fragments of the exchange:

“…caught leaving the east corridor… Lady Rinna of House Yasu… compromising position…”

Wu dismissed the servant with a nod, then closed the door with a controlled click. His face, though calm, had turned cold.

Aurora turned to him, holding Helena tightly. “What is it?”

Wu exhaled through his nose. “Adler.”

Her expression crumpled in distress. “Oh…”

“Lady Rinna,” Wu said icily. “A well-bred fool with too many jewels and too few morals. He was seen with her. Briefly, but enough. The noble families will talk.”

Aurora sat on the edge of the bed, holding Helena closer. “Why does he behave like this? He was raised to know better. Copulation before marriage is not just disgraceful—it is sinful.”

Wu’s jaw tightened. “He has grown too indulgent. Too soft. He lives in the shadow of a name he does not yet understand. He forgets the blood he carries is sacred.”

Aurora looked down at Helena, then placed her gently on the floor. “Should we punish him? Or exile him?”

“I’m considering the southern monastery,” Wu said slowly. “Or perhaps a martial arts sect in the eastern peaks. Far enough from temptation. Brutal enough to teach restraint.”

Aurora nodded silently. “Let him learn humility before pride ruins him.”

At that moment, Helena let out a curious squeal and began crawling, then toddling unsteadily across the smooth floor on chubby legs.

She found one of Wu’s scroll racks and pulled at it with glee, toppling two of the ancient bamboo scrolls with a triumphant grin.

Wu, despite the storm in his chest, let out a short, quiet laugh. “She’s getting faster.”

“She’s been practicing,” Aurora smiled gently, moving beside her daughter. Helena turned and toddled back, her eyes bright as she babbled, “Ma-ma-ma-ma!”

Aurora’s heart swelled. “Yes, my love. Mama’s here.”

She lifted Helena into her arms and kissed her cheeks with soft affection. “You are so clever. So brave.”

Wu came closer, his eyes resting on them both. The bitterness in him receded for a brief moment as Helena reached toward his sleeve and yanked it with a tiny triumphant grunt.

“She may rule this palace one day,” he murmured. “Ninjago help the ministers.”

Aurora smiled as Helena began babbling again, lost in her own little world. “She already rules you.”

Wu didn’t deny it.

He leaned over and kissed Helena’s head—just once—before brushing his fingers over Aurora’s shoulder.

“I’ll deal with Adler,” he said. “But tonight, let her stay. With us.”

Aurora nodded. “I wasn’t going to let her go anyway.”

And so, the child stayed, nestled between mother and father as the night deepened. Wu, silent and cold to the world, softened only in these fleeting moments. Aurora, gentle and guarded, remained ever watchful.

And Helena, already bursting with fierce little sparks of life, slept in the shelter of two souls who had seen too much of darkness—but guarded her light with all they had.

..........

The morning sun spilled gold across the silken floors of the royal bridal chamber, where the finest seamstresses in the empire bustled about like busy bees.

Bolts of snow-colored silk, embroidered pearls, and threads of crimson and emerald lay strewn on the tables like treasures from the deep.

The scent of fresh jasmine hung lightly in the air, wafting from incense that burned in the corners, a gentle omen of sanctity and celebration.

Harumi stood tall on a small velvet pedestal, draped in the beginnings of her wedding gown.

The fabric was delicate and yet regal—white as bone with veins of crimson brocade that shimmered like blood under torchlight.

Her white hair was being gently combed by her lady-in-waiting and closest confidante, Ultra Violet, who stood with a crooked smirk as she watched the seamstresses adjust the hemline with reverent hands.

“You’ll be the most beautiful bride this court has seen in decades,” Ultra Violet murmured. “Even Arabella will pale beside you.”

Harumi smiled faintly, but there was calculation behind her emerald eyes.

With deliberate innocence, she glanced at one of the older seamstresses adjusting the bodice, and asked sweetly, “Tell me, if you can remember... what was Lady Arabella’s wedding like? I admit I’m... nervous. It must’ve been quite something—marrying a man like Prince Garmadon.”

The older woman’s weathered hands paused, the needle held delicately between gnarled fingers. Her gaze softened with memory.

“Oh, child, I remember it as though it were yesterday,” she said fondly. “Lady Arabella was just a slip of a girl back then. The youngest of six daughters from the Southern Kingdom of Vassari. Beautiful, of course, but quiet. Timid. No one expected much of her.”

“She wasn’t the favored daughter?” Harumi asked with a blink.

The old woman chuckled. “Not in the slightest. Her father, King Theodric, hardly looked her way. All his pride was in his older daughters—Belinda, Karina, the lot. But during the Winter Solstice Convocation, when all the royal courts gathered in unity... Prince Garmadon saw her. Just once.”

“Love at first sight?” Harumi asked, tone airy but eyes sharp.

“No one knew if it was love,” the seamstress mused, stitching calmly, “but it was obsession. The kind you feel in your bones. Cold and sudden, like a dagger dipped in wine. Garmadon said not a word to her then—just watched from the shadows like a beast deciding whether to strike. Days later, he and his brother Wu returned with their father and demanded an audience with King Theodric.”

A second seamstress, younger but with silver at her temples, chimed in, “The King offered his eldest daughters. Arabella wasn’t even in the discussion. Too shy, too soft, too magic-touched, he said. But Garmadon... he threatened to burn the Southern Capital to the ground unless Arabella was offered instead.”

Ultra Violet let out a quiet, delighted whistle.

Harumi tilted her head. “He threatened the King? For a girl he barely knew?”

“He didn’t need to know her,” the older seamstress murmured. “He just chose her. Garmadon had never been known for mercy. And when he chooses something, heaven and earth won’t sway him. Poor girl was terrified. Their betrothal was announced within the week. She didn’t even understand what was happening at first. You should have seen her during her fittings... trembling, barely speaking.”

“But the wedding?” Harumi pressed.

“Oh, it was divine,” the third seamstress said, setting down her thread. “Wisteria flowers strung from every arch, crimson banners flaring in the wind, a black and gold carriage carved with obsidian pulled her through the city. The guests whispered that she looked like a lamb being led to a wolf’s den.”

“Did he hurt her?” Harumi asked carefully.

The seamstress hesitated, then shook her head. “Not once. Not a hand raised, not a voice. No mistresses. No cruelty. He never so much as scolded her in public. That was the most terrifying part. Everyone waited for the storm, but it never came. He treated her like glass—dangerous if broken.”

“She grew into her role,” the second seamstress added. “She learned to walk beside him instead of behind him. And he... well, he softened. In his way. But there’s still something frightening about how much he listens to her.”

“Power,” Harumi whispered, almost to herself.

“Yes,” the seamstress smiled. “But not the kind that speaks loud. The kind that whispers.”

Harumi turned slightly as they adjusted the corset at her back. Her expression was unreadable, but her thoughts were sharp as razors.

She wasn’t afraid of wolves, not when she had learned how to tame them—or better yet, become one herself. Arabella may have been chosen. But Harumi would rise on her own.

With practiced grace, she reached for her bridal veil and let the lace cascade through her fingers.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “That was... enlightening.”

The seamstresses bowed and resumed their work.

Harumi glanced down at the unfinished gown. "Let's make the sleeves longer. And add more pearls. This dress should reflect the empire I’m marrying into.”

The seamstresses obeyed with bowed heads, while the future Crown Princess Consort sat silent and still—her mind, like a chessboard, already positioning the pieces.

Ultra Violet leaned in, smirking. “What’s running through that pretty head of yours now, my lady?”

Harumi smiled sweetly, eyes lingering on her reflection in the mirror.

“Oh, nothing. Just thinking of my future... and how I intend to control it.”

****

Chapter Text

The wedding bells had not yet rung, and already shadows curled like smoke around the palace walls. Whispers, lies, envy—like creeping vines—spread among the nobles, threading their poison into idle conversation and sharpened glances.

The scent of jasmine hung thick in the air, heavy with secrecy and deception, as Garmadon sat at his desk in the inner sanctum of his study, hunched over an open scroll, quill in hand.

Wax seals glinted in the dim lamplight. His dark robes flowed around him like spilled ink, the candlelight catching against the gold trim on his shoulders.

Daiki, his most trusted shadow and closest confidante, stood at attention.

“Sire,” Daiki began, voice careful, even, “There are...rumors.”

Garmadon did not lift his head. His quill scratched steadily across the parchment.

“Rumors are like rats, Daiki. Always breeding. Always crawling,” Garmadon muttered, eyes still on the document. “You know what we do with rats.”

Daiki gave a slight bow of his head. “Yes, my Lord. I have already begun inquiries. However, the one who first said it remains nameless. But the words...they have spread. Whispers that you are—”

“—Unfaithful,” Garmadon finished, his voice colder now, cutting through the room like the edge of a blade. “Let them speak. They always do.”

Daiki hesitated. “My Lord...Lady Arabella overheard some of them. In the gardens. The court ladies made pointed remarks. Mocking ones.”

Now, Garmadon’s quill stopped. He set it down slowly, with precision, as if even this was a ritual. His jaw tensed. A flicker of something darker flared in his eyes.

“Names,” he demanded, voice like gravel over ice.

“I have some. More will come.”

“Kill them,” Garmadon said simply. “Each one who dared to say it. Let their blood soak the roots of the garden where they spat their poison. Make an example.”

Daiki bowed deeper. “Yes, my Lord.”

Without waiting for more, Garmadon stood, the dark folds of his robes sweeping behind him like wings. He didn’t need time to think. He knew exactly where she would be.

In one of the golden drawing rooms that overlooked the eastern courtyard, Arabella sat on a velvet floor rug embroidered with lilies, her gown of soft lavender pooling around her like a flower in bloom.

The sunlight streaming through the windows caught in her dark hair as she leaned forward, gently holding Lysandra’s small hands.

The child, almost one now, was trying to form words, babbling with excitement. Her tiny lips curled into half-formed syllables, her little fingers stretching toward her mother’s face.

Arabella smiled—soft, fragile. There was always something gentle about her joy, even now, even in a place ruled by men of stone and fire.

Behind her, the doors opened.

She didn’t look.

“I heard,” Garmadon’s voice said.

Arabella glanced up, still cradling Lysandra. Her expression was calm—too calm.

“I pray for them,” she said softly. “Those who spread it. They are lost souls.”

Garmadon stepped closer, his footsteps like thunder on polished floors. “You pray for enemies.”

“I pray for the weak,” Arabella replied, still not rising. “Because cruelty and gossip are born from weakness.”

He stood before her now, looking down at the woman who had once been a trembling girl in a strange palace. There was no trembling in her anymore, just grace laced with steel.

Lysandra let out a small hiccup and reached for Garmadon. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to his daughter’s brow.

“Nursemaids,” he called sharply. Within moments, the women appeared and took Lysandra, who protested but was easily soothed.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Arabella opened her mouth to speak—but found herself suddenly swept off her feet.

“Garma—!” she gasped, clutching at his shoulders.

His arms were firm and unwavering as he carried her toward their bedchamber. The heavy doors swung open at his command, the dark tapestries and velvet shadows awaiting them.

He set her on the edge of their grand bed like a treasure being returned to its rightful place.

“You’re angry,” Arabella said softly, breathless, her face flushed.

“I am furious,” Garmadon replied, voice low. “That anyone would dare suggest I would betray you.”

Arabella’s gaze softened, but her expression remained thoughtful. “You know I never believed it.”

“I know,” he murmured. “But they said it. And for that, they must pay.”

Arabella reached for him, her fingers lightly grazing the collar of his dark tunic. “You’re terrifying when you’re angry.”

“You’ve always known I was terrifying,” he murmured, leaning down, brushing his lips along her cheek, then down to her neck.

She shifted slightly beneath him. “It’s only been two days since my cycle en—”

“I know,” he interrupted, his mouth near her ear. “But you’re ovulating soon.”

Arabella exhaled, rolling her eyes slightly. “You and your obsession with children...”

Garmadon pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. His were hungry—not just with lust, but with possession, with something ancient and unspoken.

“I want another,” he said, simply. “Another daughter like her. Or a son.”

Arabella’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Do you want them... for legacy?”

His mouth brushed hers. “For you.”

She paused. Her hands moved to cradle his face, fingers tracing the harsh lines of his jaw.

“I don’t want power because I hunger for it,” she whispered. “I want it because I must protect those who cannot protect themselves. Aurora. Sera. Helena. Even Harumi, if she one day falls prey to the same cruelty.”

Garmadon pressed his forehead to hers, his breath warm. “Then I will give you everything you need.”

The fire in the hearth crackled.

Outside the palace, the moon gleamed pale and full, watching silently as within its walls, the game of power and shadows continued—where loyalty came not from kindness, but from shared blood and the will to protect it at any cost.

......

The tourney field shimmered beneath the amber light of the sun, rich with the clash of steel, the thunder of hooves, and the roar of the watching crowd.

Banners of black and crimson danced from every turret, bearing the sigils of the Spinjitzu Dynasty, their embroidered dragons twisting in the summer wind.

On a high velvet dais adorned in gold thread, the Royal Box loomed above the field—an opulent perch for the most powerful bloodline in the realm.

The First Spinjitzu Master sat at the center, his hawkish eyes sharp despite his age, robed in obsidian black and silver threads.

Beside him, Queen Sera reclined with the poise of a swan, her delicate features half-concealed by a sheer veil the color of moonlight.

Garmadon, in sleek dark armor with no crests—he needed none—stood behind Arabella’s seat with arms crossed, watching the lists like a predator.

Arabella sat calm and poised, her features soft yet regal, Lysandra in her lap playing with a red silk ribbon.

Wu was beside her, his countenance severe, his fingers drumming on the armrest in irritation, while

Aurora, radiant in lavender silk with pearls threaded in her golden hair, leaned forward with concern each time a knight fell to the dirt.

Lloyd, dressed sharply in court garb, sat beside Harumi, who wore a winter-white gown that contrasted beautifully with her dark hair and crimson lips. The corners of her mouth curled as she watched a knight slam into the dirt.

"Softness does not survive long in the game of power," she said smoothly, not loud enough to draw attention, but just enough for the nearby royals to hear. Her smile did not reach her eyes.

Sera’s lips pressed together, but her posture remained serene.

Arabella blinked, her brows lifting slightly in surprise. She knew venom when she heard it.

Aurora said nothing—but her hands clenched gently in her lap.

Nya, seated with the others just below the royal dais, turned her head just enough to catch Harumi’s profile. “Know your limits,” she said under her breath, her tone cool as forged steel. Harumi merely tilted her head, feigning innocence.

Then came the final joust. The last two knights clashed in a brutal dance of strength and speed, until one—riding under no banner, his armor dark as storm clouds—unseated the other with a brutal, clean strike.

The crowd roared.

As the victor removed his helmet, revealing a chiseled face with dark eyes and windswept hair, he guided his horse to the Royal Box.

With practiced elegance, he dismounted, his boots crunching over gravel and flower petals. He bowed low before the royals, then looked up—and extended a lush bouquet of deep crimson roses.

“Your Highness, Princess Aurora,” he said, voice like warm stone. “Your beauty brings strength to the sun.”

Aurora’s breath caught slightly, and the faintest blush bloomed across her cheeks. She cast a glance toward Wu, whose jaw had visibly clenched.

Arabella smiled softly, elbowing Sera with a whisper. “It appears our darling Aurora still charms all who pass her.”

Sera chuckled, lifting her fan to hide her expression. “As always.”

Aurora hesitated—but then leaned over the railing and accepted the bouquet with a polite, hesitant smile. “You honor me, Sir Knight,” she replied gently.

Wu’s eyes were burning holes into the knight’s skull.

Abraxas, watching the scene unfold, leaned back in his seat and whispered to Morro. “If looks could kill, Father would have smote that knight into ash already.”

Morro merely nodded. 

Adler, clearly bored, threw a grape at Lloyd’s head.

Lloyd batted it away with a glare.

Kai, Jay, and Zane debated loudly over who could beat who in a real duel, while Nya remained quiet, still side-eyeing Harumi.

Garmadon said nothing throughout, but Arabella felt the slight twitch of his fingers at the armrest.

The game had begun—and though the tournament field lay bathed in sunlight, the shadows in court were growing ever darker.

.......

Chapter Text

The wedding morning dawned red—an omen of power, or blood, depending on who one asked.

A low, gauzy mist still clung to the palace gardens, curling around the spires of the royal towers like pale fingers reluctant to let go.

But within the East Wing of the palace, there was no hesitation. Only hushed footsteps, the rustle of silk, and the scent of lotus, sandalwood, and burning incense.

In the bridal chamber, all was silent save for the soft brush of fabric and the murmur of lace-gloved hands smoothing out the final folds.

Harumi stood poised on a small platform, arms gently raised as her maids finished dressing her in a rich and ancient gown—deep red as a dying sun, embroidered with golden dragons that shimmered like fire as she moved.

The sleeves were long and weighty, trimmed with ivory beads, and the train of the gown spilled behind her like molten silk.

Her hair, swept back in an intricate coiled style, was crowned with a golden headpiece shaped like a phoenix taking flight—its wings rising high and studded with rubies the size of teardrops.

From beneath it, sheer golden veils framed her face, softening her sharp, sculpted beauty.

Lady Emiko stepped forward, her hands folded neatly, eyes drinking in the sight of her daughter like a woman appraising a crowned queen.

“You look divine,” she whispered, a tremor of pride in her voice. “Even more beautiful than Princess Aurora.”

Harumi’s lips curved in a slow, polished smile. Her voice was smooth as cream as she replied, “Princess Aurora is famed for her beauty. The realm sings of her hair and her grace.” She lowered her gaze slightly, the modesty delicate, practiced. “But… thank you, Mother. Your words please me more than any bard’s song.”

The maids finished pinning the last strands of hair, stepping back with low bows before Emiko waved them away.

The chamber dimmed with their departure, leaving only mother and daughter in the flickering warmth of the lanterns.

Lady Emiko approached Harumi and adjusted the veil with a mother’s touch, then rested her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. “Today, you will stand beside the prince. And tomorrow, you begin your reign beside him. Power comes not only from crowns, Harumi—but from influence. From presence. From planting seeds in every corner of the court.” Her voice grew firmer. “You must spread your roots deep. Secure your place. Make yourself indispensable. Rival even Queen Sera, if you must. And certainly, do not let that soft-hearted Crown Princess Arabella stand above you.”

Harumi remained still for a moment, absorbing her mother’s words like heat soaking into silk. Then, slowly, she turned her head and looked at her reflection in the tall mirror nearby.

What stared back at her was no trembling bride—only a creature wrapped in scarlet and gold, draped in ambition, her eyes unreadable and aglow with something colder than fire.

She chuckled under her breath, soft as snowfall.

“Arabella?” she said, voice honeyed with disdain. “She is sweet, yes. So sweet it’s almost pitiful. She has no idea what world she’s in. She flutters around the court with her lullabies and lullabies don’t win wars.”

Lady Emiko arched a brow, intrigued.

Harumi’s smile widened, never reaching her eyes. “She’s so gentle, she’ll beg for Lloyd’s affection the moment he withdraws it. Cry for it. I won’t even have to lift a finger to see her undone.”

Her tone was light, but sharp underneath—like velvet wrapped over a dagger.

“She’ll weep at my silence. I’ll have her giving me ground she doesn’t even realize she owns.”

Lady Emiko gave a pleased nod, her hand brushing Harumi’s arm approvingly. “Good girl.”

Outside, the bells of the temple began to toll. A royal wedding would soon commence.

But in this quiet room scented with incense and ambition, something older than ceremony stirred—ancient as hunger, elegant as vengeance.

Harumi turned toward the door, the train of her gown trailing behind her like the path of a falling star. She was no mere bride.

She was ascending.

....

The air in the Prince’s dressing chamber was thick with incense, lacquer, and the quiet tension of unspoken thoughts.

Servants moved like shadows along the polished floors, careful not to disturb the princely silence.

Outside, the wedding bells tolled with solemn weight, their echoes ricocheting through the blackstone towers of the imperial palace like a war drum cloaked in silk.

Lloyd stood still as his ceremonial robes were fastened to his frame—layer upon layer of blood-red silk, bound with black sashes threaded in gold. His hair was tied into a warrior’s knot, adorned with a crimson jade ornament shaped like a coiling dragon—the crest of his house.

The collar of his robe was high and rigid, brushing the edge of his jaw. He looked into the mirror without blinking, face pale, carved from ice and marble.

Around him stood the other ninja—Kai, Cole, Jay, and Zane. None of them wore the traditional garb of ceremony, but they carried the solemn air of men witnessing the coronation of a battlefield rather than a marriage.

Kai broke the silence first, arms crossed, voice low. “She’s beautiful. Smart. Calculated.” He didn’t look at Lloyd, only the reflection in the mirror. “But I still don’t like her.”

Jay shifted uncomfortably, fiddling with a crimson tassel dangling from the lacquered table beside him. “She gives me weird vibes. Like, snake-vibes. Pretty snake, sure, but still venomous.”

Cole leaned against the wall, one arm resting on the pommel of the ceremonial blade he wore—not out of tradition, but out of habit. “She’ll survive in this court. Maybe even thrive. But don’t be blind, Lloyd.” He turned his gaze to the prince, steely and dark. “Harumi will spread her influence like frost on stone. Cold, slow, and dangerous if you ignore it long enough.”

Lloyd didn’t flinch, didn’t move. The mirror held his image perfectly still, but his eyes flickered—just for a moment—as though hearing a ghost speak.

Zane, ever precise, ever calm, stepped forward. “She is not your enemy. Yet.” He studied Lloyd like a physician would a soldier before a campaign. “But this union… it’s not built on trust. Not on love. She is entering the royal family with ambitions, and ambition without restraint is as fatal as poison.” He paused, then added, “You would do well to watch her. Closely. She plays a long game.”

Lloyd’s jaw tensed as the last clasp was secured behind his back. The final layer of the robe settled like armor across his shoulders.

“I don’t need to be told to watch her,” he said at last, voice cool and detached. “I know exactly who I’m marrying.”

Jay blinked, a little startled by the icy tone.

Kai stepped closer, brows furrowing. “Do you want this?”

Lloyd’s green eyes narrowed at his reflection. “Want has nothing to do with it.”

Cole let out a slow breath. “Just make sure you stay two steps ahead of her. Always.”

Zane nodded. “If she becomes Queen, she’ll wield more than just influence. She’ll shape alliances. Redirect loyalties. Perhaps even rival Arabella or Queen Sera herself.”

“I said I understand,” Lloyd snapped, the slightest flicker of irritation showing now beneath the surface.

The room fell into silence once again, the tension coiling tighter like a wire stretched to the point of snapping.

Then Lloyd turned to face them. “This marriage secures my standing. It silences the ministers and keeps the bloodlines strong. That is all that matters.”

Jay looked away, unconvinced. Kai muttered something under his breath. But none of them argued.

The wedding was minutes away.

As the chamber doors opened and Lloyd stepped out—red-robed, gold-banded, and wrapped in destiny—the others followed behind in grim silence.

There were no cheers, no bright chatter, no warm laughter.

Only the sound of boots echoing on marble floors, and the faint scent of rose and myrrh drifting down the corridors.

It wasn’t just a marriage.

It was a gamble.

And in this palace of power, one wrong move could end a dynasty.

....

The imperial garden had been transformed into something unearthly.

Silk banners of red and black hung from obsidian pavilions. Braziers crackled with sacred flames, their smoke curling into the late afternoon sky like whispered prayers to ancient history.

The scent of incense clung to every petal, every leaf of the trees that bordered the sacred grove, and the grass beneath their feet had been covered with embroidered carpets bearing the crests of the royal bloodline.

The air was heavy—not just with humidity, but with the weight of tradition, legacy, and quiet dread.

At the heart of the garden, a towering red altar stood, shaped from carved dragonwood and bound with golden fittings older than the kingdom itself.

The priest, his face hidden behind a white jade mask etched with runes, recited the sacred words in a deep, rhythmic cadence—a language dead to the common folk, spoken now only by those who still carried the blood of dragons in their veins.

Before the altar stood the bride and groom.

Lloyd, dressed in ceremonial scarlet, stood with his arms stiff at his sides, a mask of calm carved into his youthful face.

Harumi, draped in layers of red silk with a phoenix coronet adorning her head, smiled faintly, demure and graceful, her eyes never leaving the altar as the sacred rites were spoken.

But beneath her grace lingered something deeper—sharper. The faint curve of cunning in the corners of her lips. The poised serenity of a queen already playing her game.

The audience sat in precise rows, under silk canopies that shielded them from the sun, and the eyes of the court were all turned toward the pair—each noble wondering whether they were witnessing the rise of an empire’s future… or the beginning of its rot.

The royal family sat at the highest tier.

The First Spinjitzu Master, King of the realm, bore his usual unreadable expression—stone-faced, with eyes like ancient storms.

Beside him, Queen Sera sat poised in shimmering black robes, her face a mask of frost and elegance. Prince Wu sat straight-backed, hands clasped tightly in his lap. His wife, Princess Aurora, looked paler than usual, her grip on Helena tight, but her gaze—fixed on Harumi—was sharp as glass.

Their sons, Abraxas and Adler, flanked them in silence—the former with arms crossed, the latter with lips pursed, jaw clenched.

Kai, Jay, Zane, Cole, and Nya were seated at the next tier with Morro behind them, all of them watching with varying degrees of discomfort, suspicion, and bitterness. It was a wedding, yes—but not one of celebration.

And on the other side, beneath a canopy embroidered with dragons and gold lotuses, sat Crown Prince Garmadon and Crown Princess Arabella.

Arabella cradled a babbling Lysandra in her arms, the baby reaching for the trailing petals that drifted from the trees overhead.

Arabella shushed her gently, pressing a kiss to her daughter’s crown, though her gaze was fixed not on the altar… but on Harumi.

“She’s already turning eyes,” Arabella murmured, low and quiet enough that only Garmadon could hear. “Several wives of the ministers were seen gifting her bracelets, perfume, jewelry. Rumors spread that she has her own informants already. Even Wu’s old steward visits her chambers.”

Garmadon didn’t look at her. He remained watching the ceremony, his hands clasped over the carved pommel of his ceremonial sword, his expression flat.

“I warned Lloyd,” Arabella whispered. “But I fear she will carve out her own court, her own power, beneath our very feet.”

At last, Garmadon spoke—his voice soft, but iron.

“If you desire it,” he said, “I’ll remove every creature that bows to her instead of you.”

Arabella stilled. The wind stirred the silken veil over her shoulder.

Lysandra cooed in her lap, blissfully unaware of the dark currents swimming beneath her parents' words.

“I don’t want bloodshed,” Arabella murmured, voice nearly trembling. “I don’t want that for Lloyd.”

“You won’t have to see it,” Garmadon said, unmoved. “They’ll disappear. Quietly.”

Arabella went silent, staring at the soft petals falling from the magnolia trees above, her hand tightening around her child. “No,” she said at last. “Not yet. Just—watch her. Closely. I want loyal eyes in their halls. I want to know who enters her wing, who leaves, what she wears, what she eats, what books she keeps. I want to know the names of every servant who kneels at her side.”

Garmadon turned to look at her then. His golden eyes were dark and unreadable. “You’re becoming more like me, my love.”

She looked at him sharply, but the smirk that touched his lips didn’t stay long. He leaned back in his chair as the priest raised a hand, signaling the final rite.

The garden quieted. The wind hushed. Even the birds seemed to still in the trees.

Lloyd and Harumi bowed to the earth, then to the altar, and then to one another.

The third bow bound them in the eyes of the gods and the realm—a prince and his consort. The bond of duty forged in ritual, not in love.

The guests clapped—softly, politely, with the deadened weight of obligation.

The priest declared them joined. Firecrackers were lit in the distance. Drums began to beat faintly. But the celebration felt hollow, like a lacquered shell over rust.

Garmadon rose, brushing a hand through Lysandra’s hair as she reached for his chin with a giggle.

Arabella remained seated, her gaze still pinned on the new princess who now turned to face the crowd, hand tucked neatly into Lloyd’s arm, her smile porcelain-perfect.

Beneath that smile, Arabella saw it—ambition. Hunger. Fire.

She pressed her lips to her daughter’s forehead and whispered, “You’ll never kneel to her.”

And high above them all, the First Spinjitzu Master leaned back on his throne of stone, his gaze heavy on the newlyweds.

In his silence, the wind carried with it the whisper of things to come.

Schemes, secrets, and blood yet to be spilled.

........

Harumi, now a crowned bride of the Spinjitzu Dynasty, entered the throne room as though she’d always belonged.

Draped in pale silks the color of fresh bone, her gait was languid, assured—her steps barely stirring the air.

Each morning, she appeared at court beside Lloyd, who sat with all the chill of marble carved into the shape of a prince. He said little, only nodding as she leaned in close, whispering honeyed observations into his ear.

Within mere days of her marriage, Harumi began making rounds to the lesser wings of the court. She met with noble wives in sun-washed balconies, in garden halls over tea brewed from imported blossoms, and in velvet-draped salons where incense curled like smoke around old rumors.

With gentle smiles, she played the lute of scandal, sowing sharp little seeds between sips of jasmine:

“I’ve heard Lady Arabella hasn’t been seen for days. Illness, they say. Such a fragile thing… our poor Crown Princess.”

“Princess Aurora? A vision, truly. Though some say she’s... grown cold in her affections since the birth of her daughter. Sad, isn’t it?”

“And Her Majesty, Queen Sera… so graceful, yet distant. Ever since that vision she claimed to receive from the ancestors—do you think she’s… well? Truly well?”

The court listened, not because they believed, but because in the palace, truth mattered far less than perception.

Harumi planted whispers like rot among ripe fruit.

By the sixth day, she had three new handmaidens—all trained spies from noble households loyal to her mother, Lady Emiko.

She was gifted a small palace within the capital walls, newly restored and ornately furnished by Lloyd's command. Its pillars were painted with twin dragons, and its roof tiles glimmered black like obsidian scales in the moonlight.

She held court of her own, entertaining guests—diplomats, court wives, even one or two ministers—behind lacquered doors and white silk curtains. Laughs floated out like perfume. She was becoming dangerous.

Then came the seventh day.

At dawn, a scream tore through the Ivory Wing, shattering the silence like glass. One of Crown Princess Arabella’s personal ladies-in-waiting—a gentle girl of seventeen, who had served her since girlhood—was found in her chambers, face turned to the wall, mouth slightly agape.

Her neck was bruised, crushed.

Not a sound had been made. No one had heard a thing.

Arabella, cloaked in midnight-blue robes and holding her daughter Lysandra against her chest, came to see the body herself.

Her face was blank, but her hands trembled violently as she knelt. She kissed the girl’s hair and whispered her name again and again until Garmadon arrived.

He stood behind her like a monolith, silent and unmoving. When he knelt and saw the bruise—too clean, too skilled—his eyes turned colder than the North Sea. He said nothing.

But Arabella saw the storm behind his stillness.

The next day at court, Arabella entered with Lysandra in her arms, grief stitched beneath her eyes. Harumi was waiting for her at the steps.

She wore pale green that day, and her smile was a quiet slash across her face.

“Oh, Arabella,” she said sweetly, folding her hands. “So sorry for your loss. Court life is so cruel. Don’t you think?”

Arabella blinked—her face didn’t move, but her lips turned the color of crushed roses. She stepped past her without a word.

That night, the small palace gifted to Harumi within the capital erupted in flames. It was an inferno of black smoke and molten red, swallowing ivory walls and ruby tapestries. The fire burned with unnatural heat, roaring even against the stormy skies.

The next morning, all of Harumi’s spies were found dead—either burned or vanished. The few that returned... had not been hers to begin with.

Lloyd stormed into the throne room, demanding justice. He blamed it on rogue arsonists, petty saboteurs, rebels even.

But The First Spinjitzu Master, ancient and stone-eyed, only gestured once.

Twenty lashes.

By whip.

In front of the court.

Because Lloyd had failed to protect the family.

Because he had dared to reward someone who spread corruption against the Crown Princess.

Because blood must be paid in blood.

Garmadon watched impassively, his fingers wrapped gently around Arabella’s wrist as Lloyd was dragged forward. Aurora stood behind them with Helena clinging to her leg, wide-eyed and barely able to understand why her cousin was screaming.

Harumi did not speak.

She watched as Lloyd bled.

Her hands gripped her skirts until her nails cut the flesh.

Later, Harumi sat alone in a charred courtyard, the ashes of her palace still warm beneath her feet. Her hair smelled of smoke, her robes soot-stained. She stared into the embers and said nothing as Lloyd limped toward her, still red and broken across the back.

When he reached for her hand, she flinched—not from pain, but from fury.

“They’ve all declared war,” she whispered.

“So we’ll win it,” Lloyd muttered, teeth bared. “All of them will kneel. Eventually.”

But Harumi's gaze remained fixed on the ashes, where her influence had turned to dust.

Because now she understood—

She was not the only snake in the garden.

.....

The fire had long since died out, but the stench of smoke and seared red silk still clung to the charred bones of the once-grand palace gifted to Harumi.

The capital was whispering in hushed, breathless tones, tongues thick with fear and curiosity, servants too afraid to name names.

Everyone knew who had lit the fire, even if no one saw it happen.

And now Lloyd stood before his father’s study doors, pulse heavy in his throat, the bruises of the flogging still burning beneath his tunic like a reminder of his station.

The doors creaked open.

Crown Prince Garmadon didn’t look up from the parchment in his hand. The heavy scent of ink and old firewood hung in the air, the crackling hearth behind him casting monstrous shadows across the carved stone floor.

He was seated, draped in a black velvet robe lined with silver thread, his long hair tied back like a warlord from the ancient days. His expression was unreadable—but Lloyd could feel the frost forming in the air.

“Close the door.”

Lloyd obeyed without hesitation, spine straight, eyes lowered as he stepped into the room like a soldier awaiting judgment. The door shut with an echoing thud, sealing him inside the lion’s den.

Garmadon finally set the parchment down and looked at his son. Slowly. Coldly.

“I see you’ve developed quite the taste for chaos,” he said, voice smooth as wine but sharp as shattered glass. “What next? Shall we allow your wife to hang your mother next time she finds herself… inconvenienced?”

Lloyd’s jaw clenched, fingers twitching at his sides. “I didn’t know—”

“Silence.”

Garmadon stood, towering, the firelight catching in his eyes like twin sparks of fury. “Do you take me for a fool? You rewarded her with a palace. Gave her power. You allowed her to whisper into your ears. You let her sink her claws into court like some gilded spider spinning poison.”

Lloyd bowed his head lower, but didn’t tremble. Not yet.

“She dared to kill one of your mother’s ladies. And you—” Garmadon sneered, voice darkening. “You let her walk into court the next morning with a smile and a greeting dipped in mockery. You didn’t rip her tongue out. You didn’t hang her spies from the walls. You did nothing.”

“I’ve already punished her—” Lloyd tried.

“With what?” Garmadon thundered. “A ruined palace she never deserved? A burned shell as compensation for the blood she spilled?”

Lloyd’s silence stretched.

Garmadon descended the steps from his raised platform slowly, like a viper slithering from the rocks. He came to stand before his son, towering over him, eyes ice cold.

“Do you forget who you are? Do you forget whose son you are?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Your mother is mine. My wife. The one who carried you. Who knelt before the throne and suffered for you. And you stand beside a woman who dares raise her hand against her?”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” Lloyd muttered, eyes dark with shame and confusion. “You knew Harumi was ambitious. You knew—”

Garmadon slapped him.

Not hard. Not cruel. But enough.

Enough to remind him that ambition, left unchecked, is rot.

“I know what she is,” Garmadon said, voice like steel. “But you do not wield fire near your kin and expect not to be burned. Harumi is not Queen. She is not even a shadow of one. And you,” he spat, “are not king.”

Lloyd looked up, green eyes burning with pride, wounded pride. “I never said—”

“You are nothing more than a prince,” Garmadon snarled. “And you will be nothing for a very long time. Your grandfather is alive. I am alive. And I am far from done with this world.”

He turned from his son and poured a glass of dark wine, taking a slow, cold sip.

“Warn your wife. Keep her away from Arabella’s court. Keep her far from your mother. Because the next time her influence spreads into my halls, I will deal with her.”

Garmadon turned back, gaze like winter.

“And I promise you, Lloyd—you won’t like how I do it.”

Lloyd bowed low. Very low.

“I understand.”

“Good,” Garmadon said quietly. “Now get out of my sight.”

Lloyd left in silence, the door closing behind him like a final judgment.

****

Chapter Text

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting molten gold across the obsidian tiles and silk sheets, its warmth pooling at the corners of the royal chamber like a half-whispered lullaby.

The scent of burning cedar mingled with the faint floral trace of Arabella’s perfume—lavender and moon lily—still clinging to the air even after she had silently entered the room.

She said nothing as she stepped behind the silk divider, her nightgown in hand.

Garmadon didn’t look up immediately; he merely stood near the fireplace, one hand resting on the carved stone mantle, his tall frame half-wrapped in shadows.

His coat had been discarded, his long silver hair loose, darkened at the ends from the steam of the bath he'd taken earlier.

Behind the divider, the soft sound of fabric brushing bare skin echoed—a gentle rustle, the movement of a woman carrying grief like a second skin.

Arabella didn’t hum tonight, didn’t ask how court had gone. She didn’t meet his eyes when she entered. Garmadon had known she was hurting the moment he laid eyes on her, when she pressed a kiss to Lysandra’s forehead in the nursery and left without a word.

He watched the fire for a moment longer, then said, “Harumi overplayed her hand.”

A long pause.

Arabella’s voice came, quiet and cold, from behind the divider: “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

She stepped out, draped in pale white silk that clung delicately to her frame, the thin straps slipping off her shoulders like melting snow.

Her hair was unpinned and fell around her face in soft waves, but her eyes—those silver-glass eyes—held no softness.

Garmadon turned toward her fully, arms folding loosely across his chest. “She’s a snake,” he said evenly, “with a taste for poison and applause. I’ve seen that type before. Too hungry to see where they are, too proud to know what they are not.”

Arabella padded softly toward the edge of the bed, sitting without meeting his gaze. “You sound amused.”

He arched a brow. “Perhaps. It’s been a while since this court saw a cold war between a daughter-in-law and her mother-in-law.”

“I’m not interested,” she snapped, more sharply than she intended. “I don’t want to go near her. I don’t want to play games. I don’t care what she does—as long as she stays away from me and the people I love.”

Her voice cracked ever so slightly on that last word. Garmadon heard it.

He stepped forward, quiet as a specter, and sat beside her on the bed. His hand reached out, curling around her wrist gently, grounding her. Arabella didn’t flinch, but she didn’t look at him either.

“I know what she did,” he said, softer now. “And I know it hurt you.”

Arabella’s lip trembled. “She humiliated me. My lady in waiting...She served me since I was sixteen, Garmadon. She braided my hair the morning I married you.”

“I know.” His fingers drifted along her wrist, up her bare shoulder. “And I buried the ones responsible.”

Arabella looked down, voice trembling. “They called her a rat. Said she was a spy.”

“She was loyal to you,” Garmadon murmured. “And that’s enough for me.”

For a moment, the silence lingered. Then she turned toward him—slowly, vulnerably. Her lashes were damp, her lips parted slightly in thought, but Garmadon saw the flicker of ache still haunting her.

He brushed a knuckle down her cheek.

“You’ve always been better than them,” he whispered. “And they know it. That’s why they attack from the shadows.”

Arabella’s gaze lingered on his face. “Then why do I feel so alone in this palace?”

“You’re not alone,” he murmured, and leaned in, brushing his lips to her. 

Arabella merely shook her head, shifting back and laying on the bed. 

He came to lie beside her, propped on one arm. His fingers reached to brush her bare shoulder, lingering. She didn’t move away—but neither did she respond.

“You’re upset,” he murmured.

She said nothing, her eyes locked on the canopy above.

“You’re thinking of what she said,” he guessed.

Still silence.

Garmadon leaned closer, lips grazing her neck, voice low and slow. “Let me remind you who you are, Arabella. You are the crown princess. You are mine.”

Her breath hitched slightly when his hand slid over her waist, possessive and slow. His touch was warm, deceptively tender, as though it could burn and soothe in equal measure.

“I warned our son,” he whispered against her skin. “Do you know what I told him?”

Her lashes fluttered as he pressed soft, deliberate kisses against her shoulder, drawing shivers from her spine.

“I told him he was not king,” Garmadon murmured, voice darker now, colder. “And that Harumi is not queen. Nor will she ever be.”

Arabella finally turned to face him, eyes searching his.

Garmadon held her gaze. His hand stroked her hip, slow and reverent. “And I said… if he lets her offend you again, I will deal with it.”

He leaned closer until his lips brushed her ear, his voice velvet-wrapped steel.

“I could burn another palace.”

The words hung between them—intimate and terrifying.

Arabella swallowed. Her hands slowly gripped his robe, pulling him closer despite the knot of tension in her chest. Her breath was shaky. “She’ll try again.”

“Then she’ll suffer again,” Garmadon said simply, as if speaking of the weather.

She didn’t smile, didn’t thank him. But she allowed him to kiss her then, deeply and slowly, his hand tangling in her hair, his touch grounding her in a world that had gone cold and sharp.

His affection was dark, fierce, rooted in a possessiveness that both protected and claimed her completely.

And for the moment, that was enough.

Outside the window, the capital slumbered beneath a sky of blood-moon red.

Garmadon kissed her again, deeper this time. One hand slid to her hip, warm through the thin silk of her gown, and the other tangled gently into her hair.

His hands roamed her curves slowly, reverently, as if rediscovering the familiar terrain of her body for the hundredth time.

She shivered under his touch, the grief melting inch by inch as he kissed down her shoulder, his voice low and rough against her skin.

“You’re mine,” he murmured. “Always.”

Arabella arched into him, breath catching as his hand slipped beneath the hem of her gown, tracing the curve of her thigh.

She gasped softly as his lips returned to hers—this time with fire behind them, slow-burning, deliberate. He didn’t rush. He never rushed with her.

Not when he wanted to make her feel.

And tonight, beneath the flickering shadows of the fire, Garmadon held her like she was the only truth left in the world.

                                 ...................

The mid-morning sun poured molten gold over the palace gardens, its warmth falling on the neat hedgerows and marble paths like a gilded blessing.

Birds sang from the high branches, but their trills were drowned by the low, rhythmic crack of leather striking flesh. Somewhere behind a row of tall white lilies, a man’s ragged breath broke between gasps of pain.

Helena, small as a porcelain doll in her pale green dress, wandered away from her nursemaids without thought.

At three years old, the palace was a maze of wonders to her—shiny stones on the paths, the smell of roses, the glint of fountains.

Her slippered feet made barely a sound as she toddled past the hedge, curious at the strange noises.

Beyond it, her older brother Adler lounged in a carved chair at a low garden table. A goblet of spiced wine sat in his hand. 

His expression was one of lazy amusement, his dark eyes gleaming with cruel pleasure as he leaned forward to watch the scene before him.

A palace servant was on his knees, shirt torn down the back, skin scored with deep, livid stripes. Behind him, a guard drew the whip back again.

“You’ll learn,” Adler said, voice smooth but sharpened with malice. “You don’t interrupt me when I’m speaking. I don’t care if the tea was boiling over—did I ask for your opinion?” He sipped from the goblet, then set it down with a deliberate clink. “Enough of this. Take his hand. Let’s see how he manages to ‘serve’ me without it.”

The servant’s eyes went wide in horror, but two guards pinned him down with practiced ease. Steel glinted in the sunlight as an axe was brought forth.

Helena stood frozen at the hedge, her small fingers curled into the fabric of her skirts. She didn’t understand everything being said, but she understood the terror in the servant’s voice, the wrongness in Adler’s laughter.

She blinked, the bright garden colors blurring, and when the axe came down with a sickening thud, her lip trembled.

Her scream tore through the air—high, shrill, and unending. She wailed as if her heart had split, tears spilling down her cheeks in torrents. Her tiny hands covered her eyes, but the image had already branded itself there.

The nursemaids, startled and breathless, came rushing down the gravel path, but another figure was faster.

Aurora swept through the archway into the garden, her silk skirts flaring behind her like a storm wind. Her hair had come loose from its pins, the gold filigree glinting in the sun. She ran straight to her daughter, dropping to her knees and scooping Helena into her arms.

“Hush, my heart, hush,” Aurora whispered fiercely, pressing Helena’s head into her shoulder, one hand covering the little girl’s ear as if to block out the horror still echoing across the lawn.

Then she stood, her expression no longer soft but carved from ice, and crossed the garden toward her second son.

Adler watched her approach with a faint smirk, as though her presence were merely another piece in his afternoon’s entertainment.

The crack of her palm against his cheek shattered that expression. The sound was sharp enough to make the nearby guards shift uneasily.

“You dare?” Aurora’s voice was low, but each word struck like a blade. “In broad daylight? Before your sister’s eyes?”

Adler’s smirk faltered, but he lifted his chin. “He disrespected me—”

“He is a servant. You are a son of this house.” Her eyes blazed, but her voice remained dangerously controlled. “You shame your father. You shame me. You disgust me.”

Without another word, Aurora turned on her heel, skirts whispering in fury as she passed through the hedges.

And there, leaning in the shadow of a stone archway, stood Wu. His hands were clasped behind his back, his posture still, but his eyes had followed the scene from the first scream.

Aurora’s gaze caught his for only a moment. Then, with a quiet, contemptuous turn of her head, she strode past him without a bow or a word.

That evening, when Helena was finally soothed into sleep—her small form curled up in the center of their bed, clutching a silk pillow—Aurora remained standing in the soft lamplight. Her back was straight, her face unreadable as she looked at her husband.

Wu closed the door behind him. “I heard her crying,” he said quietly.

Aurora’s hand moved so quickly it was almost a blur. The slap landed across his face, not as sharp as the one she’d given Adler, but slower—more deliberate. Her voice, when it came, was a hiss of controlled venom.

“You raise them to be wolves, but they are becoming rabid.”

Wu’s eyes narrowed, but he did not answer. He only stood there, the faintest flush of red across his cheek where her hand had struck, his gaze locked on hers in a long, silent exchange.

The next morning, the court awoke to whispers: Prince Adler had been temporarily stripped of his title.

The boy’s favored attendants were dismissed, his privileges curtailed, and his freedom in the palace sharply reduced. No public announcement was made—but everyone knew whose will had moved the First Spinjitzu Master to act.

And the servants, those silent watchers of power, bowed lower to the princess when she passed.

....

The lamps in Wu’s study burned low, their golden glow casting long, stark shadows against the lacquered walls.

A single incense stick smoldered in the bronze burner, curling thin tendrils into the still, heavy air.

Wu sat behind his desk, posture sharp as the blade resting in its scabbard by his side, while Adler stood before him—chin slightly tilted, lips curved in that cocky, careless way that made him look far older than his years.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the faint crackle of the brazier in the corner.

“You understand why you stand here tonight,” Wu said finally, his voice low, the calm of still water over jagged stone.

Adler shifted his weight, smirking faintly. “Because I had the audacity to punish a servant? Or because Mother cried about it?”

Wu’s dark eyes narrowed just slightly—not in anger, but in that dangerous, measured way that made the air colder. “You did nothing wrong in punishing what is beneath you,” he said, tone almost approving. “But you were careless. You let your sister see. You let her cry. You let others see her cry. You allowed weakness to spread from her to this household.”

Adler gave a short, incredulous laugh. “That’s it? That’s what this is about? I thought you’d be proud I acted without hesitation.”

“I am proud,” Wu replied without blinking. “But pride is useless if it leaves chinks in the armor. You do not parade the breaking of a dog before the eyes of the lamb.”

Adler tilted his head, a sharp-edged smirk tugging at his mouth. “Or perhaps the real problem is that Mother saw. You always listen to her, don’t you? Even when she tells you to strip your own son of his title. Strange, for the great Master Wu.”

Wu’s gaze stayed fixed on him—unmoving, unblinking, unshaken. “Your mother sees what you do not,” he said, his voice taking on a colder edge, the calm now edged with frost.

Adler’s smirk widened into something more mocking. “Or perhaps you fear her. Perhaps the mighty Wu isn’t the one who rules this household.”

Silence stretched—so deep it seemed to press in from all sides. Wu did not rise, did not reach for a weapon. He only let the stillness grow heavier until even Adler’s smirk faltered.

When Wu finally spoke, his voice was quiet but precise—each word a blade tip. “You are my son. My blood. You will be sharper than me one day, or you will be nothing at all. But if you speak of your mother that way again, you will not like the lesson I choose for you.”

Adler’s eyes searched his father’s face for a moment, but whatever he found there stole the rest of his bravado. His smirk slipped, and his voice dropped in a low, reluctant murmur. “…Yes, Father. I understand.”

Wu leaned back in his chair, the faintest curl of satisfaction in his otherwise impassive expression. “Good. Now go. And remember—punishment is a weapon. Not a spectacle.”

Adler gave a curt bow before slipping out, the heavy doors closing with a deep, final thud. The incense burned low, its last wisp of smoke curling like a serpent in the cold air.

....

The corridors outside Wu’s study were still heavy with the silence left behind by Adler’s sullen retreat.

Wu walked with a slow, deliberate gait, hands clasped behind his back, each step echoing faintly against the polished stone floor.

His face betrayed nothing—neither satisfaction nor fury—yet his thoughts moved in a cold, deliberate rhythm.

Adler’s insolence still lingered in his mind, not as an offense, but as a symptom. The boy’s cruelty was not the problem—cruelty was strength; it was the natural order.

No, Adler’s mistake had been his carelessness, allowing Helena’s innocent eyes to witness the raw edge of power before she was ready to see it. Wu had promised her mother she would not be corrupted so soon, and he did not break promises lightly—not to Aurora.

He thought of his wife then, with that same quiet, poisonous adoration that had bound him to her since the day they wed.

Her sharp tongue, her unyielding spirit—she was a challenge he had never grown weary of. And their children, even in their flaws, were his legacy.

The world was a cruel place, and only cruelty would keep them alive in it. But cruelty, he believed, could be refined—shaped into something elegant, deliberate, and useful.

Reaching the doors of their chambers, he pushed them open with silent force. The warm glow of lamplight spilled over him, along with the soft hum of voices.

From the adjoining bathing chamber, a thin mist of steam curled into the air, carrying with it the scents of rose and cedar.

Aurora’s voice was not among the chatter—her attendants spoke in hushed, nervous tones, exchanging morsels of court gossip over the quiet lapping of water.

Through the rice paper divider, Wu could see her silhouette—slender shoulders above the wooden rim of the bath, hair piled into an elegant knot, head tilted ever so slightly in thought.

The attendants noticed him before Aurora did. Their chatter died mid-breath, replaced by rigid stillness. The air shifted.

“Leave us,” Wu ordered, his voice low but sharp enough to cut the steam.

They scrambled to obey, heads lowered, skirts swishing as they hurried past him and out of the chamber. The doors shut softly behind them.

Wu stepped forward, his shadow falling across the divider. “May I walk past?” he asked, his tone deceptively even.

“No,” came Aurora’s voice, clipped and immediate. There was no hesitation in it, no attempt to soften the edge.

He paused, the faintest flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “Are you upset with me?”

Aurora shifted in the water, the soft ripple reaching his ears. “Do you truly need to ask?” she murmured, voice quiet but honed like a blade.

Wu’s gaze darkened faintly. “Aurora…”

“You promised me,” she interrupted, her words carrying the steady force of a queen’s decree. “You promised Helena would remain untouched by… this.” There was no need to name the thing she meant—she knew he would understand.

Wu leaned one hand lightly against the divider, his other clasped behind his back. “And she will be,” he replied, calm, deliberate. “Adler will be punished for his carelessness. But the world is not kind to the unprepared. Cruelty is the language it speaks, and only those who answer it in kind survive.”

“Not her,” Aurora said, more firmly now. “Not my daughter.”

His jaw tightened slightly, but there was no anger—only the cold certainty of a man who believed the world bent to his will. “Then I will ensure her cruelty is a quiet one. Hidden. Refined. But make no mistake—she will need it one day.”

For a long moment, there was only the faint crackle of the lamps and the distant drip of water.

Wu remained still, watching the faint movement of her shadow through the rice paper—knowing full well she would not meet his eyes tonight.

In his mind, the matter was settled. In hers, the battle had only just begun.

The warm haze of steam clung to Wu’s skin as he stepped beyond the rice-paper divider, his footsteps muted against the polished wood. He moved with slow precision, as if each step was a deliberate intrusion.

Aurora sank further into the water, the rose petals clinging to her pale shoulders trembling with the faint ripples she created. Her voice, quiet but edged like tempered steel, answered his murmured words without warmth.

“Rest assured, I heard you the first time, my lord.”

Wu’s eyes narrowed at the formality—the title that sounded more like a wall than a courtesy.

He hated it when she spoke to him like this, as though she were one of the courtiers forced to bow beneath his gaze rather than his wife.

He drew closer, the scent of cedar and oil from the steaming bath mingling with the sharper undertone of his own cologne. “You are my wife,” he said, voice low, “not my subject. Speak to me as such.”

Aurora’s fingers tightened on the edge of the tub, the tips blanching white. Then, without warning, she slid beneath the surface of the water.

The silence that followed was heavy save for the faint crackle of the brazier in the corner. Wu stood still, watching the distorted shimmer of her form below the surface, his expression unreadable.

After a few seconds, Aurora emerged with a sharp gasp, coughing softly, droplets running down her face and neck like beads of glass.

Wu’s voice was cool, almost paternal in its chastisement. “You’ll catch your death, behaving so foolishly.”

Her glare cut through the mist between them. “Leave.”

He bent at the waist, his shadow falling across her, and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to her damp cheek.

The gesture was neither tender nor purely possessive—it was the claiming of something he refused to lose.

Aurora’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

Without another word, Wu straightened, turned, and left the bathing chamber, the scent of rosewater following him out like an accusation.

***

Chapter Text

The banquet hall glimmered under golden lantern-light, the polished marble floors reflecting the grandeur of the evening.

Nobles in silks and gold chains murmured behind jeweled fans, the court musicians’ strings weaving an elegant melody through the air.

Lloyd sat at the head of the long lacquered table, a dark silhouette against the pale glow of the chandeliers, his eyes sharp and cold even as his lips curved faintly in a practiced smile.

A servant girl—young, thin, trembling under the weight of the silver jug she carried—stepped forward to refill his goblet. But her hands, damp with nerves, faltered.

The rich red wine sloshed over the rim, splattering down the pristine ivory silk of Lloyd’s ceremonial robes. The spill bloomed like fresh blood on snow.

The hall seemed to hold its breath.

Lloyd rose slowly, the scrape of his chair against the marble deafening in the hush. He looked down at the girl—no, through her—his green eyes glittering with something cold and dangerous.

“You,” he said, his voice soft as winter frost, “have ruined what was flawless.”

The girl dropped to her knees, stammering apologies, her forehead nearly touching the floor. Lloyd’s gaze did not soften. Instead, he glanced to the guards at the edge of the hall.

“Remove her,” he commanded. “And take her hands—if she cannot serve without them, she has no use here.”

Gasps flitted through the air, the murmurs rippling like a wave. A few guests—those who had only recently entered this court of cruelty—looked pale with shock.

It was then Harumi rose. Her voice, when it came, was gentle, almost sweet.

“Lloyd,” she said, stepping forward in a sweep of emerald silk, “allow me to… correct this.”

Lloyd’s jaw tightened, but he stilled. Harumi approached the kneeling girl and tilted the servant’s chin up with a single finger, smiling as though she were a benevolent queen.

“Such a clumsy mistake,” she murmured, her tone dripping false sympathy. “But tonight is a night of celebration. We would not want blood to stain the floors, would we?”

The tension in the room eased—slightly. Harumi gave a slow, calculated smile and turned to the guards.

“Take her away. She will serve in the scullery for a year—on her knees. Let her scrub the stone floors until her fingers are raw. No gloves, no breaks. If she fails to keep the kitchens spotless, then her hands will be useless.”

A quieter kind of horror settled over the room. The girl bowed low, shaking with relief that masked dread, before she was led away.

Lloyd said nothing as Harumi returned to her place beside him, but his gaze followed her with an intensity that burned.

It was only later—when the hall had emptied and they walked alone in the shadowed corridors—that Harumi’s lips brushed his ear.

“You see,” she whispered, her voice low and silken, “mercy in public cuts deeper than a blade. It lingers. It rots the soul from within. And everyone remembers it.”

Lloyd’s hand found hers, his grip tight, almost possessive. He turned her into the dark alcove of an archway, the flicker of torchlight catching the faint smile that curved his lips.

“You’re learning well,” he murmured, his tone equal parts pride and hunger.

She leaned closer, the faint scent of jasmine in her hair, her mouth ghosting against his jaw. “No,” she breathed, “we are learning together.”

And in that quiet, shadowed space, their fingers entwined—not as lovers in warmth, but as co-conspirators in the delicate, wicked art of cruelty disguised as kindness.

                                        ***

The throne room was a place of polished stone and shadowed alcoves, where whispers slithered between carved pillars like snakes, and cruelty was a language as common as breath.

Wu stood at the base of the dais, his presence rigid and commanding, the ministers seated in their gold-inlaid chairs along the walls.

His voice had been calm when he issued the order to Adler—calm enough that a less attentive ear might have thought it routine.

Adler, however, had chosen that moment to push back. Just a flicker of defiance—standing straight instead of kneeling, his voice carrying a note of challenge.

The room shifted as though the air itself tightened, the ministers exchanging faint glances, eyes darting between father and son.

Wu didn’t raise his voice. He simply gave the order.

The guards moved without hesitation, seizing Adler by the arms. Before the court—before the advisors, the generals, the visiting nobles—Wu commanded that his son kneel in the center of the marble floor.

And there, in measured, almost ceremonial fashion, he delivered a punishment so meticulously drawn out, so precise, that it was more theatre than reprimand.

A single backhand to the face—just enough to leave blood beading at the lip—followed by the ritual stripping of Adler’s outer robe, leaving him bare from the waist up before the sea of eyes.

Then came the silent pause, Wu’s gaze lingering on his son until the stillness itself became unbearable. Finally, he spoke one phrase—cold, deliberate—about obedience and survival, before ordering him to rise.

The ministers looked away, some feigning interest in their cups, others watching the floor with studied detachment. Even among them, this was… pointed.

Personal.

That night, Wu was at his desk, the only light in his study coming from the low, golden glow of the oil lamps. Documents lay spread before him, but his pen rested idle.

The doors burst open without ceremony.

Aurora swept in, silk skirts swaying like a storm wind, her face carved in fury.

"You humiliated him in front of everyone!" she spat, her voice breaking the quiet like glass. "Do you even understand what you’ve done? You’ve destroyed his trust—"

Wu didn’t look up at first. He let her voice fill the room, allowed her anger to echo against the shelves and paneling.

"Are you listening to me?" she demanded, stepping closer, hands clenched at her sides.

Only then did he lift his head, dark eyes locking on her with the stillness of deep water. Slowly, deliberately, he rose from his chair.

When she tried to turn away, his hand caught her wrist—not harshly, not to restrain, but with a firm, possessive hold. In one smooth motion, he pulled her down into his lap. She let out a startled breath, twisting, but his arm came around her waist.

"You think this is about humiliation," he said lowly, his breath brushing her ear. "It’s about survival. If Adler cannot obey in public, he will be destroyed in private. Better he learn now—while he still lives."

His other hand slid over her hip, fingers pressing into the silk of her gown in a way that was neither tender nor entirely cruel—something in between. Aurora’s jaw tightened, her body tense against his, but his grip only loosened when he chose.

When he finally let her go, she stood, gathering her skirts, her breath unsteady. His expression was unreadable, shadowed in the lamplight, but there was no apology in it.

The next morning, in the pale hush before sunrise, Adler woke to find an ornate sword resting against the foot of his bed.

The hilt was wrapped in black leather, the pommel inlaid with gold, the blade honed to a deadly sheen. There was no note. No explanation.

But he understood.

                                           *** 

The storm between them had burned itself into a cold, brittle silence. Arabella stood at the far side of their chambers, arms crossed, the air between them as sharp as drawn steel.

Garmadon’s shadow stretched long across the tatami as he crossed the room without a word. In his hands was a weapon swaddled in black silk.

He stopped before her, the faint scent of iron and cedar rising from the bundle as he knelt, unwrapping the cloth with deliberate care.

The blade gleamed even in the dim light—its edge like a shard of frozen moonlight, the hilt bound in worn leather darkened by generations of use.

He set it at her feet.

Arabella’s brows drew together. “And this… is supposed to make up for what you said?” Her voice was steady, but the hurt in it was a blade of its own.

“No.” His gaze was steady, his voice a low rumble. “It’s so you can kill me if I ever betray or hurt you.”

There was no smirk, no jest in his tone. The words rang with the heavy finality of an oath. She searched his face, expecting a flicker of mockery, some cruel twist to the moment—but there was only that raw, unblinking sincerity that unsettled her more than rage ever could.

For days, the sword lay where he had placed it, its presence an unspoken challenge and an unwanted comfort.

And then, as though the moment had been forgotten, gifts began to arrive from the far northern reaches of their kingdom—onyx worked into necklaces, hairpins, and bracelets, each piece cold and smooth beneath her fingertips.

He never said the word sorry, but each black stone gleamed like a quiet confession, like an unspoken promise that he was hers and would remain so—by devotion, or by the edge of the blade he had given her.

                                          ****

The Rose Garden lay in its summer prime, a haze of soft reds and deep crimsons spilling over trellises like a silken tide.

The air was warm, scented with the mingled breath of hundreds of roses—some as pale as bleached bone, others the color of spilt blood.

Aurora walked slowly along the gravel path, the hem of her gown trailing with quiet grace. Her fingers rested lightly against the pearls at her throat, a necklace she had worn for years without fail. It had been a gift from Wu—one of the few gifts given without some ulterior sting or political maneuver beneath it.

They were the sea’s own tears, he had said once, clasping them around her neck after a fight so bitter she had nearly left him.

Now, she wore them like a charm warding off memories too heavy to name.

She heard the light, quick crunch of footsteps behind her. Not a maid—maids kept to the borders of the garden unless called.

This tread was purposeful, almost defiant. Aurora turned her head and saw the girl—no more than thirteen—standing with a self-possessed arrogance that looked comical in one so young.

The girl’s eyes, dark as wet ink, lit faintly when they met Aurora’s. Not with respect. Not with the timid reverence most offered the Lady of the court. No—there was challenge there, a flicker of something possessive, as if she were staring at a rival rather than the wife of the man she worshipped.

Aurora smiled faintly, a smile as soft and ambiguous as silk smoke. “You’ve wandered far from the servants’ wing,” she said, voice mild. “Or perhaps you’ve mistaken my garden for a shortcut.”

The girl lifted her chin. “It’s his garden. He only gave it to you because he had to make you stop being angry.”

The words were too sharp for her age, but the venom behind them was all her own.

Aurora laughed—low, unhurried, genuinely amused. “Ah. So you’ve heard the story.”

The girl stepped closer, skirts brushing over the gravel. She was almost pretty, in that awkward, unfinished way of the young—too thin in the shoulders, too soft in the jaw. But her eyes were alive with something fierce, almost feverish. “You don’t deserve him.”

The amusement deepened. “And you do?” Aurora asked gently.

A flush rose in the girl’s cheeks. “I’m not afraid of him.”

“That,” Aurora said, turning back to the roses, “is precisely why you are a child. Fear is not weakness—when used well, it is a blade.”

The girl’s mouth tightened. She did not like being dismissed, and the slow, knowing turn of Aurora’s head only fueled the restless, hot energy simmering in her chest.

Her gaze flickered to the necklace, the creamy orbs catching the sunlight as if each held its own moonlight. She knew it. Everyone knew it. The pearls he had given her.

Her fingers twitched.

And then, without thought or hesitation, she reached out—quick as a viper—and tore at the strand.

The sound was small but final, the snap of the silk cord followed by the scatter of pearls bouncing against gravel. They rolled between the rose bushes, tiny pale corpses vanishing into the shadows.

Aurora froze.

The girl’s chest heaved, her small hand still curled where it had ripped the necklace away, as if she were unsure whether to gloat or defend herself.

Aurora’s gaze fell to the broken strand dangling from her collarbone. She bent slowly, picked up a single pearl from the path, and turned it between her fingers.

Then she looked up at the girl—her smile not gone, but changed. It was no longer amused. It was something quieter, colder, the curve of lips just before winter sets in.

“How interesting,” Aurora murmured.

The girl shifted under that gaze, feeling for the first time the same low, unshakable dread that came from Wu himself when he was silent.

Aurora straightened, her hands falling loosely at her sides. “You’ve just made a mistake,” she said simply. “Not because of me. But because of him.”

...

The chambers were hushed, save for the soft crackle of the fire. Aurora sat before it, knees drawn to her chest, her cheek resting lightly against her arm. The pearls were gone.

The familiar weight that had rested against her collarbone for so many years was absent, and the loss pressed into her with an ache that felt far heavier than a simple necklace should warrant.

She had not wept in front of the child—not even when the necklace snapped, scattering the pale beads like fallen moons upon the rose garden path—but alone, in the quiet of their room, the tears had come, slow and unrelenting.

They were a gift from another time… a time when Wu had nearly broken her beyond repair, and the pearls had been his wordless way of begging her to stay. To have them torn away, and by such small, careless hands, had reopened something raw.

Meanwhile, across the palace, the air in Wu’s study was taut with cold displeasure. One of his spies had entered silently, kneeling before the desk to deliver the report.

The girl—the little shadow who followed him with almost doglike devotion—had dared to lay hands on Aurora.

Wu did not raise his voice, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop. His eyes, dark and glinting, cut through the messenger until the man bowed lower.

"Bring her to me."

When the child arrived, she hesitated at the threshold, sensing instantly that the warmth she had come to expect was absent.

"Come here," Wu said.

She obeyed, but her smile faltered under his gaze.

"You were told," he began, his voice low, "never to touch what is mine."

The words froze her in place.

"I was only—" she started, but the look he gave her cut the protest short.

"You shame yourself with excuses. You are not ready to stand in this court, nor to serve me as you think you do." His tone carried no fire, only a blade’s sharp edge. "You will leave this kingdom at dawn."

The girl’s eyes widened, her breath catching in a desperate little gasp. "No—please—I can be better, I’ll—"

But Wu had already looked away, signaling to the guards. Her protests became sobs as she was led from the room, her small voice echoing down the hall until it faded altogether.

When Wu finally returned to their chambers, Aurora was still by the fire. She did not rise when he entered, nor glance at him.

"You look like a widow," he said lightly, the faintest smirk on his lips, as though to provoke her. "Should I be worried?"

She said nothing.

Undeterred, he approached, stopping just behind her chair. When she didn’t turn, he stepped into her view and knelt before her.

From the sleeve of his robe, he drew something—its faint glimmer catching the firelight.

Aurora’s breath hitched.

The pearls.

They lay across his palm, not scattered but whole again, the string expertly restrung.

"You didn’t think I’d let her keep them, did you?" he murmured, his voice low, almost indulgent. "They were gathered from the garden before nightfall. My people searched until the last bead was found."

She stared, her lips parting slightly in surprise, in disbelief—then in a quiet, blooming relief.

He lifted the necklace and, with a rare gentleness, fastened it around her neck. His fingers lingered there, brushing against her skin. "I gave them to you once," he said, "and I’ll give them to you a hundred times more if I must."

Aurora lowered her gaze, one hand curling protectively around the pearls as if they might vanish again.

Wu sat back on his heels, watching her with a look that was neither soft nor hard—something unreadable, something only she had learned to live alongside.

Outside, the wind moved through the gardens, rattling the roses against the walls. Inside, the fire burned steady, its light glinting on the restored necklace that once more rested at Aurora’s throat.

....

Chapter Text

The palace, for once, hummed not with the chill undercurrent of fear, but with a quiet, almost foreign anticipation.

Servants bustled about, draping yellow and pink banners from marble columns, scattering fresh flower petals along the winding garden paths.

Golden ribbons caught the morning light, fluttering in the soft spring breeze. The air smelled faintly of honey cakes and sugared fruit—Lysandra’s favorite treats.

Inside their chambers, Arabella adjusted the folds of her silken gown and, with a rare note of firmness in her voice, turned to her husband.

“For today,” she said, looking up at him, “I want no cruelty, no bloodshed. Not a drop. It is her day, Garmadon.”

He regarded her for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable. Then, without a smirk or a scoff, he inclined his head.

“Very well. For our daughter.”

A pause, then a faint edge of warning in his voice:

“But if anyone dares disrupt this peace…”

“They won’t,” Arabella assured him quickly, though the steel in his tone sent a shiver through her.

True to his word, Garmadon spoke to Lloyd that morning in the shadowed halls.

“Your sister’s birthday. Not a single drop of malice. You understand?”

Lloyd—cold-eyed and usually indifferent to such 'elebrations'—merely nodded. “Understood.”

Elsewhere in the palace, Wu issued his own instructions to his sons.

“Abraxas. Adler. Your cousin is turning two. That means you will behave. You will not frighten her. You will not ruin her party. Is that clear?”

Adler smirked but said nothing. Abraxas sighed, muttering something about 'children’s things,' but gave a reluctant nod.

By midday, the garden had transformed into a pastel wonderland. Sunlight streamed through the boughs of flowering trees, the yellow and pink banners swaying gently overhead.

Laughter rang out from the handful of invited children—rare visitors to the palace—who were allowed to run across the manicured lawns without fear of reprisal.

Lysandra, dressed in a pale yellow gown embroidered with tiny pink blossoms, toddled across the grass, her golden curls catching the sun.

Helena—three years old and brimming with curiosity—kept close at her side, the two little girls chattering in the language of children only they seemed to understand.

Arabella stood nearby, her eyes soft as she watched her daughter’s joy. She greeted the guests with grace, though her attention never strayed far from Lysandra.

When the time for gifts arrived, Aurora stepped forward first. Kneeling so she was eye-level with the birthday girl, she presented a plush yellow horse with an intricately stitched mane of pink silk.

“It reminded me of you,” Aurora said warmly. Lysandra hugged it at once, her face brightening.

Wu followed, his presentation far less sentimental but still generous—a small carved music box inlaid with mother-of-pearl, playing a lilting lullaby. “For when you can’t sleep,” he said simply, and Lysandra—though she hardly understood—nodded solemnly as she clutched the gift.

Abraxas and Adler came forward together, offering a miniature set of carved wooden animals, painted in vibrant colors.

Abraxas even crouched to show her how the pieces fit together, his usual sharpness dulled by the innocence in her smile.

Lloyd’s turn came next. He stepped forward with an expression somewhere between indifference and faint amusement, handing over a delicate gold bracelet with a single yellow gem. “Don’t lose it,” was all he said.

Garmadon was last among the uncles and father. He approached with a flat wooden box in hand, opening it to reveal a necklace of polished pink tourmaline beads, spaced with fine gold.

“For my little sun,” he said in a tone few ever heard from him. Lysandra clapped and held out her arms until he bent and allowed her to throw them around his neck.

Finally, Sera and the First Spinjitzu Master approached together. From them came a gift of regal quality—a miniature silver tiara, fitted perfectly for a child, its band adorned with tiny yellow diamonds.

“Our youngest granddaughter deserves nothing less,” Sera said, placing it gently on Lysandra’s head.

The afternoon passed in rare peace. Helena and Lysandra chased butterflies through the flowers, their laughter carrying in the wind.

The adults, for once, seemed content to let the moment breathe—though the unspoken rule was understood: peace was only for today. Tomorrow, the shadows of the palace would resume their work.

But for this one golden afternoon, under the ribbons and sunlight, the youngest princess of the Spinjitzu line had her day.

The garden still rang with laughter—light, shrill, and unburdened—children darting between hedges like darting songbirds, hands sticky with honey pastries and powdered sugar.

The air was rich with the scent of sugared roses and warm bread, a golden haze of late afternoon sunlight spilling over yellow banners that swayed softly in the breeze.

Arabella, dressed in a pale gown with golden embroidery, kept her gaze upon her daughter, whose curls were crowned with a garland of small white daisies.

Lysandra’s joy was as unblemished as the day’s sky, her small fingers wrapped tightly around Helena’s as the two toddled toward the game circle.

It should have been perfect.

Arabella had prayed for this—an afternoon of peace, unmarred by the sharp edges of court life. No steel. No blood. Just yellow ribbons and the sound of her daughter’s laughter.

But then she heard it.

Low voices. Ugly. Not meant for her ears, but carrying across the space between the tables as though the words themselves wished to wound her.

One of the older ministers, his belly full of wine, leaned toward another with a smile that made her stomach twist.

His words were meant to be sly, hidden beneath the cover of polite chuckles—but she caught every one. They spoke of her little girl. Of her beauty. Of how she would "grow into a fine jewel, worth far more than her father knows." There was a laugh—rasping, oily—and then another voice agreeing, noting “the fine color in her cheeks.”

Her breath caught.

For a moment, the world narrowed to the sound of her own heartbeat, pounding in her ears. Her hands curled at her sides, nails biting into her palms until it hurt.

Lysandra was two. Two years old. Still baby-soft in her face, still clumsy in her steps, still asking for bedtime stories. And yet these men—these vultures—had dared to let such thoughts take form in their mouths.

She almost cried then, but not from helplessness—from the overwhelming surge of a mother’s fury. Her eyes found Garmadon immediately, across the garden near the tables where Lloyd stood, his hands in his pockets, watching the children with a faint, almost bored smile.

Garmadon had been speaking with another lord, but Arabella’s expression must have been enough.

He froze. Then he came to her, slow and deliberate. His voice was low, almost too calm when he asked, “Who?”

She did not speak—just nodded once, sharply, in the direction of the offending men. Her hands were already moving, gathering Lysandra from the grass where she sat, clutching her yellow plush horse.

The little princess squealed happily at being lifted, pressing her face into her mother’s neck, unaware of the sudden shift in the air.

Aurora, across the lawn, had seen Arabella’s face. She didn’t ask questions—simply swept Helena up into her arms, the child still holding a handful of sugared almonds. The two women exchanged a glance, wordless understanding passing between them.

The party was over.

Arabella walked away, her steps quick but steady, feeling the reassuring weight of her daughter against her. She did not look back.

Behind her, the sun seemed to darken.

Garmadon stood still for a heartbeat longer, his eyes fixed on the ministers who had dared. He walked toward them, and people noticed—conversations faltered, music stilled, even the children seemed quieter.

Lloyd fell into step beside his father, his expression curious until he caught the edge in Garmadon’s gaze. When his father murmured something low—too low for the others to hear—Lloyd’s eyes lit with something sharp and eager.

The ministers barely had time to realize what was happening.

Steel flashed. The sound was wet—followed by the sharp, choked cries of men who had been so sure of their place in court.

Garmadon’s strikes were efficient, but there was a particular savor to them, a precision that spoke not just of punishment, but personal satisfaction.

Lloyd laughed—not loud, but with a certain cruel amusement, like someone watching a well-planned trap snap shut. “They were stupid,” he said, brushing blood from his sleeve as though it were wine. “And audacious.”

“Not anymore,” Garmadon replied, and the last minister fell.

The grass beneath them was no longer green.

....

The palace had grown quiet by the time Queen Sera returned to her chambers.

The soft glow of lanterns lit the hallways, their light dancing on polished stone, but it felt colder tonight—emptier—despite the celebration that had filled the gardens just hours earlier.

The air still carried faint traces of rosewater and sugared bread, yet to her, it smelled faintly of something bitter.

She found the First Spinjitzu Master already seated in their private room, his cloak laid over a chair, his hair unbound so that the strands fell loose over his shoulders.

He was working at his desk, a few scrolls spread before him, though his gaze was fixed on a single page as if his mind was elsewhere.

Sera lingered at the doorway for a moment before speaking. “Was it worth it?”

He looked up slowly. “What?”

“All of it,” she said, stepping in, her voice steady but faintly colored with something softer—weariness, perhaps. “All the cruelty. All the fear. Even today…” Her words faltered for a moment. “It was her birthday. Lysandra’s. A day for joy, for innocence. And yet…” She trailed off, eyes falling to the floor as though afraid to finish the thought.

He set down his brush. “You saw what they said to her. What they thought of her,” he said, his tone darkening. “They were men with rank, with influence—and yet they dared to look upon a child like that.” His jaw tightened. “You think letting such filth live, even one more day, is kindness? You think sparing them is just?”

She frowned. “I think our kingdom is drowning in blood and cruelty. Even on a day meant for children. And I—” She hesitated, searching his face. “I wonder what will be left of all of us, if we keep living like this.”

He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing—not in anger at her, but in measured thought. “Sera, listen to me,” he said at last, his voice low and unyielding. “Power does not keep itself. It must be fed—by strength, by fear, by control. If we do not remind them where the line is, they will cross it. And if they cross it once, they will cross it again, and again, until the kingdom is theirs, not ours.”

Her lips parted, but she said nothing.

“I will not have that,” he continued. “What happened today was not cruelty for cruelty’s sake—it was a warning. So that every man who sets foot in this palace knows exactly what will happen if they step out of line.”

She looked away, her brow furrowed. “And yet, I still worry,” she admitted quietly. “What will happen to the children—Lysandra, Helena, all of them—if all they grow up knowing is… this?”

His expression softened. He rose from his chair and crossed the room, the sound of his bare feet on the stone floor muted under the carpet.

He stopped in front of her, studying her face in the warm lamplight. Then, with uncharacteristic gentleness, he lifted a hand and cupped her cheek.

“They will be safe,” he said, his thumb brushing lightly against her skin. “And that is all that matters.”

Her eyes glistened, though she blinked quickly to hide it.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, leaning forward to press a kiss to her forehead. “That’s my burden, not yours.”

She exhaled slowly, some of the tension leaving her shoulders at the familiar touch.

“Now,” he said more softly, “go to bed. I have work to finish.”

She hesitated, glancing at the scattered scrolls on his desk, before nodding.

She turned toward the bed, her silk skirts whispering against the floor, while he returned to his desk without another word—already reaching for the next sheet of parchment, his face once again unreadable in the flickering light.

......

Snow clung to the palace roofs, the sky outside the great hall a bruised velvet. Inside, firelight turned the air to molten gold, and the midwinter banquet was in full swing.

Gilded platters sagged beneath the weight of roasted pheasant, candied fruits, and steaming venison. The high ministers and foreign envoys—draped in silks, furs, and jeweled pins—had been summoned not only to celebrate the season, but to be measured, weighed, and reminded of their place.

Garmadon sat at the long table’s head beside Arabella, eyes half-lidded in feigned disinterest as he toyed with a silver cup.

Ministers shifted uneasily under his gaze. When Minister Lien—too eager by half—leaned forward to speak, his voice cutting over Garmadon’s, the air in the hall froze. Garmadon turned to him slowly, as though savoring the moment, and smiled without warmth.

“Minister,” he said, voice deep and smooth, “if you are so hungry to be heard, you must be starving indeed. Eat.”

The man blinked in confusion—until two guards forced him from his chair, down to the polished marble. A slice of bread and roasted meat were dropped before him.

Murmurs rippled through the hall as the minister’s face flushed crimson, hands trembling as he obeyed. The sound of him chewing on the floor was louder than the music.

Farther down the table, Lloyd lounged beside Harumi, his green silk robes sharp against the candlelight. His eyes found the envoy’s son—perhaps seventeen—wearing a pale blue tunic. Lloyd’s lips curved into something predatory.

“That color,” he drawled, loud enough for the table to hear, “is a mourning shade in our court. Tell me, boy, who here do you mourn? Is it your father’s pride? Or merely your own sense?”

The young man stammered, his father’s hand gripping his arm in silent warning. Laughter, sharp as glass, spilled from Harumi’s lips, and Lloyd sat back, satisfied.

Wu, ever more restrained in cruelty, waited until a courtier made some remark about the kingdom’s “waning influence.” He smiled faintly, leaned forward, and with a single measured question—so precise it was almost gentle—exposed a half-truth the man had spoken months ago.

The courtier’s lie unraveled in seconds, every whisper in the hall twisting into suspicion and scorn. By the time Wu reclined beside Aurora, the man’s reputation was in tatters, his name already sliding toward infamy.

Arabella and Aurora exchanged glances—no words, just the shared look of women who had endured such games for too long. Their smiles remained fixed for the guests, but inside, their anger coiled tight.

By the time the last course was served and the guests dismissed under the watchful eyes of guards, the hall was hushed save for the crackle of the braziers.

Garmadon approached Arabella with the satisfied stride of a hunter returning from the kill.

“You’re quiet,” he teased.

“I am trying,” she replied, voice low and sharp, “not to speak words I cannot take back.”

He laughed—deep and unbothered. “You wound too easily, my dear. This is court, not a nursery.”

Wu found Aurora in the corridor, her cloak clasped but her posture rigid. “You disapprove,” he murmured, stepping close enough that his breath stirred the loose strands of her hair.

“I disapprove of needing to bathe myself in blood and humiliation just to share your table,” she said.

He tilted his head, studying her with eyes like cold steel. “Cruelty is not a vice, Aurora. It is a language. Tonight, I merely spoke it fluently.”

When she turned away, he caught her hand and brought it to his lips, the kiss dark and deliberate. “Do not let righteous anger ruin your beauty,” he murmured—a poet’s apology, but one without promise of change.

And so, the night ended not in reconciliation, but in quiet revolt.

When Garmadon arrived at his chambers, he found the doors locked, a servant stammering that Her Majesty was 'unwell' and would sleep alone. His chuckle echoed down the hallway as he turned away.

Wu fared no better; Aurora met his gaze at the threshold, her hand on the door. “Not tonight,” she said, softly but without room for argument. The door closed, leaving him in the lamplight’s shadow.

And so the princes, conquerors of ministers and ruiners of men, spent the night wandering their own palace—barred from the warmth of their wives’ bedchambers, each left to nurse a quiet, private defeat.

....

The morning after the Midwinter Banquet, the palace was still heavy with the scent of pine boughs and extinguished candles.

Outside, the city lay muffled in snow, its streets echoing with whispers of what had transpired the night before.

Among those whispers was the name of Master Jian, a scholar of impeccable reputation, who had quietly served three reigns with his wit and loyalty.

But loyalty had its limits.

That very morning, he had completed a treatise—neither scathing nor inflammatory by his own estimation—on the dangers of excessive cruelty in governance.

Unfortunately for him, copies reached several ministers before he could even submit it to the royal archives.

And the ministers, their pride freshly bruised by the events of the banquet, saw an opportunity to make an example of him.

A public trial, they argued, would show the kingdom’s magnanimity in 'hearing' dissent… and its strength in crushing it.

The First Spinjitzu Master did not miss the irony. In his private council chamber, he listened to the proposal with thinly veiled irritation.

“So,” he said finally, voice calm but edged, “you want to parade him through the court before you destroy him, rather than do it quietly. You want to honor him with ceremony.”

The ministers exchanged uneasy glances. One cleared his throat. “It will… send a clearer message, my lord.”

“Very well,” he said, rising from his seat. “But do not pretend this is about honor. We will make a spectacle, and you will not avert your gaze when the crowd roars for blood.”

By noon, the great hall had been transformed into a court of judgment. The banners of the Empire hung heavy overhead, their crimson and black stark against the winter pallor streaming through the high windows.

Nobles, merchants, and even a few commoners had been allowed in to watch, their eyes glittering with the morbid thrill of sanctioned ruin.

The accused was led in—thin, gray-haired, and calm in his scholar’s robes. He bowed with quiet dignity, though the weight of so many eyes upon him made his spine stiffen. Arabella, seated beside Garmadon, could already feel her jaw tighten.

The trial began with Harumi. Elegant and poised, she stepped into the open floor and, with practiced grace, recounted 'conversations' she claimed to have overheard—carefully constructed fictions about Jian’s alleged disloyalty, each lie framed in the language of tragic disappointment.

“I admired him once,” she said, voice soft enough to seem sincere, “but admiration cannot blind us to betrayal.”

The court murmured in agreement, the web of deceit tightening.

Then Lloyd took his turn. Where Harumi had been subtle, he was merciless.

“Tell me, Master Jian,” he said, strolling in slow circles around the scholar, “when you wrote that our cruelty is dangerous… was that before or after we allowed you to keep your cushioned post in the library? Before or after you drank our wine, wore our silks?”

Jian met his gaze, refusing to look away. “A good man speaks truth when it must be spoken, even if he eats from the king’s table.”

Lloyd smirked. “Then perhaps a good man should also learn not to choke on his own tongue.” The laughter from the gallery was as cold as the air outside.

Wu followed, not with accusations, but with riddles—subtle, twisting questions that led Jian into verbal traps. Each answer the scholar gave was reshaped into an implication, each implication into a shadow of guilt.

It was an elegant dissection, and when Jian faltered on the third question, a ripple of satisfaction passed through the court.

And then came Garmadon. He did not question. He did not posture. He simply sat, eyes fixed on Jian like a predator watching a wounded animal. Minutes passed in silence, the weight of his gaze heavier than any word spoken.

The hall seemed to shrink, the scholar’s composure fraying thread by thread until, with a trembling voice, he broke—denying, pleading, stumbling over his own defense until it dissolved into something dangerously close to confession.

The ministers leaned forward, satisfied. The trial had gone exactly as intended.

Arabella’s stomach churned. From the very first moment Harumi had opened her mouth, she had sensed the truth: this was never about justice. It was a performance—one meant to grind Jian’s dignity into the marble before the eyes of all who might ever think of writing such words.

Her hands tightened in her lap until her knuckles whitened.

On the other side of the hall, Aurora’s lips were pressed into a thin line, her gaze fixed on Wu but not with admiration. She saw in his questioning not cleverness, but the slow, deliberate destruction of a man whose only crime had been candor.

And in the upper gallery, Queen Sera leaned toward the First Spinjitzu Master, her voice barely above a whisper. “Must it be this way?”

He did not take his eyes off the floor below. “It must be this way,” he said flatly. “Fear is the mortar of empires.”

Sera looked away, her fingers twisting in the folds of her gown. The mortar, she thought, was beginning to stink of rot.

When the verdict was announced—exile, but under such conditions it might as well have been a death sentence—the court erupted in applause. The royal family sat as if on thrones of stone, their authority untouchable.

But behind their silks and jewels, the women carried something the ministers never noticed: the slow, suffocating knowledge that the kingdom they stood in was not only feared by its enemies… but was now beginning to consume itself.

****

Chapter Text

The winter sun filtered pale gold through the bare lattice of rose trellises, their branches stripped of blooms but not of thorns.

The pond, half-rimmed with ice, still held the flicker of koi beneath the surface—descendants of those Garmadon had once poured into it as a lavish gesture for Arabella.

The air smelled faintly of frost and the distant smoke of palace chimneys.

Aurora stood by the water’s edge, her fingers grazing the hem of her cloak.

She had come here to think, to walk off the raw taste in her mouth after watching Wu’s lesson for a young archivist—gentle only in tone, but devastating in its outcome. The boy had left the library white-faced and near tears, humiliated beyond repair.

From the far archway, Arabella approached, her own expression tight. She had been in the council hall that morning when Garmadon, with just a few lazy sentences, had goaded a minister into contradicting himself before the entire court.

The man had been stripped of position by the noon meal.

They met at the pond with no need for polite greetings.

“Yours or mine?” Aurora asked, eyes glinting with bitter humor.

“Mine,” Arabella said, then, with a rueful tilt of her head, “And yours?”

Aurora gave the faintest nod. They stood in silence for a moment, watching the koi stir the icy water.

“It’s always the same,” Arabella murmured. “They say it’s necessary. That cruelty keeps order.”

“And yet they enjoy it far too much for it to be necessity,” Aurora said. She glanced sideways at her sister-in-law, voice dropping. “We can’t stop them. But perhaps… we can shame them into softening their image.”

Arabella’s brow lifted. “Shame? They don’t feel it.”

“Not in private,” Aurora agreed. “But in public—before the court, the envoys, the ministers—they guard their pride like dragons with gold. We could make them appear… less in control.”

Arabella’s lips curved into something between a smile and a threat. “At the ceremony next week.”

“The perfect stage,” Aurora said. “One moment of ridicule, done where they cannot lash out without revealing their temper.”

...

It was a day for pomp: banners unfurled in the grand hall, the marble floors gleaming, the courtiers preened in silks and jewels.

The ceremony honored a trade accord, but everyone knew it was also a stage for the royal family’s display of unity and power.

Arabella and Aurora played their parts flawlessly—serene, elegant, the very picture of dutiful consorts. Until the moment came.

In a subtle, wordless rhythm, they moved together.

Arabella 'misplaced' Garmadon’s ceremonial seal just as he was about to press it to the accord, forcing him to fumble and wait while she produced it from her own gown with an overly sweet smile. “You should be more careful, my lord,” she murmured loudly enough for the entire hall to hear.

Aurora followed with equal precision: as Wu began a florid speech about the Empire’s unmatched stability, she 'innocently' corrected a historical date he cited—once, then again, each time with an apologetic bow that was just a shade too knowing. The laughter from the foreign envoys was polite, but unmistakable.

For a heartbeat, both men froze. Wu’s eyes flicked to Aurora with that sharp, assessing gleam he got before a duel.

Garmadon’s smile tightened into something brittle. But the moment passed; they recovered with forced amusement, turning the slip-ups into harmless jokes.

To the court, it looked like the wives had humanized their powerful husbands. To the wives, it was a victory—small, but satisfying.

It took only two days for the shift to come.

Neither Wu nor Garmadon spoke of the incident directly. Instead, they began reclaiming their dominance in quieter, subtler ways: a lingering touch at the small of the back during court, a whispered reminder in the ear that made the listener’s skin flush despite themselves, the careful engineering of moments where the wives would be reminded—without witnesses—who truly held the upper hand.

By the fourth night, the message was clear.

....

Aurora entered their chambers to find the fireplace already lit, Wu leaning against the mantle in that infuriatingly calm way of his.

“You enjoyed yourself at the ceremony,” he said, voice smooth as silk.

“Perhaps,” she said, unfastening her cloak.

He closed the distance between them in three deliberate steps, fingers catching her chin. “Then allow me to enjoy myself now.” His mouth brushed hers, slow at first, then deepening until her knees weakened. The deliberate control in his kiss made it clear—he was reclaiming ground, and she could either yield or burn with the defiance.

She burned. And then she yielded.

...

Arabella found her chambers lit by candlelight, the faint scent of sandalwood in the air. Garmadon sat in the chair by the window, one leg stretched lazily, watching her with a predator’s patience.

“You were bold,” he said.

“And you were slow,” she countered.

His laugh was low, dangerous, but not without heat. In a single motion, he pulled her into his lap, his hand threading through her hair. “Let’s see how bold you feel when I remind you exactly who you challenged.”

Their mouths met in a kiss that was more claim than caress, but the slow slide into tenderness surprised even her.

By the time she pulled away, breathless, the flicker of candles on his face made her almost forget the game they were playing. Almost.

By morning, the palace still saw the wives as the clever heroines who had softened their lords’ image.

Only in the privacy of their chambers did Arabella and Aurora know the truth: their victory had been met, matched, and folded back into the endless, dangerous dance that was their marriage.

..........

The Hall of Twelve Banners was awash with firelight, the banners themselves rippling faintly in the rising heat from a hundred braziers. Gold and lacquer gleamed under torchlight, and the scent of spiced meats hung thick in the air.

At the high table, Arabella sat beside Garmadon, her fingers resting lightly on the back of little Lysandra’s chair.

The two-year-old, dressed in a miniature winter gown of green and black brocade, swung her legs under the table, humming to herself between bites of honeyed fruit.

The foreign ambassador—a heavyset man with a beard like a briar patch—was holding forth about the discipline of his homeland’s nobility when his eyes fell on the child.

“In my country,” he said loudly enough for the surrounding tables to hear, “a princess would not behave so… informally. Sitting before foreign dignitaries, humming like a commoner’s brat. Proper decorum must be taught young.”

The hum in the hall faltered. Arabella’s hand went still.

Lysandra, oblivious, giggled at something Lloyd whispered down the table.

Arabella’s eyes locked on the ambassador, her tone cool and polite: “She is two years old, my lord. Her only duty at present is to grow and be happy.”

The man shrugged, as though excusing an unruly pet. “A pity. The habits set in youth linger long into adulthood.”

Garmadon laughed—deep, rich, and disarming. “Ah, but in my house, habits are… adaptable. We have our ways of teaching.” He raised his cup in mock salute, his smile giving away nothing.

The feast continued. Laughter returned. The ambassador likely thought the matter forgotten.

It was not.

Long after the last cup had been drained and the courtiers had stumbled to their chambers, the city below the palace stirred to a quieter rhythm.

In the narrow streets between the merchant quarters and the river gate, shadows detached themselves from darker shadows—silent, masked, efficient.

By dawn, the foreign ambassador’s body hung from the city gates, a braided cord around his neck, his embassy seal pinned to his chest. Bloodless, but unmistakably dead.

Word traveled faster than the frost wind: this was no robbery, no accident. It was a message.

Arabella stood by the window of their chambers, her nightrobe drawn tightly around her. She had not touched the bed.

Lysandra slept in the adjoining nursery, unaware.

“You jeopardized the treaty,” she said without turning.

Behind her, Garmadon unbuckled his armor with leisurely motions, the faint sound of leather straps giving way to silence. “I secured it,” he replied. “Fear is a more binding treaty than ink on paper.”

“You think the other envoys will respect that?” she shot back, turning now, eyes bright with fury. “They will not see loyalty. They will see madness.”

“They will see consequence,” he said, stepping toward her. His voice was low, almost conversational. “They will weigh every word they speak in my presence. That is worth more than ten parchments sealed in wax.”

Arabella took a step back as he reached her. “You turned a slight at a feast into an execution.”

His hand came up, fingers brushing her jaw—not roughly, but with the same inevitability as his shadow crossing hers. “I turned an insult to my daughter into a lesson for the world.”

“You frighten them,” she said, almost whispering.

His smile was slow. “Good.”

When she did not move, he simply scooped her into his arms. She gasped, her fists pressing lightly against his chest.

“You are not forgiven,” she said.

“That’s fine,” he murmured, carrying her to the bed. “Forgiveness is overrated.”

He laid her down, leaning over her with the weight of inevitability, his voice a quiet, dark ribbon of sound: “You can fight me tomorrow, Arabella. Tonight, you are mine.”

And though her heart pounded with anger, it pounded with something else as well.

The next morning, Wu entered the west terrace where Garmadon took breakfast.

Aurora followed a few steps behind, her face set.

“You’ve caused a diplomatic storm,” she said without greeting.

Wu poured tea with the calm precision of a man arranging a chessboard. “And yet the pieces remain on the board.” He glanced at Garmadon. “You did well.”

Aurora’s hands curled at her sides. “You think murder at the city gates is well?”

Wu’s eyes met hers over the rim of his cup. “I think loyalty secured by fear is loyalty that does not waver. And in our world, wavering costs lives.”

Garmadon only smirked. “She’s angry at you, brother. Welcome to the club.”

Aurora’s anger boiled over later that night in their chambers—sharp words, threats of withdrawal, accusations of cruelty without foresight.

Wu listened, offered his usual darkly poetic apologies, but did not concede.

And when he reached for her, she resisted—until his persistence, and the quiet burn in his gaze, pulled her back into the dangerous, complicated embrace they both knew too well.

...........

The palace slept under a veil of winter mist. In one of the east corridors, Adler—cloak drawn, boots muffled in the carpet’s weave—slipped past the last watchman’s patrol.

He had done this before. Slipping out to meet friends who lived in the city’s rougher quarters had become a thrill, a small rebellion against the suffocating refinement of court life.

Tonight, the group crowded into the smoky backroom of a tavern, their laughter sharp with ale, their pockets heavy with dice and cards.

By the time dawn’s first light crept across the sky, Adler had lost twice what he’d come with and gained three more drinking songs to sing under his breath on the way back.

News in the capital moved faster than the wind. By midmorning, the high ministers were gathered in their private hall, murmuring over steaming tea.

Word of the young prince’s night of gambling and drink was a gift—especially to those who resented Wu’s iron grip on the council.

“This is a matter for public shame,” one minister said, lips curling in satisfaction. “The people should see the royal house is not beyond reproach.”

A second agreed, tapping his ring against the table. “A father who cannot command his own son’s behavior should not command the kingdom’s laws.”

The whispers reached Wu before midday.

When the report was finished, Wu’s face was unreadable. He only gave a single command:

“Find every man who was with the prince last night. Bring them to the square by sunset.”

By dusk, the people gathered—curious, murmuring—as a dozen men, bound and bruised from arrest, were forced to their knees in the public square.

The ministers watched from the safety of the steps, some feigning disapproval, others hiding their grim satisfaction.

Wu stood before them, his voice carrying over the cold air.

“The prince is the son of this empire,” he said. “To lead him into dishonor is to spit on the royal blood itself.”

He gave a single nod. The flogging began.

The whip cracked against bare backs, the sound sharp enough to make the crowd flinch. Blood ran in rivulets onto the frozen stones. Wu did not look away.

That night, Aurora stormed into his study. Her fury was barely contained, her hands trembling—not with fear, but with outrage.

“You punished commoners,” she hissed. “For his mistakes. You humiliated them for your pride. It’s cowardice, Wu.”

He lifted his gaze from the document he was sealing, entirely unruffled. “No. It is teaching him. Adler must learn that his actions carry weight—that the wrong decision from a prince can destroy lives.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You don’t care about teaching him. You care about proving no one can touch you.”

His mouth curved into the faintest shadow of a smile. “The two are not so different.”

Aurora turned from him, unwilling to say more before her rage boiled over.

For days, Adler avoided both parents, retreating to the far end of the palace.

But when he emerged, there was a new sharpness to him—a cold, deliberate way he spoke to the servants, a dismissive tilt of his head when commoners crossed his path.

One afternoon, Wu found him in the training yard, watching the guards drill.

“You’re angry with me,” Wu said.

Adler kept his eyes on the soldiers. “They learned their lesson. So did I.”

Wu’s gaze sharpened. “And what lesson was that?”

“That people are tools. You break them when they fail you.”

A long silence hung between them. Wu stepped closer, his voice quiet and cold. “Careful, Adler. There’s a difference between understanding power… and letting it rot you from the inside. The day you start breaking people for your own amusement is the day I stop being your shield.”

Adler didn’t answer. But the way his jaw tightened told Wu he had planted a seed—one that might yet grow into something dangerous.

....

The letter was written in a practiced, dignified hand—ink flowing across thick parchment with the ease of a man accustomed to authority.

It was from Duke Renquin, an old ally of Wu’s from the years before the empire’s rise to its current strength.

In it, the Duke spoke warmly of old campaigns fought side by side, of loyalty tested and proven. But the true purpose lay in the final lines: I would see the bond between our houses sealed for generations. My daughter, Lady Selene, is of age, educated, and fit to wed. I propose her hand for your son, Prince Abraxas.

Wu sat alone in his study, the letter resting between his fingers. The thought pleased him more than he let on. Selene was known at court—sharp-minded, poised, and with a beauty that turned heads without ever making her seem frivolous. She would not be a decorative wife; she would be an asset.

And Abraxas… unlike his younger brother Adler, the boy was measured, deliberate, and—when it suited him—diplomatic.

Wu imagined the two as a pair: a future he could trust, a union that strengthened their political foundation without inviting chaos.

That evening, he summoned Abraxas. The young prince arrived quietly, his expression polite but curious.

“There is a matter of marriage,” Wu began, gesturing for him to sit. “Duke Renquin offers his daughter Selene. You’ve met her before, at last year’s harvest banquet.”

Abraxas inclined his head slowly. “I remember her.”

“She is clever. Well-mannered. And loyal to her family. This match would strengthen our position. But—” Wu’s eyes narrowed in that way that made even the ministers hold their breath, “—it is not only my decision. I ask for your consent, and your choice.”

Abraxas hesitated, his fingers resting against the arm of the chair. He could feel the weight of the question—not only as a personal matter but as a piece in his father’s larger designs.

“I’ll consider it,” he said at last.

When he left the study, he did not go to his own chambers. Instead, he crossed the palace to the quiet west wing, where the smell of roses and sandalwood drifted from behind carved doors.

Aurora was reading in her sitting room, the late afternoon light turning her hair to copper. She looked up, smiling faintly. “You have the face of someone thinking too much.”

He sat beside her, uncharacteristically direct. “Father wants me to marry Lady Selene. He says it’s my choice.”

Aurora marked her page with a ribbon and set the book aside. “And you’re here because… you’re not sure?”

Abraxas nodded. “I don’t know her well. And marriage… it’s not a small thing.”

Her expression softened, but her tone carried its usual clarity. “Then think clearly. Don’t say yes simply because your father wants it. But if you do say yes… you treat her well. Respect her.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Even in this family?”

A quiet laugh escaped her. “Especially in this family. Your father, your uncle, and your grandfather—they are cruel tyrants. I know it. You know it. But they have never truly harmed their wives. They respect us, even when they frighten everyone else. That respect is the foundation that keeps this family from tearing itself apart.”

Abraxas thought about his father with his quiet intensity, about Garmadon’s fierce loyalty to Arabella, about the strange tenderness the First Spinjitzu Master showed Sera when no one else was looking.

The palace might drip with blood, but in private, the bonds between husband and wife were unbreakable.

Aurora reached over, touching his hand. “If you marry her, make sure she can stand beside you without fear. The cruelty of this house is heavy enough. She should never have to bear it alone.”

He left her chambers with more to think about than when he had arrived.

.......

Chapter Text

The winter sun poured cold light through the high, colored glass of the imperial audience chamber, turning the marble floor into a patchwork of gold and blue.

The scent of burning cedar clung to the air, a deliberate choice meant to mask the sharper tang of steel oil and incense — a reminder to the ministers that here, politics and war were never far apart.

The First Spinjitzu Master sat upon the Dragon Throne, the carved onyx arms shaped like writhing serpents.

Wu stood at his right, Garmadon at his left, their eyes scanning the chamber like predators bored with their cage.

Below them, the court ministers argued in low, strained voices about the unrest brewing in the border city of Yunpei.

The governor there had petitioned for relief from heavy tariffs on grain imports, citing famine and the risk of rebellion.

“Military presence will keep the peace,” one minister declared, bowing stiffly toward the throne. “Discontent is best quelled with a show of force.”

Another shook his head. “Force will breed resentment. Better to ease the tariffs temporarily. Win their loyalty.”

Wu’s lips curved faintly. “And watch them grow soft and entitled? No. Fear endures longer than gratitude.”

A few nodded; others lowered their eyes.

It was then Harumi’s voice cut through the debate — smooth, lilting, but carrying that unmistakable thread of steel.

“Your Grace,” she said, stepping forward from where she had been standing beside Lloyd. The rustle of her silken winter gown drew more attention than the ministers’ clumsy shuffling. “Might I propose an alternative?”

The First Spinjitzu Master arched one brow, not granting permission but not forbidding her either. The room went still, for a princess-in-law to speak in matters of policy uninvited was… bold.

Harumi stepped into the center, each movement deliberate, her hands folded elegantly. “Let me go to Yunpei.”

The murmurs began instantly — a ripple of surprise and disapproval.

“You?” one minister scoffed. “It is no place for—”

Her gaze slid toward him, and though her smile never faltered, the man’s words stumbled to a halt.

“I am not suggesting a peaceful tea visit,” Harumi continued, her tone warm but lined with challenge. “I will carry the Emperor’s seal. I will speak to their governor, show them the honor of imperial attention… and remind them what disobedience costs.”

She paced slowly, her eyes meeting each minister’s in turn. “A soft voice to soothe them. A sharp blade to silence them, should they not listen.”

The First Spinjitzu Master’s eyes narrowed, studying her. A long silence followed — the kind in which careers could be born or destroyed.

Finally, he leaned back on the throne. “You would go alone?”

“With a modest escort. Enough to show our power without turning the city into an armed camp,” Harumi replied.

Lloyd’s gaze was fixed on her, a faint smirk of pride curling his lips.

Wu’s head tilted, as though weighing the risk against the intrigue of watching her work.

Garmadon’s eyes glittered with amusement.

The First Spinjitzu Master finally spoke, his voice carrying the weight of a gavel. “Very well. You will go to Yunpei. You will succeed — or not return at all.”

The ministers bowed, some with reluctance, others with thinly veiled interest in her fate.

Harumi inclined her head in graceful acceptance, the faintest glint of triumph in her eyes.

From their seats further down the dais, Arabella and Aurora exchanged a subtle glance — one part wariness, one part curiosity.

Bold women in this court did not survive without claws, and Harumi had just shown hers.

...

The city of Yunpei lay beneath a pale winter sun, its roofs frosted in silver and its streets crowded with anxious faces.

From the moment Harumi’s small but immaculately armored escort passed through the gates, she could feel the tension in the air — a restless murmur that carried from the market stalls to the shuttered windows above.

Her arrival had been staged to perfection. Not the overwhelming crush of imperial soldiers that would send the city into panic, but a carefully measured display: black lacquered armor gleaming, banners stitched with the imperial crest snapping in the wind.

The Governor of Yunpei, a portly man with deep lines of worry around his eyes, met her at the main square. He bowed low, but not low enough.

“Your Highness,” he said, forcing a smile. “We are honored to—”

“You will address me as ‘Princess Harumi of the Imperial Court,’” she interrupted, her voice carrying like a cold bell across the stones. The small crowd behind him hushed instantly.

The Governor’s smile faltered, and he bowed lower. “Of course… Princess Harumi of the Imperial Court.”

“Better,” she said, the faintest warmth returning to her tone. She let the moment hang — letting every merchant, guard, and street urchin in earshot understand that titles were not mere courtesies here, but the measure of one’s place in the order of things.

She allowed him to lead her to the governor’s hall, its great lacquered doors opening to a meeting chamber where local ministers awaited her.

The table was set with delicate porcelain cups of steaming tea, though she noted — and later would quietly punish — that the cups were mismatched. Small slights, intentional or not, were still slights.

The ministers began with appeals.

The harvest failed.

The tariffs are too high.

The people grow restless.

Harumi listened, nodding occasionally, letting them believe — for the first few minutes — that she was sympathetic.

She spoke softly, drawing them in, asking after the health of their families, the conditions of their granaries.

And then, like a blade sliding between ribs, she shifted.

“You have spoken of hardship,” she said, folding her hands neatly before her. “Yet I have read the accounts from the imperial treasury. The taxes from Yunpei have not diminished. In fact, certain line items have… grown.”

The Governor began to sweat. “We— we needed to—”

“Needed to what?” Her tone never rose, but the room felt colder. “Fill your own cellars? Trade grain for luxuries from the southern provinces?”

One minister began to protest, but she cut him off with a single raised finger. “I am not here to scold like a nursemaid. I am here to correct. And correction, I assure you, will be remembered.”

Her gaze swept the room, measuring the flickers of fear, the tightening of jaws. She leaned back, letting the silence stretch until it became almost unbearable.

Then she smiled — a small, dangerous thing.

“This is what will happen,” she said. “The tariffs will remain exactly as they are. You will publicly declare the Emperor’s generosity for sparing you greater penalties for your… miscalculations. And in return, you will send one hundred barrels of grain to the capital within the week, as a gift of loyalty.”

A minister stammered, “But—”

“I will also require three sons of Yunpei’s noble houses to be sent to the Imperial Court,” she added smoothly. “To be educated. To learn… proper loyalty.” Her eyes lingered on the Governor. “Perhaps your nephew would be an excellent candidate.”

The man’s face drained of color. Everyone in the room knew that “education” in the capital was another word for hostage.

By the time the meeting ended, the ministers were bowing deeply, murmuring their obedience.

Harumi accepted their pledges with the graciousness of a queen, even as she noted each man’s expression — who swallowed their rage, who kept their eyes lowered too long, who might need further… persuasion.

That night, at the banquet held in her honor, she dined like a goddess while the Governor’s wife trembled pouring her wine.

Harumi complimented the city’s silk weavers, praised the children’s choir that performed for her, and made the entire hall believe that the day’s humiliation had been an act of benevolence.

Only when she retired to her chambers did her mask slip — a flicker of a smile that was pure, cold satisfaction. Yunpei was hers now, bound by fear and debt.

...

Snow still clung to the edges of the capital’s great marble steps when Harumi’s procession returned.

The gates were flung open before her without a single challenge, and the great square beyond was already crowded with nobles, ministers, and court ladies wrapped in furs and jewels.

Her arrival was nothing less than theatre.

She rode at the head of her escort, her white-and-crimson cloak flowing behind her like a banner, the sunlight catching in the black lacquer of her armor. The air was filled with the scent of burning incense, drifting from tall braziers placed along the avenue.

A murmur rippled through the onlookers as she passed — a current of admiration, envy, and fear all mingled into one.

She dismounted slowly, allowing the court to drink in every measured movement, and the First Spinjitzu Master himself appeared on the palace steps, Lloyd at his side.

The Emperor’s approval was silent but unmistakable: a faint nod, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. Lloyd’s smile was far less restrained, the kind that said I know exactly what you’ve done, and I approve.

Inside the great hall, she was met with lavish praise. Noble ladies pressed close, eager to touch the fabric of her gown — a masterwork of black silk embroidered with deep red thread, the patterns so intricate they almost seemed alive.

Lords bowed low, some in genuine respect, others calculating their alliances in the wake of her victory at Yunpei.

By the time the evening feast ended, she had secured three new trade alliances, humiliated a rival duchess with nothing more than an innocent question, and set the entire court whispering about her political brilliance.

It was long past midnight when she finally dismissed her attendants and entered her private chambers. Lloyd was already there, lounging across the bed in a loose robe of midnight, a half-finished glass of wine in hand.

“You didn’t disappoint me,” he said lazily, though the gleam in his eyes was sharp. “You never do.”

Harumi began unfastening the clasps of her gown, moving slowly, deliberately. “Of course not,” she murmured. “But you didn’t summon me here just to flatter me, did you?”

He set the wine aside and leaned forward. “No. I called you here because I need to reward you.”

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “All heirs should have heirs, isn’t that right?” she teased, sliding the silk from her shoulders so it pooled at her feet. “How many do we need, Lloyd?”

He stood, closing the distance between them with the unhurried confidence of someone who knew he would get exactly what he wanted. “Enough,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, “to make sure the Empire will never need to question its future.”

The kiss that followed was slow, calculated, as much a claiming as it was an expression of desire. They moved together in a way that was both intimate and political — every touch a reaffirmation of their shared power, every whispered word a promise laced with threat.

When it was over, they lay tangled in the silk sheets, her head resting against his shoulder, his fingers tracing idle patterns along her skin.

The warmth of the moment was real, but so was the undercurrent that neither could ignore — the awareness that theirs was a union built as much on ambition as affection.

“You’re dangerous,” he said quietly, almost with admiration.

She smiled into the darkness. “So are you.”

And in the stillness of the royal bedchamber, they both knew it was that danger — that shared hunger for control — that bound them tighter than love ever could.

...

The days after Harumi’s return were thick with whispers.

She moved through the palace halls like a queen already crowned, her steps unhurried, her smiles measured. Ministers now bent a little lower when she passed.

The court ladies—those who had once kept her at arm’s length—now fluttered close like jeweled moths to a flame. Harumi’s name was on everyone’s tongue, laced with awe, envy, or fear, depending on the speaker.

Arabella noticed first.

She watched from the far side of the great dining hall as Harumi leaned close to the Duchess of Ten Stones, speaking in a voice too soft to hear, but soft enough to invite secrets.

The duchess’s laughter rang out moments later, bright and falsely careless. A few days later, the same duchess publicly changed her stance on a trade dispute—in Lloyd’s favor.

Aurora, too, began to see the pattern. Harumi never took a seat without knowing exactly who sat beside her. She listened more than she spoke.

And when she did speak, the conversation shifted like water redirected through a narrow channel—always flowing where Harumi wanted.

One evening, when the snow was falling light and slow over the palace courtyards, Arabella and Aurora found themselves together in the same corner of the women’s wing, the warm lamplight flickering over pale silks and soft furs.

“You’ve seen it too,” Arabella murmured, her voice low enough that the maids would hear nothing.

Aurora’s eyes were sharp. “She’s laying foundations. Not just for Lloyd—she’s building her own network.”

Arabella’s fingers toyed with the edge of her cloak. “If she roots herself too deeply, we won’t be able to move her.”

Aurora glanced toward the latticed window, where the snow had begun to gather on the sill. “Then we pull at the roots now, before they spread.”

And so it began—quietly, with no proclamations, no dramatic confrontations.

Arabella invited three court ladies to tea, each known for her influence over her husband.

The talk was polite, centered on fabrics and winter feasts, but the undercurrent was clear: little reminders of Harumi’s foreign ties, subtle questions about her loyalty, a raised eyebrow at how quickly she’d won the First Spinjitzu Master’s trust.

Aurora, for her part, spent afternoons walking the inner gardens with noblewomen who rarely set foot in the main halls.

She listened to their grievances—small slights, overlooked honors—and in each conversation, she planted the idea that Harumi’s rise might be the reason.

It was a slow weaving of threads, delicate and deliberate. A rumor here, a hint there. Nothing traceable. Nothing that could be brought to the Emperor as open accusation.

Yet the change was noticeable. When Harumi entered the court assembly one morning, a few of the noble ladies looked away just a heartbeat too late. The Duchess of Ten Stones was no longer at her side.

Arabella and Aurora exchanged the smallest glance across the chamber. Not victory—not yet—but progress.

Still, both knew the risk.

Harumi was clever, and clever women did not survive in courts like this by being blind. The next move she made would tell them whether she had noticed their quiet campaign.

And if she had noticed, then the silk smiles and perfumed courtyards would soon become just another battlefield.

...

Snow clung to the banners above the arena, their colors snapping in the wind. The royal family’s box overlooked the entire grounds—stone seats warmed by braziers, gold-threaded cushions catching the pale winter light.

From here, the whole of the court could watch the spectacle below.

The tournament was meant to be celebration. It was the First Spinjitzu Master’s vision—combat as display, the strength of the empire made flesh.

Warriors from every province had come to compete: armored champions, lean swordsmen, archers with eyes like hawks. The crowd roared with each clash of steel.

Arabella sat beside Garmadon, her hands folded in her lap. Outwardly serene, inwardly unsettled. She remembered the garden birthday months ago—the ministers’ leers, Garmadon’s swift violence.

Since then, the family’s cruelty had only sharpened. It was in the way Wu spoke to trembling courtiers, in the gleam in Lloyd’s eyes when a rival flinched, in the cold precision with which the First Spinjitzu Master moved his pieces across the empire’s board.

And now, in the tournament, she saw it again.

When a young contender faltered, the crowd jeered, and the man’s sponsor—a minister seeking favor—was summoned to kneel before the royal box.

The First Spinjitzu Master said little. He only waved a hand, and guards escorted the minister away. Arabella didn’t need to ask what fate awaited him.

She caught Aurora’s gaze across the dais. There was no need for words; Aurora had seen it too.

Harumi sat between Lloyd and Wu, her expression a study in polite fascination, though Arabella knew she was cataloguing every shift of favor, every weakness shown.

“Do you enjoy it?” Garmadon’s voice was low in her ear, a whisper meant to sound intimate but carrying the weight of a test.

“I enjoy the skill of the fighters,” Arabella replied evenly. “The rest…” She let the words trail off.

Garmadon smiled faintly, as if her hesitation amused him. “Strength commands respect. Mercy invites challenge.”

Down in the arena, the next bout began—a lithe woman with twin blades against a hulking man with a warhammer.

The clash was quick, brutal, and ended with the man sprawled unconscious in the snow. The victor saluted the royal box, and Garmadon rose to his feet, clapping slowly.

The crowd followed.

Arabella’s gaze drifted over the sea of faces—ministers, noble ladies, envoys. All watching. All learning the lesson being taught: strength above all, and the family untouchable.

She folded her hands tighter. Power was one thing. Cruelty was another. And in this court, they had become inseparable.

When the match ended, Harumi leaned close to Lloyd, whispering something that made him smirk. Aurora noticed too; her eyes narrowed slightly before smoothing back into courtly calm.

The games would continue into the evening. The warriors would fight, the people would cheer, and the royal family would watch from above like gods on their thrones.

But beneath the applause, Arabella felt it—that faint, cold shift. The cruelty that once flared in moments now settled into the court like the snow on the banners: constant, unmelting.

And she wondered how much longer she could watch without acting.

By afternoon, the air in the arena had thickened—not just with the smell of roasting meats and spilt mulled wine, but with the heady mix of competition and court spectacle.

Snow had stopped falling, leaving the ground glittering under the pale sun.

The warriors fought on, the crowd’s roar swelling with every bout. The royal family’s box remained the unchallenged center of attention—its occupants the true spectacle, no matter the blood and sweat below.

Garmadon lounged like a predator at rest, his eyes rarely leaving Arabella. She sat straight-backed, gaze trained on the match below, her gloved hands folded neatly in her lap.

It was a perfect picture of queenly composure—until his hand brushed her knee under the table, a slow, deliberate pressure that made her glance sharply at him.

“Enjoying the tournament, my love?” His voice was pitched low enough for her alone, dark with amusement.

“I was,” she murmured, “until you started treating me like part of the entertainment.”

“Part of the entertainment?” His grin deepened. “No, Arabella. You’re the main event. Every man here would trade his place for mine if they knew what it was to have you in my bed.”

Her cheeks warmed despite herself, and she looked away, only for his fingers to trace up her thigh beneath the heavy folds of her gown. She caught his wrist and pushed it back under the table, but he only chuckled—soft, like he knew she was already flustered.

On her other side, Wu was equally relentless with Aurora.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said, leaning just close enough for his breath to stir the hair at her temple. “Not bored, I hope?”

“I’m watching the match,” Aurora said firmly.

Wu hummed, unconvinced. “Strange. I can’t remember you looking at anything that intently in our bedchamber.”

Aurora shot him a look, but he smiled like a man untouchable. When she returned her gaze to the arena, his fingers brushed the back of her neck, slow and claiming.

“You know,” he went on, his tone deceptively conversational, “watching these bouts makes me think of the last time I had you pinned beneath me. I won that match too.”

Aurora’s lips parted in outrage, color rising to her cheeks, but before she could speak, the crowd erupted for the victor below. Wu leaned back in his seat, smug as a man who had just scored a private victory.

Harumi sat beside Lloyd, her attention seemingly on the fighting—but in truth, her gaze flicked often to Garmadon and Arabella. She didn’t miss the way Arabella’s composure wavered under her husband’s hand, or the faint annoyance that kept pulling at her mouth.

Harumi’s eyes narrowed slightly, calculating. She knew power when she saw it, and this—this physical, unashamed claiming—was a kind of dominance no political title could match.

Down below, another match began.

Garmadon leaned in again, his voice silk and steel. “When we return to the palace, I’ll make you forget the cold, Arabella. I’ll have you too breathless to speak, just like last night.”

She turned her head sharply, scandalized. “You—”

“—will make good on my word,” he finished smoothly, leaning back with the air of a man entirely at ease.

Across from them, Wu caught Aurora’s hand under the table, lifting it to his lips without looking away from the fight. “Shall we place a wager?” he asked, brushing his mouth over her knuckles. “If my champion wins, I take my prize tonight.”

Aurora pulled her hand back, but her heartbeat betrayed her, quickening against her will.

By the time the final bout ended, the crowd’s cheers felt like a distant hum. Arabella and Aurora were warm with irritation and something far less comfortable to admit.

Harumi, meanwhile, was already filing every detail away for later use—every blush, every sidelong glance, every sign of the private hold these men had over their wives.

In the cold winter light, the tournament had shown more than martial skill. It had been a reminder—both public and private—of who held the true power in the empire.

......

The tournament’s afterglow lingered in the palace—laughter in the halls, the clink of goblets in the feasting chamber, the faint scent of roasted meats and spiced wine drifting through the corridors.

But in the East Gallery, where the tall windows bled moonlight onto polished floors, the air was colder.

Arabella had chosen the place deliberately, walking slowly with Lysandra’s tiny hand curled around her gloved finger.

The little girl’s cheeks were flushed from the winter air, her golden hair tied back with a ribbon. She was babbling about the “big men with swords,” and Arabella was smiling faintly when she heard the soft, measured footfall behind her.

“Your Grace.” Harumi’s voice was honey-smooth, polite as a bow, but with an undertone Arabella recognized instantly.

Arabella turned, her smile polite but faint. “Lady Harumi. You missed the feast.”

“I preferred a quieter evening,” Harumi said, gliding closer. Her gown was deep crimson tonight, the color of ripe berries and fresh blood, and her dark eyes flicked briefly to Lysandra. “And besides, the real entertainment is not in the hall.”

Arabella felt the shift in the air—how Harumi’s attention lingered on the child.

“She’s quite spirited for her age,” Harumi continued, kneeling so that she was at Lysandra’s level. “Though… perhaps a touch too spirited for a princess.”

Arabella’s spine went rigid. “She is two years old,” she said evenly. “If she were silent and still, I would be concerned.”

Harumi tilted her head, as if considering the point, but her smile didn’t warm. “Oh, of course. I only meant… there is much to learn, even for little ones. The court watches everything. They’ll forgive many things in a princess—except impropriety. She’ll need… shaping.”

Arabella’s hand tightened around Lysandra’s. “She will learn in her own time. And she will have her mother to guide her—not the court, and certainly not anyone else.”

Harumi rose gracefully, unbothered. “You sound like every devoted mother,” she said, her eyes glittering. “But sometimes… devoted mothers can be a touch nosy.”

Arabella arched a brow. “Nosy?”

“Yes.” Harumi’s smile sharpened, her tone silk-wrapped steel. “Always watching, always ready to insert themselves into matters that do not belong to them—especially when it comes to their sons’ households. I wonder… does it ever become tiring, carrying the weight of so much… vigilance?”

Lysandra blinked up between them, unaware of the sharpness passing overhead.

Arabella stepped closer, closing the space between them until they stood almost toe to toe. Her voice was calm, but it had the quiet weight of a blade laid against the skin. “You may be my son’s wife, but you will remember this: I am not some passing noblewoman you can try to unsettle with your little remarks. I have been queen longer than you have been alive, Harumi. I have seen clever girls with sharper tongues than yours rise and fall like the turning of the seasons.”

Harumi’s chin lifted slightly, her smile not faltering.

Arabella went on, her tone softening only for the child at her side. “You will not speak of my daughter in that way again. And if you ever—ever—try to shape her in your image, you will learn exactly how nosy a mother can be when her child is in danger.”

They stood like that for a moment, two queens—one by blood and one by marriage—regarding each other with cool calculation.

Finally, Harumi inclined her head. “As you wish… Mother.” The word was dipped in mockery, but she turned and glided away without another word.

Arabella looked down at Lysandra, who was still clutching her hand. “Come, little one,” she murmured, leading her toward the warmth of her chambers. “Some people mistake cruelty for strength. You’ll learn the difference soon enough.”

In the shadows of the gallery, Harumi paused just out of sight, her lips curling into the faintest smile.

****

Chapter Text

Two Months Later

The winter snow had long since melted from the palace gardens, replaced by pale shoots of green and the distant hum of servants preparing for the early spring festival.

Selene had grown accustomed to the soft shuffle of silk on marble, to the rustle of court fans, and to the endless bowing that came with her new life as Princess Consort.

Two months into her marriage with Abraxas, she found him kind enough—quiet, measured, with a fondness for reading in the evenings rather than the blood sport of court intrigue.

They suited each other, though Selene still felt the weight of eyes on her at every turn.

That afternoon, she walked the covered colonnade with her aunt, Misako, the air between them sweetened by the faint scent of the lemon trees that lined the path.

Misako had been visiting under the guise of advising her niece on etiquette, though Selene suspected it was more to keep her company.

Misako, ever composed, carried herself like a woman who knew precisely how close to stand to danger without touching it. Selene had noticed, more than once, her aunt’s eyes lingering in the great hall when Prince Wu or Prince Garmadon entered. Not in a foolish way—more with the fascination one might have for a rare and dangerous beast.

“Aunt Misako,” Selene said at last, her voice light but probing, “you watch my father-in-law quite closely.”

Misako’s lips curved faintly, though her gaze remained on the path ahead. “Do I?”

“You do. And you never linger when he’s near.” Selene tilted her head, teasing but curious. “Do you like him?”

For the first time, Misako’s step slowed. She glanced at Selene, her expression calm but edged with something unspoken. “Lord Wu is a married man, Selene. And your mother-in-law, Aurora, is a woman both clever and fiercely loved by her husband. I respect that bond.”

Selene frowned a little, unconvinced. “You speak as if it’s a story from a play.”

“It is not a story,” Misako said quietly, her voice gaining weight. “Wu is… a tyrant to all but Aurora, and his daughter, Helena. To them, he is something else entirely—devoted, protective, even tender. To everyone else, his affection is a blade with honey on the edge.”

Selene laughed softly, shaking her head. “You make him sound like a villain from a fireside tale. Abraxas has never spoken of his father that way. And Aurora—she’s always gracious when I see her.”

Misako’s eyes softened with a hint of pity. “Aurora knows how to stand beside him without losing herself. That is no small skill.”

Selene let the thought pass with a polite hum, unwilling to dwell on shadows when she preferred the sunlight.

They continued their slow walk, skirts whispering against the stone.

“It is hard, you know,” Selene said after a moment, “being a princess consort. Not because of Abraxas—he is… gentle. But the rules here…” She sighed, her hands tightening around the folds of her gown. “There is a way to stand, a way to speak, a way to look at the ministers without appearing too bold or too meek. And the noblewomen—” she glanced at Misako “—half of them want to know if I am as meek as I appear, and the other half hope I’m not.”

Misako smiled faintly. “Then let them keep guessing.”

Selene’s own smile returned, though softer. “I suppose you’re right. Perhaps it’s a kind of game.”

“It is,” Misako said, her voice light again. “But the palace’s game is one you must never forget you’re playing.”

They stepped into the pale sunlight at the edge of the garden, the sound of distant court laughter drifting toward them like a reminder that, here, nothing was truly private.

Selene did not see the small, knowing glance Misako cast toward the high tower balcony—where, far above, Wu stood in shadow, watching.

....

The bathing chamber was warm with steam, its cedar walls gleaming under the glow of the bronze lanterns.

The scent of rose petals and clove oil hung heavy in the air, and Aurora leaned back in the carved wooden tub, her hair pinned loosely at her nape so the perfumed water could lap at her shoulders.

The day had been long. Court petitions, a formal luncheon, and the tedious task of mediating between two quarrelling noble houses.

Here, alone, she could close her eyes and almost pretend she was far from the palace.

The door slid open.

Aurora’s eyes opened, the peace draining away as Wu stepped inside, silent and unhurried.

He dismissed the attendants with a flick of his fingers, the two women bowing low before slipping out, leaving only the quiet drip of water and the faint crackle of the lantern flames.

Her fingers tightened on the edge of the tub. “You should have knocked,” she murmured.

“I did,” he said mildly, already loosening the clasp of his robe.

“Wu—”

But he was already stepping into the tub, the water rippling outward as his body displaced it, rose petals drifting lazily between them.

He leaned back against the curved rim, his eyes fixed on her with the same unblinking calm that unsettled half the court.

“I hear,” he said after a beat, “that Misako likes me.”

Aurora went still, her lashes lowering. “And?”

“And,” Wu continued, clearly amused, “I think it entertains you to pretend you don’t care.”

“I don’t,” she said flatly, turning her face away.

“Mm.” His voice held that faint thread of mockery he reserved for her rare moments of cold dismissal. “You never do. But I also think you underestimate Selene.”

Aurora glanced at him then, wary. “Selene?”

“Sweet smile. Soft voice. Kind manners. A perfect little dove for my son.” He dipped a hand into the water, absently tracing circles against its surface. “Doves, my dear, are often snakes in disguise.”

Aurora exhaled slowly. “Or perhaps she is simply a young woman learning to survive here, as I once did.”

Wu smiled faintly. “Perhaps. And perhaps Misako is not nearly as disciplined as you believe. She looks at me as though she’s thought of disobedience.”

Aurora’s lips pressed into a thin line. She stood, water streaming down her skin, droplets catching the lanternlight as they slid over her curves. “I have no interest in humoring this conversation.”

She stepped toward the edge of the tub, but before her knee cleared the rim, Wu’s hand closed around her wrist.

“Sit,” he said softly, the command carrying more weight than his tone suggested.

When she did not move, he gave a light, almost playful tug that brought her down into the water again, petals swirling between them. “I like it,” he said, voice dropping, “when you get jealous. You rarely ever do… and when you do, it’s always so silent.”

Her gaze met his—cool, unyielding—but he only smiled, his thumb brushing against the inside of her wrist.

“You think I’m jealous?” she asked quietly.

“I think,” he murmured, leaning closer until the steam from his breath mingled with the warm air between them, “you’ve already thought about her looking at me… and you didn’t like it.”

Aurora’s silence was its own kind of answer, and Wu, as always, knew it.

.....

The Obsidian Palace loomed black against the winter sky, its shadow spilling across the frozen gardens. Inside, the air was warm with the scent of pinewood fires, but tension ran colder than the ice on the ponds.

Selene had spent the morning in the southern receiving hall, attending with other noblewomen as minor petitions were read aloud.

She was still adjusting to the strict formality of Wu’s household—how even the smallest gestures were weighed for hidden meaning, and every glance carried a chain of obligations.

But that afternoon, whispers reached her: Abraxas had erred.

The land grant he oversaw in the northern valleys—one of his first responsibilities since his marriage—had been mishandled.

Grain taxes had been collected too harshly, causing a near-riot among the farmers. The ministers, eager to find fault, wasted no time bringing it before Wu.

By evening, the sound of Wu’s voice carried down the marble corridor from the Hall of Black Jade. Selene had never heard it like that before—sharp, hard-edged, cutting into Abraxas with unrelenting precision.

“You do not make mistakes, Abraxas,” Wu’s voice rang. “You anticipate them before they breathe.”

When Abraxas was finally dismissed, his expression was composed but pale. The air around him seemed tight with shame.

Selene, still raw from the indignity she felt on his behalf, found Aurora later in the amber-lit warmth of the smaller tea chamber.

“This is outrageous,” Selene said sharply, her voice trembling with restrained fury. “He’s your son. He made one mistake, and Wu—your husband—humiliates him before the ministers? Is that what this household calls leadership?”

Aurora, seated on a low cushion, poured tea into a shallow porcelain cup, her face calm. She did not look up at first.

“You should not involve yourself in his reprimands,” she said finally, her voice soft but firm.

Selene’s hands clenched at her sides. “So I’m to watch my husband be crushed under your husband’s heel and say nothing?”

Aurora raised her gaze then, the faintest flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. “You are to remember that every word spoken in anger here is remembered twice—once by those who hear it, and once by those who use it against you. Let Abraxas face his father in his own way. That is between them.”

Selene opened her mouth to speak again, but Aurora’s tone shifted, silken yet edged. “You are clever enough to know this: Wu spares no one. Not ministers, not generals, not even his sons. But he will listen… to me.”

Later that night, as the palace fell into its hush, Aurora found Wu alone in his private study, bent over scrolls by lamplight. She stepped inside without announcement.

“You were too harsh with him,” she said quietly.

Wu glanced up, one brow arched, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “Was I?”

“Abraxas is not Adler,” she continued, crossing the room until the lamp’s golden light brushed against her face. “He is careful. Loyal. This was one misstep.”

For a long moment, Wu simply studied her. Then he leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. “You ask for leniency?”

“I ask,” Aurora murmured, “for gentleness. Even you can manage that… for me.”

Something in his gaze softened, just slightly—a flicker most would miss. “For you,” he said at last, “perhaps.”

Abraxas found Selene in their chambers later, her face still tight with resentment. He closed the door and leaned against it.

“You think my father was cruel today,” he said, his tone measured. “And perhaps he was. But that’s how it works here. He is the head of this Wing—every word is law. My mother is the only one who can temper him, and he allows it only for her. And for Helena, my sister. No one else.”

Selene looked away, her voice bitter. “And you?”

“I am the heir he wants. I know when to speak and when to be silent. Adler is reckless—he spends half his life paying for it. I…” He hesitated, then gave a faint smile without warmth. “…I make myself perfect so I am never beneath his blade.”

Selene shivered, not from cold but from the realization that perfection here was not a virtue, but a shield.

....

The summons came at dusk, when the palace shadows were longest and the braziers along the Black Hall spat sparks into the air.

Wu crossed the tiled floor alone, the obsidian columns throwing his reflection back at him like a lesson he already knew: in this palace, a man was measured by the discipline of his house.

The First Spinjitzu Master did not sit on the throne; he stood at its base, hands clasped behind his back. Sera watched from the gallery with a face like carved ivory—unreadable, immovable.

“You will correct your son,” the First Spinjitzu Master said without preamble. “Your name shields him. Your negligence sharpens him. The ministers smell it. I will not have my court think rot begins in my own blood.”

Wu bowed, shallow but precise. The reprimand landed like a brand—hot and silent. “It will be done.”

“Not for them,” his father added, chin lifting. “For order.”

Wu left with the humiliation folded neatly inside him, a knife he meant to use.

He returned to the Obsidian Palace’s eastern wing in silence, his jaw set like tempered steel. His father’s words still echoed in his mind — not the rebuke itself, but the fact that it had been delivered in the presence of other ministers.

His son’s failures had become his shame. 

The Wing of the East—Wu’s Wing—answered before he spoke. Lamps flared. Footsteps gathered. By the time he reached the inner hall, the guards were already there, lined along the lacquered screens, spears butt-down, eyes forward.

Minoru waited near the dais with a leather switch looped in one hand and a list of charges in the other.

Adler knelt at the foot of the low steps, wrists bound behind him with a strip of black silk, shoulders squared in a parody of poise.

He had not been forced; he had been ordered, and he had obeyed—face lifted, jaw tight, defiance trembling in the muscles at the corners of his mouth.

Aurora arrived with two ladies at her back, skirts whispering over the polished floor. Selene came a few paces behind, pale beneath the warm lamp glow; Abraxas was already there, standing to one side with his arms folded, expression composed as a blade laid flat.

Minoru read, voice even. “By your leave, my lord: misuse of seal on the northern route; quiet acceptance of coin from the River Guild; dereliction in guarding the granary convoy. Two soldiers dead on the road to Haman’s Ford because the ambush learned the timing. One stablehand beaten to silence.”

Adler’s chin ticked upward. “I did not take coin.” The lie was clean, practiced. “I seized it as evidence. I intended to—”

“To what?” Wu’s voice cut across him, cold and unraised. “To return it after you were finished spending it?”

A handful of the guards shifted, then stilled. Adler’s mouth worked. Pride made him stupid; fear made him reckless.

“I had it contained,” Adler said. “The convoy was careless. The guild will answer.”

“The convoy is dead,” Wu replied, descending two steps so he stood level with his kneeling son. “And the guild will answer because I will cut them to pieces, not because you thought of anything but your appetite.”

Aurora moved then. “Wu.” Just his name, quiet, a plea folded into a warning.

He did not look at her. “Restrain the Princess Consort,” he said, still watching Adler.

The two ladies hesitated, then at Minoru’s glance each slid a hand to Aurora’s sleeves—not forceful, but firm enough that her next step halted. She stared at them, incredulous; the women stared at the floor.

Wu took the switch from Minoru’s hand.

Abraxas exhaled through his nose, a sound like disappointment trying hard not to be relief. Selene pressed her fingers to her ears and turned her face to the carved screen, mouth set in a thin line.

“Count,” Wu said.

Adler’s spine tightened. “Father—”

“Count.” The single word had weight. “For every lash you should have worn on the road, you will wear it here. Thirty.”

Minoru stepped aside. The hall seemed to draw closer.

The first stroke was a stripe of sound—leather through heated air, the audible bloom of pain across skin. Adler flinched, teeth bared, but the count came out steady.

“One.”

The second found the same path and widened it. The third and fourth crossed it, neat and deliberate. Wu worked with the care of a craftsman, each blow measured, unhurried, impersonal.

He did not shout. He did not curse. He lectured between strokes—short, cutting phrases that landed as sharply as the leather.

“You called yourself a commander.”

“Two.”

“You cannot command what you cannot govern in yourself.”

“Three.”

“You thought my name would make consequences forget your face.”

“Four.”

Aurora wrenched lightly against her ladies, a tremor running through her as if she could take the sting into her own body by willing it. “Enough,” she said, voice low. “Wu, he understands.”

“He understands nothing,” Wu replied, and the fifth stroke fell.

Adler’s shoulders shook, the pride in him refusing a sound that would confirm the pain had won anything from him. He counted—stiff, clipped.

“Five… six… seven.”

By ten, sweat slicked the nape of his neck. By twelve, the mask cracked; a hiss slipped through his teeth. Abraxas’ expression didn’t change, but he dropped his gaze, the slightest shake of his head a private verdict: you did this to yourself.

“Thirteen.”

“You let your mother hear the First Spinjitzu Master scold me for your greed,” Wu said, low and even. “Do you think I forgive that because you are my son?”

“Fourteen.”

Aurora turned her face away and breathed, steady and deliberate, as if she could keep her composure level long enough to carry both of them through it.

Selene’s shoulders trembled beneath her pinned hair; she kept her palms over her ears like a child refusing thunder.

At twenty, Minoru’s eyes flicked once to Wu’s face—gauging, not pleading. Wu did not look back. He shifted his stance to avoid reopening the same lines, a small mercy disguised as precision.

“Twenty-one.”

“You carried my seal as if it were a tavern chip.”

“Twenty-two.”

“You gambled with soldiers’ lives and assumed the house would pay your debt.”

“Twenty-three.”

Adler’s breath hitched. He swallowed it down and forced the number out.

“Twenty-four.”

Aurora’s fingers closed white-knuckled around the silk of her sleeves. “Wu.” His name again, softer, meant for the part of him that listened only to her. He did not answer, but the next stroke landed one shade lighter.

“Twenty-five.”

“Look at your mother,” Wu said.

Adler did not. He stared straight ahead, shaking, jaw clenched enough to crack a tooth.

“Twenty-six.”

“Look,” Wu repeated.

Adler turned his head a fraction. Just enough to see Aurora’s profile—composed like glass, eyes bright with a fury she refused to give voice. His lips parted. The next count tore loose from him, ragged.

“Twenty-seven.”

Wu’s voice, still calm. “You will spend a year where no coin buys you a breath. You will learn to wake before dawn and eat after the men. You will learn the names of those who carry what you sign. And if you disgrace this Wing again, I will strip you of it and leave you with nothing but your surname.”

“Twenty-eight.”

The switch sang. The hall held its breath.

“Twenty-nine.”

Silence fell thick as felt before the last stroke. Aurora’s head tipped back, eyes closed; Abraxas’ mouth thinned; Selene pressed her palms harder to her ears.

“Thirty.”

Wu lowered the switch. For a moment, the only sound was Adler’s breathing—rough, unsteady, stubbornly controlled.

“Unbind him,” Wu said. “Escort him to the physician. Then to confinement. No visitors,” he added, and then, after the smallest pause that belonged to no one but the woman across the room, “except his mother.”

Aurora’s ladies released her sleeves. She did not move.

Wu turned and placed the switch back in Minoru’s hand as if returning a brush to its case. He looked at Abraxas.

“Learn from this,” he said.

Abraxas bowed his head once. “Yes, Father.”

Wu looked at Selene last, just long enough to see that she would not meet his eyes. Good. Let her keep her illusions if they kept her quiet.

The guards lifted Adler carefully. He did not lean on them. Pride, even bled of its swagger, is still pride.

As they carried him out, Aurora stepped forward at last, the long line of her anger drawn tight and thin. For a breath, Wu thought she might speak—to curse him, to cut him.

Instead she simply passed him without a word, following her son into the corridor, the hem of her gown whispering over the lacquer like a benediction the hall did not deserve.

Wu stood in the emptied quiet, humiliation cooled into discipline, anger cooled into order. He did not look after her. He stared at the place where Adler had knelt and let the silence settle, hard and clean, around what had happened. 

***

Chapter Text

Aurora sat on the edge of the divan, the scent of crushed herbs and iron heavy in the air.

Her hands—so often adorned with rings and silks—were now bare, smeared faintly with red as she pressed the folded linen against her son’s raw, welted back.

Each time she lifted the cloth to change it, Adler winced, sucking in a sharp breath, but the stubborn set of his jaw made it clear he would not give Wu the satisfaction of hearing a cry.

“Hold still,” Aurora murmured, her voice soft but firm as she dipped the cloth into the bowl of cooling salve the palace physician had prepared.

Adler only muttered under his breath, low enough that it sounded more like a curse than speech. “He… he humiliated me in front of the guards. In front of them. And for what? A mistake—”

“A grave mistake,” Aurora interrupted, dabbing carefully at a fresh line of blood. “You know it was not small. Your grandfather was furious.”

“Let him be furious,” Adler snapped, though his voice cracked slightly from the pain. “At least he’s not my father. My father—” He paused, inhaling through clenched teeth as Aurora pressed another cloth to his skin. “—is a brute.”

Aurora’s hand stilled, but she did not meet his eyes. “Do not speak of your father like that.”

“Why?” Adler lifted his head just enough to glare at her. “He would never punish you, Mother. Not even if you… if you betrayed him. Everyone knows it. He worships the ground you walk on.”

She turned her gaze to the bowl, scooping more salve, refusing to take the bait. “That is not the same.”

“It is exactly the same,” Adler said, voice gaining heat. “You can do no wrong. But me? One misstep, and the great General Wu turns executioner. Perhaps I should have been born your favorite, then I could be untouchable too.”

Her tone stayed calm, though her eyes finally met his, holding his defiance with quiet strength. “You are not punished because you are unloved, Adler. You are punished because you keep making choices that force your father’s hand. If you had not—”

“Save it,” Adler cut in, biting back a groan as he shifted. “You’re always telling me to be more like Abraxas, or Lloyd, or anyone who isn’t me.”

Aurora shook her head, smoothing a fresh cloth against his back with the same patience she’d used when tending his childhood scrapes. “No. I’m telling you to think. To learn. Do you know why your uncle never raises a hand to Lloyd?”

Adler scoffed. “Because Lloyd is his precious golden boy?”

Aurora’s voice dropped, so gentle it was almost a whisper. “Because Lloyd does not make mistakes.”

Adler scoffed, the sound sharp. “Mistakes? I call them actions. And yet Uncle Garmadon—” He broke into a smirk, cruel and bitter. “—he’s more ruthless than Father, but I don’t see him flogging Lloyd every time he breathes wrong.”

"Because Lloyd has never made a mistake." 

The words seemed to pierce deeper than any whip. Adler’s breath hitched—not from the sting of the salve, but from something sharper. “And I suppose I am the palace fool, then?” he asked bitterly.

“Enough,” the physician interjected at last, his tone brisk. “You will reopen the wounds if you keep straining. Stay still.”

Adler clenched his teeth and obeyed, though his eyes burned with unshed fury. Aurora set the final cloth in place and rose, signaling for the physician to continue the binding.

Without looking back, she murmured, “Rest, Adler. Think about what I’ve said.”

Her silken skirts whispered against the marble as she left the chamber.

Adler didn’t watch her go. Instead, he stared ahead, jaw tight, feeling the throbbing pain at his back and the heavier, unspoken ache in his chest.

Why had she not been his shield? Why had she never stood in front of him the way she had for Abraxas? Why did she draw all of Wu’s tenderness and respect, leaving him to bear only the cold steel?

The physician adjusted the bandages, but Adler barely noticed. His thoughts had already slipped deep into the silent resentment that was becoming as familiar to him as his own shadow.

......

In the dim, gold-lit chambers she shared with Abraxas, Selene paced in a tight, frantic circle, her silken skirts swishing sharply against the marble floor.

Her breathing was uneven, her hands trembling despite the cool air.

Two ladies-in-waiting and three maids hovered near her, murmuring soft reassurances, trying to coax her into a chair or at least convince her to drink the cup of tea that sat untouched on a nearby table.

“I don’t want tea!” Selene snapped, her voice trembling as much from fear as frustration. “Do you understand what happened today? Do you understand what this means?” She clutched the back of a carved chair, her knuckles whitening. “If he could do that to Adler—his own son—what about Abraxas? What about me?”

“Your Highness—” one maid began cautiously, but Selene’s eyes darted to her with sudden sharpness.

“What are the rules? The exact rules, tell me! What counts as a mistake in this… this court?” Her voice cracked. “What if I curtsied too low, or too little? What if I said the wrong title? What if I wore the wrong color on the wrong day? What if—”

“My lady, you mustn’t—” another lady-in-waiting tried to soothe, stepping closer, but Selene’s panic was rising like a tide she could not stop.

“Was Lady Aurora ever punished?” Selene demanded abruptly. “Has she ever been struck? Has she ever been—” She stopped, swallowing the lump in her throat.

The senior maid, after an uneasy pause, shook her head quickly. “No, Your Highness. Never. The Prince Consort has only ever spoken to her in private, but… never in that manner.”

Selene’s lips parted as if to say more, but she abruptly turned toward her writing desk. “I need to write to my father. Immediately. He must know—he must be aware—”

The heavy door to the chamber swung open. Abraxas entered, his dark hair slightly disheveled and his face set in that usual calm mask that made it impossible to tell what he truly felt. His eyes swept the room, lingering on Selene’s tightly wound figure.

“That will be all,” he said in a low, firm tone. The ladies and maids hesitated—Selene still looked on the verge of collapse—but his voice brooked no refusal. They filed out silently, leaving the couple alone.

As soon as the door shut, Abraxas crossed the room in measured steps. “Selene,” he said evenly, “you need to calm yourself.”

“Calm myself?” she repeated, whirling on him, eyes flashing. “Abraxas, I saw what happened! I heard the shouting! I saw Adler afterward—his face, his—” She broke off, pressing her hand to her temple. “And you expect me to think that’s normal?”

“It is normal,” Abraxas replied without flinching. “Adler made a mistake. He was punished for it.”

Selene stared at him in disbelief. “So if I make a mistake—”

“You won’t,” he cut in quietly. “Not while I am here.”

“That’s not the point!” she snapped, her voice breaking. “I’m not perfect, Abraxas! What if—”

He stepped closer, his gaze steady. “I will protect you,” he said, each word deliberate. “But you must also protect yourself. Stay vigilant. Learn the rules. Learn the people. Watch your words.”

Her shoulders sagged slightly, but the fear did not leave her eyes. “He’s ruthless,” she whispered. “Your father is…”

“Yes,” Abraxas said simply. “Be grateful for that. Because my uncle Garmadon is far worse.” He paused, watching her carefully. “Lloyd has never made a mistake. That is why he has never been punished.”

Selene lowered her gaze, her hands curling into fists. She said nothing, but her mind was already racing, wondering how long she could keep herself perfect in a court where one wrong step could end in ruin.

......

Aurora pushed the heavy oak doors open, the faint echo of her footsteps carrying into the dim chamber. The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting long shadows across the floor.

Wu stood near it, his back to her, hands clasped behind him in the posture of a man still simmering in his own fury. The heat of the flames seemed to cling to him, as though his anger had bled into the air itself.

She closed the door softly, her skirts swaying as she stepped forward. “Adler’s wounds are deep,” she murmured, her voice quiet, almost careful. “The physician says the bleeding has stopped, but—”

Wu did not turn. “He will live.” The words were flat, dismissive, as though the boy’s pain was of no consequence.

Aurora’s lips tightened. “That is all you have to say?”

He gave no answer.

Her hand clenched at her side, frustration tightening in her chest. She marched forward, her footsteps sharper now, until she stood in front of him. The firelight flickered over the sharp lines of his face, his eyes unreadable in the shifting glow.

Without thinking, she raised her hand and struck him across the cheek.

The sound cracked through the room, startling even herself. Wu’s head turned slightly from the force, but he did not raise a hand in return. His jaw tightened, his breath slow, his eyes dark as the coals in the grate. He stayed silent, but the stillness was heavier than any outburst.

Her voice trembled, not with fear but with grief. “What he did was wrong, yes—an offense, a disgrace—but you could have chosen another punishment! Something that would not…” Her voice cracked, and she gestured helplessly toward the door as though the image of Adler’s battered body lingered there. “…that would not leave him like that.”

At last, Wu turned fully toward her. His voice was low, sharp, every word deliberate. “And what would you have me do, Aurora? What punishment would be fitting if he had slept in sin? If he had bedded a woman in shame? If he had dragged our family name into the filth?”

She froze. The words hung in the air, heavy, accusing. She found no reply.

Wu stepped closer, the firelight flaring behind him, casting his expression into something both regal and ruthless. “I look away when you make mistakes,” he said, his tone cooling to something dangerously calm. “Because you are my wife. Because I love you. Because I respect you.” His eyes narrowed. “But I will not turn away if anyone else dares to tarnish what I have built. Not my enemies. Not my people. And certainly not my sons—especially when the cost is my reputation.”

Her lips parted in a soundless protest, but nothing came out. She swallowed, the weight of his words pressing into her chest.

“You have grown more heartless,” she whispered, the words breaking under the strain of her voice.

For a moment, there was no sound but the slow crackle of the fire. Then Wu’s expression shifted—not softening, but changing into something almost unreadable.

He closed the last step between them, lifted a hand to her cheek, and kissed her. It was slow, deliberate… and cold, in its own strange way.

When he pulled back, his voice was gentler but no less firm. “Go to bed.”

Aurora stood frozen as he turned away, the firelight catching on the edges of his robe. She could still feel the weight of his kiss, heavy as the silence that followed.

.....

Adler sat upright in bed, his shoulder bound in clean white bandages. The bitter sting of the ointment still lingered, though it was nothing compared to the sting of humiliation.

The morning light filtered through the carved lattice windows, painting shifting patterns over the polished floors.

The door opened without ceremony.

Abraxas stepped inside, his boots soundless on the woven rugs, his expression an unreadable mix of disdain and disappointment. He closed the door behind him with a soft click, and for a moment only the faint crackle of the braziers filled the silence.

"I thought you’d at least have the sense to keep your head down after Father’s last warning," Abraxas began, his tone deceptively calm, though his eyes were cold. "And yet, here you are. Injured. Humiliated. Branded a fool before the entire household."

Adler smirked faintly, though it lacked conviction. "You make it sound like the whole world cares what I do. I’m the second son, Abraxas. My life is… decorative. Spare. You know it as well as I do. No one will care if I fall short."

Abraxas’ jaw tightened, his gaze narrowing. "This isn’t some foreign court where second sons waste away in pleasure houses until they fade into obscurity. We live in Ninjago. And Ninjago values honor, discipline, and self-control above all else." He took a step closer, his voice low but sharp. "Here, your deeds matter. Your conduct matters. Even the shadow of disgrace can stain a family’s name for generations."

Adler scoffed, turning his head away as if the intricately carved wall panel was suddenly far more interesting. "Honor, honor, honor. You sound like Father."

"Good," Abraxas snapped, his patience fraying. "Because he’s right about you. I’ve warned you enough times, Adler. Your recklessness will not only ruin you—it will drag us all down with you. And do you know what Father thinks the solution is?"

Adler looked back at him with wary curiosity. "Let me guess. More lectures? More restrictions? Perhaps exile to a monastery so I can meditate my sins away?"

Abraxas allowed himself the faintest smirk. "No. He’s looking for a bride for you."

Adler blinked. "A bride?"

"From a powerful house," Abraxas continued, his tone now tinged with irony. "Someone with more cunning than you, more restraint, more intelligence. Someone sharp enough to keep you in line—whether you like it or not. A woman who will make you responsible… or destroy you if you aren’t."

Adler’s lips twisted into a half-smile, but there was unease beneath it. "That sounds less like a marriage and more like a sentence."

"Perhaps it’s both," Abraxas said coolly. "Father doesn’t make idle choices. He’ll find someone who can control you where he cannot. And believe me—when he does, you’ll have no choice in the matter."

Adler said nothing, his fingers curling into the bedding. For once, there was no witty retort.

Abraxas straightened, his shadow falling across his younger brother. "You still have time to prove you’re worth more than a leash. But not much. Ninjago is watching—and so is he."

Without waiting for a reply, Abraxas turned and left, the door closing with a soft, decisive thud.

Adler sat there for a long while, staring at nothing, the weight of his brother’s words settling over him like a storm cloud.

.....

Morning light bled pale through the lattice windows of the council chamber, spilling over the long ebony table where scrolls, folded parchment, and a small lacquered box lay arranged.

Wu sat at the head, still and deliberate, his sharp eyes fixed upon the delicate miniature portraits before him.

Each was no larger than a coin, painted with meticulous strokes, the likeness of a young lady from one of Ninjago’s most prominent houses.

Minoru stood slightly to the side, hands folded behind his back, his voice steady as he began the introductions. “Lady Yumi, of the House of Azami,” he said, gesturing to the first portrait — a serene girl with ink-black hair and eyes like polished stone. “Gentle, mild-tempered, raised in the old customs. She is obedient and known for her embroidery.”

Wu’s gaze barely lingered before shifting to the next.

“Lady Hana, of the Hanzo Clan,” Minoru continued, sliding the small portrait forward. “Skilled in diplomacy, graceful in court, but too softhearted. Easily swayed.”

Abraxas sat at his father’s right, his arms crossed but his eyes keen. He had been silent so far, his jaw tight. But when Minoru spoke of the third lady — all soft smiles and innocence — he finally spoke.

“You know,” Abraxas said, tone dry, “Mother should be here, looking through these herself. She knows what kind of woman would survive Adler.”

Wu’s eyes flicked toward his son, unreadable. “If Aurora were here, Abraxas, she would choose someone delicate. Someone easily ruled. Or perhaps she would rather Adler never marry at all.” His tone was calm, but there was an edge beneath it — a quiet acknowledgement that his wife’s affections were not always aligned with his strategic needs. “That is why I am deciding.”

Abraxas’s brows rose slightly, though he said nothing at first. “And Mother?” he asked after a pause, voice low but deliberate.

Wu turned his gaze back to the portraits. “She is upset,” he said, almost dismissively. “I will grovel later to make her happy again.”

Abraxas’s lips pressed into a thin line. There was a certain resignation in the way he looked at his father — as though this pattern between his parents was one he had seen many times before.

Minoru, sensing the undercurrent, cleared his throat and slid another portrait forward. “Lady Naomi, of the House of Chikara,” he said, and his tone shifted, becoming almost cautious. “Sharp-minded. Highly educated in law and history. She speaks her mind and keeps her household in strict order. Her tongue is quick, her wit quicker. Many call her proud, but none doubt her intelligence.”

Wu’s eyes sharpened as he studied the painted likeness — a young woman with dark hair pulled into a neat twist, her gaze direct and unflinching even in miniature. “And her loyalties?” he asked.

“To her house, first,” Minoru replied honestly. “But her sense of honor is unwavering. She will not tolerate weakness, in herself or others.”

A long silence followed. Wu’s fingers rested lightly on the portrait, tracing the edge without quite picking it up. “She would be a challenge to Adler,” he said finally.

“Or a leash,” Abraxas said flatly. “Which is exactly what he needs.”

Wu’s gaze slid to his son, a faint glimmer of approval passing through his expression. “Then it is settled.”

Abraxas leaned back, his eyes still on the portrait. “Naomi,” he repeated, as if testing the sound of the name. “Yes. She would not be fooled by him. And she will make him… uncomfortable. That alone is worth it.”

Minoru inclined his head, gathering the chosen portrait and placing it carefully aside. “I will send word to the House of Chikara at once.”

Wu nodded, the matter concluded in his mind. The rest of the portraits were gathered and placed back into the lacquered box, their delicate faces hidden away — those gentle, softhearted girls who would never have survived in the storm Adler called his life.

As the box was closed with a soft click, the air in the chamber felt heavier, as though the decision carried more weight than just a marriage contract.

Somewhere in the quiet, unspoken between them, father and son both knew that Lady Naomi was not merely to be a wife — she was to be the tether that would keep Adler from dragging the family name into ruin.

......

The room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of moonlight spilling through the carved lattice of the window.

Outside, the wind carried the distant sounds of the palace—guards changing watch, the muffled cry of some night bird—but inside, silence reigned between Wu and Aurora.

She lay on her back, turned slightly away from him, her profile pale against the silken pillow. Her hair spilled across the sheets, a cascade Wu had always thought beautiful, but now it was a curtain between them. She had not spoken more than a clipped word to him all day.

Wu stared at the ceiling for a moment longer, the weight of her silence pressing into him. Finally, he spoke, his voice low, careful—as if the wrong note would shatter something fragile.

“I was wrong to decide without you.” His words hung in the air. “But it was necessary.”

Aurora’s lashes did not even flicker. Her lips were still, carved of ice. “Shut your mouth,” she said flatly, her tone sharp enough to cut.

Wu swallowed the sting, the instinct to defend himself, to argue. He said nothing for a moment.

Then, slowly, he shifted across the mattress, his body closing the distance. He curved against her back, his arm sliding around her waist, the warmth of his presence pressing into her cold distance.

“I miss you,” he murmured into her hair. “I love you… I care for you more than anyone. You are so beautiful to me, Aurora. So pure. My only light in this cruel world.”

Her breath caught—not in tenderness, but in sharp restraint.

“You’re not sorry,” she whispered, her voice trembling with suppressed anger. “You’re only sorry I’m angry with you.”

The words struck with precision. Wu stilled, knowing she was right. He had acted for what he believed was best, and even now, if given the choice, he would do it again. Yet the idea of her coldness toward him was unbearable.

“I hate it when you’re upset with me,” he said quietly, his lips near her ear. “Because you are the only person I care about in this world. The only one who can hurt me.”

Her shoulders began to shake, and at first, he thought it was from anger. But the soft, uneven breaths told him otherwise.

Aurora was crying.

He tightened his hold, his arms a cage. She pushed against him—an elbow to his ribs, a sharp kick at his shin, a squirming twist of her body—but Wu’s grip only grew firmer.

He buried his face into the curve of her neck, inhaling the familiar scent of her skin, refusing to let her slip from his embrace.

Her tears dampened the pillow, but she did not tell him to let go again. And Wu, though he knew he could not undo what had been done, held her as if sheer strength alone could keep the fragile thread between them from breaking.

                                     ..................

The air in the meeting chamber was cool and still, the heavy drapes drawn back to let in pale morning light that glinted off the polished table.

The scent of burning cedar curled faintly from the braziers, giving the space a subtle, dignified weight. Wu sat at the head, posture straight and calm, his expression unreadable.

Aurora sat at his right, hands folded neatly in her lap, though her eyes were far from relaxed.

Across from them, Duke Shirokawa—Naomi’s father—wore the satisfied expression of a man whose ambitions had just been rewarded.

His robes were immaculate, deep sapphire embroidered with gold thread, a quiet display of wealth and influence.

It is an honor beyond words," the Duke said, the edges of his moustache twitching with restrained satisfaction. "For my daughter to be chosen… not merely for a marriage, but for a place within the royal household. Prince Adler is a fine young man. His future will be bright."

Wu inclined his head slightly, his voice calm and even when he replied. "It is not simply a matter of honor. This union will strengthen both houses. Our expectations of your daughter will be high, as will the benefits of her position. She will be educated further in court affairs and diplomacy under Selene’s guidance. In time, she will take on duties worthy of her title as Adler’s consort."

Beside him sat Naomi, serene and composed, her beauty deliberate in every movement: the careful tilt of her head, the measured grace of her gestures.

Abraxas and Morro flanked Wu’s side, their faces composed in the polite masks expected of princes.

Selene sat further down, next to Naomi, speaking to her in a low, pleasant voice, as though two young women were simply sharing pleasantries over tea rather than discussing the terms of an imperial marriage.

Wu’s tone was even and precise as he outlined the negotiations, the ceremonial stages, and the political benefits this union would bring. He never rushed his words, never strayed from the dignified authority of his position.

Aurora watched him in profile—how steady and unflinching he was, how he spoke as though the outcome had been inevitable from the moment it was suggested.

When the meeting drew to a close, Duke Shirokawa rose and bowed deeply, his voice rich with pride.

“It is the highest honor for my daughter to be chosen as the bride of Prince Adler. The Shirokawa family, House Chikara, will stand loyal to the Imperial House, now and forever.”

Wu inclined his head slightly. “We expect nothing less from such an esteemed house.”

The formalities ended, and attendants began to collect documents and scrolls from the table.

Naomi smiled politely at Selene before standing, her silken sleeves sliding over the polished surface of the table. Aurora’s gaze followed her, taking in the girl’s measured grace… and the subtle sharpness in her eyes.

When the doors closed behind Naomi and her family, Aurora remained seated, her voice low when she finally spoke.

“She’s… clever,” Aurora murmured, almost to herself. “Too clever.”

Wu glanced sideways at her. “So is Selene,” he replied without pause, as if this were nothing to be concerned about. "She will see it, and she will know how to temper it."

Aurora turned her head toward him slightly, her brows faintly drawn. But Wu’s mouth curved in the faintest trace of a smirk, the kind he only allowed when speaking to her alone.

“And when the time comes, I’ll make sure you, my dear, are even more powerful than you already are. After all, you’ll have two daughters-in-law to contend with then.”

The remark, spoken in that infuriatingly calm tone, earned him a tight, silent look from Aurora. She said nothing, her lips pressing into a faint line, but the quiet tension between them didn’t fade.

She simply rose with her usual poise and left the chamber without another word—still carrying the weight of what had happened with Adler days before, and making no effort to hide that she hadn’t forgiven him yet.

Wu watched her go, his expression unreadable once more, though the faintest trace of amusement lingered in his gaze. 

......

The palace gardens were in their late-summer bloom, heavy with the fragrance of white roses and lavender. The air shimmered with heat, the light softening through the gauze of willow branches.

Selene walked at a slow pace, her hand lightly resting on her Aunt Misako’s arm.

To anyone watching, it might have appeared a simple afternoon stroll — a lady of the court enjoying the company of her elder relative. In truth, Selene’s mind was turning like a millstone.

Ever since the whispered rumors about Adler had put her in a precarious light, she had been living in a state of constant alert.

Fear made her inventive. And so, she had conceived this plan — to place her beautiful aunt directly in the path of Lord Wu. If he noticed her, if some connection could be sparked… well, Selene imagined it could offer her some kind of shield.

When she caught sight of Wu approaching along the winding gravel path, with Abraxas at his side and Minoru walking just behind, Selene’s pulse quickened.

Perfect.

Abraxas spotted them first and smiled politely.

"Selene. Lady Misako," he greeted, inclining his head.

Wu stopped, his sharp gaze shifting between the women. Even in a simple linen robe, his presence was unyielding — the sort of man who seemed carved from the same stone as the palace walls.

Selene dipped her head demurely, then tilted it in a way that displayed Misako to advantage.

"My lord," she said lightly, "allow me to introduce my aunt. Surely the most radiant lady to grace the gardens this season."

Misako’s eyes flicked to Selene, a quiet warning in their depths. "Child," she murmured under her breath, "mind your tongue."

But Selene ignored her. She kept her smile, certain Wu would at least pause — perhaps offer a compliment, perhaps let his gaze linger.

Instead, Wu studied her with a stillness that was somehow more unnerving than anger. His voice, when it came, was low but carried enough weight to make the summer air feel colder.

"Is that what you hoped for, Selene? That I would be dazzled like some green boy at court?"

A faint flush crept into her cheeks. "I only meant—"

"Do not play coy with me." Wu stepped forward, his tone quiet enough to keep the gardeners and servants straining to hear without daring to interrupt. "I have no interest in beauty when it comes at the cost of loyalty. Aurora is more beautiful than all the ladies in Ninjago put together. And more importantly, she is mine."

The words landed with a finality that left no room for jest. Selene tried again to speak, her voice brittle. "I didn’t—"

"Infidelity," Wu cut in, "is repulsive. To me. To my brother. To our father, the First Spinjitzu Master. And it will be to my sons, or they will find themselves disowned. Do you understand?"

The rebuke was as cold as it was clear. Misako, pale but composed, inclined her head. "My lord, I apologize on her behalf."

Wu’s gaze shifted to Abraxas, whose face had gone tight with embarrassment. "You tolerate this foolishness in your wife?"

Abraxas swallowed. "No, Father."

"You had better not. Aurora I tolerate — at times," Wu added dryly, though the truth in his eyes was softer, unspoken — "but never disloyalty. And remember this, both of you: unfaithfulness is banned in Ninjago. It is a capital offense. There will be no exceptions."

With that, he turned on his heel, Minoru following like a shadow, and left the path behind him.

....

The door had barely closed before Abraxas rounded on Selene.

"Are you out of your mind?" His voice was low but sharp, each word clipped.

"I was only—"

"You were making a fool of yourself. And of me." His hands curled into fists at his sides. "Did you think Father would be charmed? He is loyal to Mother beyond measure. She is the only woman he sees."

Selene’s lips parted to retort, but he pressed on, his tone growing harsher. "Yes, our family can be cruel. Yes, they are merciless when crossed. But there is one thing we all agree on, Selene — loyalty. And you just danced on the edge of spitting on it."

She tried to meet his gaze but found she couldn’t. "I only thought—"

"You thought wrong," he snapped. "Never speak or act like that again."

The silence that followed was heavy, almost suffocating, broken only by the faint rustle of the garden breeze outside their window — a reminder that words spoken in the open air could still cut as deep as any blade.

****

The wedding of Prince Adler and Lady Naomi unfolded beneath a sky the color of burnished gold, the late afternoon sun casting a warm glow upon the crimson banners that rippled in the palace courtyard.

The scent of sandalwood incense clung to the air, mingling with the perfume of peonies and roses arranged in great gilded vases.

Naomi’s gown—silk red embroidered with threads of gold—caught the light with every graceful step she took, her hair crowned with delicate ornaments that chimed softly when she moved.

The reception was a lavish affair. Long banquet tables sagged beneath the weight of delicacies—steamed buns glistening with glaze, bowls of spiced noodles, lacquered ducks glistening under candlelight.

The steady hum of conversation and laughter filled the hall, yet at one table, the mood was markedly subdued.

Adler sat beside Naomi, posture stiff, his movements careful. The faint tightness around his jaw betrayed the soreness in his body; the wounds from his last encounter had yet to fully heal.

Naomi, radiant in her new title, leaned toward him occasionally with quiet words, but Adler’s attention often drifted elsewhere, his amber eyes flicking over the gathered guests with a restless, critical gaze.

Across the room, Wu stood in a cluster of dark silk and quiet authority, speaking with Kai, Cole, Zane, and Jay.

The four stood with the poise of men accustomed to both discipline and danger, their clothing practical yet dignified. Wu’s normally cool features softened in their presence—his voice low and approving, the faintest trace of pride ghosting his lips.

“You’ve done well,” Wu said, accepting a folded parchment from Zane. “This information on the illegal trade routes will prove… useful. The men involved will not see another season of profit.”

Kai’s smirk was sharp but respectful. “We’re just glad we got to them before they slipped through the cracks.”

Cole shrugged modestly, though Wu clapped his shoulder in approval. “Good work—each of you. You’ve done the kingdom a service.”

The praise was understated but genuine, and Wu’s tone carried warmth he seldom gave to his own flesh and blood.

From his seat, Adler’s gaze lingered on the scene a moment too long. His lips curled, his voice dropping low so only his companions could hear. “Look at him… as if they were his sons, the precious ones. Not a shred of that for us.”

Abraxas, seated on Adler’s other side, gave him a sidelong glance, his tone mild but edged. “You should be used to it by now.”

Selene, seated across, paused mid-sip of tea, her brows knitting. “Used to it? What do you mean?”

Abraxas leaned back, his expression unreadable, voice barely above a whisper. “Kai, Cole, Zane, and Jay… Father favors them. Always has. More than he’s ever favored me. More than he’s ever favored Adler.”

The words seemed to hang in the air, as though they had weight. Selene’s gaze followed Abraxas’s subtle tilt of the head toward the four men.

She studied them—the easy way they stood near Wu, the unspoken understanding between them, the quiet approval Wu gave them that was absent from his interactions with his own sons.

Her fingers tightened slightly on her porcelain cup. What, she wondered, was so special about them?

The laughter from Wu’s corner carried faintly over the hum of the hall, and the tension at Adler’s table only deepened.

.......

Chapter Text

Two nights after their wedding, Naomi learned the palace nights were nothing like she imagined.

Adler was not gentle. He was not cruel, either—at least not in the way Wu was—but he was impatient, driven by an urgency that had nothing to do with romance.

His touch was heated, his movements restless, his words few. Sometimes he kissed her like he was trying to burn the air out of her lungs; other times, like she was simply a task to complete before sleep claimed him.

Passion, yes—but tenderness was a rare guest in those early nights.

He was still healing from the wounds sustained weeks earlier—deep bruises hidden under silk, an old cut at his side that made him wince when he moved too quickly. It made him irritable.

Naomi quickly learned that when the pain flared, he became short-tempered, and when he was short-tempered, the room seemed smaller, darker.

Naomi, however, was not so easily cowed. She had grown up around people who spoke softly while plotting loudly.

She was already calculating her steps, already deciding which servants to charm, which guards to tip extra coins to, and which moments with her husband might be turned to her advantage.

A pretty face could earn smiles in a ballroom; here, in Wu’s wing of the palace, it was the quiet knowledge of where every door led and which conversations to overhear that earned survival.

One night, as they sat together on the edge of the bed, she asked him—lightly, almost teasing—if she should try to win his father’s favor.

Adler’s hand stilled where it had been running down her arm. His eyes, cold in the candlelight, locked on hers.

“Don’t waste your breath,” he said flatly. “Wu treats his favorites like sons. He treats his own sons like pawns.”

There was something in his voice that made her pause—a bitterness that went deeper than fear, edged with a resentment he didn’t bother to hide.

He leaned back, stretching, the shadows from the lantern pooling along the sharp lines of his face. “In my father’s wing,” he added, “even laughter can be dangerous. Too loud, and it’s ‘disruptive.’ Too quiet, and it’s ‘disrespectful.’ Every sound is weighed, every word measured. He doesn’t have to raise a hand—he can make you bleed without touching you.”

Naomi shivered, though the room was warm.

It was then, in the silence that followed, that they heard it—through the thin, gilded wall that separated their chamber from Wu’s.

At first, just voices. Aurora’s, low and warm, the gentle lilt of a wife’s coaxing tone.

And then Wu’s—no trace of the cold, calculating command Naomi had heard in the council hall. His voice was deeper, slower, edged with a dark affection that made the fine hairs at the back of her neck rise.

She couldn’t make out all the words, only the cadence—the kind of commanding intimacy that could both pull and trap a person in the same breath. It was the sound of a man utterly certain that he owned the moment, the room, and the person in it.

Aurora laughed softly—a sound Naomi had never heard from her, delicate but tinged with breathlessness.

Wu murmured something in response, and Naomi caught only fragments—low promises, an order disguised as a request, the faint scrape of movement.

Naomi’s stomach tightened. The Wu she knew was cold marble and steel. The Wu she was hearing now was something else entirely—something far more dangerous.

She glanced at Adler. He was staring at the wall, jaw tense. When he caught her looking, he didn’t explain. He only said, “Now you understand. What he gives to some, he takes from others. And you’ll never know which one you are until it’s too late.”

Outside, the palace lanterns swayed in the night breeze. Inside, Naomi lay awake for hours, listening for footsteps in the hall—and wondering if Wu’s wing was a place meant to be endured, or conquered.

.......

The lamps in Naomi’s chambers burned low, casting the room in a dim amber haze. The silk drapes, half-pulled across the latticed windows, whispered faintly in the night breeze.

Naomi sat cross-legged on the cushioned divan, her robe loosely belted, a half-drained cup of spiced wine resting in her hands.

Across from her, Selene lounged with the easy poise of someone who had never feared the walls around her—though Naomi suspected that fear was always there, simply worn as a fine, invisible accessory.

From down the long, polished corridor, muted sounds threaded their way into the stillness. They were soft at first—barely a murmur—then sharper, lower, the cadence of command and surrender, of two people wrestling for dominance and finding pleasure in it.

It was nothing like the clipped, measured tone Wu used in the daytime, nor the glacial silences he reserved for his sons.

Naomi had seen him cold, seen him unyielding—yet now there was something else entirely in his voice, something… private. She tried not to listen, but the sound slid beneath the door like smoke, curling into the quiet of her chambers.

Selene’s lips curled in an unhurried smile as she swirled her cup. “Aurora always wins,” she murmured, her tone sly and amused, as if stating the most obvious truth in the palace. “One way or another.”

Naomi arched a brow, tilting her head. “Wins?”

“Oh, not in the way you think,” Selene replied lazily, tracing the rim of her cup with a fingertip. “Wu is all iron and frost when he wishes to be—but when it comes to her, the frost thaws. Eventually. And that… is winning.”

Naomi leaned back, absorbing the words, her mind flicking through what she had seen in these short days since her wedding.

The harshness, the authority, the punishments—but also the moments afterward, the gifts sent in silence, the half-mumbled apologies disguised as commands. She took a slow sip of wine, studying Selene. “And what of the rest of us? Where does the power truly lie here?”

Selene laughed softly, a low, knowing sound. “It lies where it always has—beneath the First Consort’s roof. Wu may rule his sons, but his affections… those are rare coin, and given sparingly. Abraxas,” she said, her eyes glinting with sisterly pride, “has always been the favorite. Groomed, shaped, trusted with the sharper edges of our father’s plans. Adler…” she let the word hang, “has always been too reckless. Quick to act, slow to think. That is why you will have to think for him, if you intend to survive here.”

Naomi’s mouth tightened faintly. “And yet,” she said, voice edged with challenge, “I have seen our Father-in-law favor Aurora more than any of you.”

Selene’s smile deepened, her gaze sharpening with approval at the observation. “You’re not wrong. Aurora is the only one who can speak to him in the wrong tone and walk away with her head held high. But remember—Aurora knows the rules better than anyone. She bends them, never breaks them.” She took another sip, then set her cup aside, leaning forward. “You, Naomi, are still learning those rules. And in this wing of the palace… even laughter can be a dangerous thing.”

The muffled sounds from down the hall grew softer, fading into silence. Selene leaned back, looking utterly at ease, but Naomi’s mind was churning.

The palace was no longer just gilded walls and cold corridors—it was a living thing, with a heartbeat that quickened behind closed doors. And she intended to learn how to make that heartbeat skip.

..........

The dining room had been cleared for hours, yet the taste of tension still lingered. Wu sat at the head of the small table they reserved for private meals, fingers drumming against the lacquered wood.

Aurora reclined across from him, wine glass cradled between her hands, her gaze dancing with that subtle mischief she knew he despised — and couldn’t resist.

The teasing had been constant, hidden in lilting remarks and the slow, deliberate brush of her foot along his leg under the table.

He endured it in silence, but his jaw had tightened with each pass, his chopsticks snapping down against the bowl with a soft, controlled click.

By the time the plates were cleared, his voice was a shade cooler than the porcelain. “Enjoy your little victories while they last.”

She had only smiled.

Hours later, when the palace was steeped in shadow and most of the household had retired, Aurora sat at her vanity, unpinning her hair. The door slid open without a knock.

Wu stepped inside, his expression unreadable — too composed to be casual. In his hands, folded with meticulous care, was a garment in the softest blush silk, trimmed in lace that caught the candlelight like frost.

“I had this made for you,” he said quietly, setting it on the table beside her. His tone was calm, but there was something in it — something measured and deliberate, as though every word had been weighed before it left his lips. “A peace offering.”

She blinked, fingers brushing the fabric. It was delicate… revealing… undeniably intimate.

When she hesitated, he stepped closer, lifting the nightgown and draping it over her shoulders himself. The silk whispered against her skin as his hands adjusted the straps with unhurried precision.

“You’re too clever for your own good,” he murmured, his breath warm against the shell of her ear — the words carrying that strange duality he excelled at: part warning, part praise.

Aurora swallowed. “I… apologize,” she began, the words quieter than she meant them to be.

His lips brushed the edge of her hairline, but the faint curve of his mouth was not entirely kind. “Apologies are only worth something if they come with understanding.”

Her pulse quickened as he took her hand and pulled her up from the stool. She tried to pull back, but his grip was firm — not cruel, yet not to be refused.

“Wu—”

Her protest was cut off by a soft, amused laugh, low in his throat. “Relax,” he said, but his eyes glinted with something that promised anything but ease.

And with that, he guided her toward the bed, the silk slipping lower down her shoulders with each step, until the only thing she could hear was the rustle of fabric and the sound of her own quickening breath.

****

Chapter Text

The lamps in their chambers burned low, washing the carved walls in molten amber. Arabella sat at her vanity, unpinning her hair, the faint scent of jasmine tea still clinging to her sleeves. She didn’t notice the sound of the door closing until it was too late.

Garmadon didn’t speak at first. He simply crossed the room, his gaze steady, his silence weightier than any words. She looked up into the mirror and saw him behind her — tall, shadow-like, the kind of presence that filled every inch of the air.

“You enjoyed yourself this afternoon,” he said at last, voice smooth but threaded with something taut beneath.

Arabella turned halfway, frowning slightly. “It was only tea with the ladies.”

“Mm.” He stepped closer, until his reflection loomed over hers. “And yet… someone thought it worth remarking on your beauty.” The word beauty came out low, almost mocking, though the edge in it wasn’t directed at her. “When delivering wine.”

Her lips parted to answer, but he had already leaned down, his hands sliding over her shoulders, thumbs pressing lightly — not enough to hurt, but enough to hold her there.

“Do you know what I hate, Arabella?” he murmured near her ear, the heat of his breath ghosting her neck. “I hate the way other men look at you. I hate that they think they can.” His tone was both confession and threat, so darkly tender that it made her pulse thrum in her throat.

She turned to face him fully, caught between indignation and a strange shiver that settled low in her chest. “And what would you have me do? Wear a veil?”

His mouth curved in something too sharp to be called a smile. “No. You’ll keep being beautiful. You’ll keep making them want what they cannot touch.” One hand cupped her jaw with surprising gentleness, the other sliding to her waist — firm, possessive. “But you will remember…” His gaze caught hers, molten and unblinking. “You belong to me.”

The words hung there like a brand.

He drew her up from the chair in one fluid motion, making her stand so close that her breath caught. “Say it.”

Her cheeks burned, but she obeyed, whispering, “I belong to you.”

He shook his head faintly, fingers tightening just enough at her waist to make her spine arch. “Again.”

“I belong to you,” she said, louder this time.

Something in his eyes softened — not in weakness, but in a strange, guarded vulnerability. “Good.”

Then his touch shifted, alternating between slow, deliberate caresses and an almost threatening restraint — like he could crush her or cradle her in the same breath, and wasn’t sure which he wanted more.

By the time he lowered his head to kiss her, the mix of danger and devotion in him had melted into something heady and inescapable — the kind of intimacy that left her unsure whether her heart was racing from fear… or from wanting more.

.........

The news reached Arabella over breakfast — a quiet, deliberate announcement from one of her ladies-in-waiting.

“Your Highness… the Lady Belinda has arrived at the palace gates. She has brought her daughter with her.”

Arabella’s hands stilled on the porcelain teacup. For a moment, her mind drew back to another life — one of narrow hallways and drafty chambers, the scent of woodsmoke clinging to her skirts, and the constant knowledge that she was never the favorite.

She had been the youngest, the overlooked one, the girl whose presence at family gatherings was tolerated rather than treasured.

Belinda had always worn the smile of an elder sister who knew she would inherit the better gowns, the better jewelry, the better life.

And now… Belinda would be stepping into her palace.

The tea meeting was arranged swiftly — in a sunlit corner of the inner garden, where the air smelled faintly of jasmine and the silver trays glimmered with polished precision.

Arabella arrived first, flanked by two quiet attendants, her gown a deep emerald trimmed with gold thread, the fabric heavy and rich. Her hair was set with delicate pins shaped like coiled dragons, and the bracelets on her wrists sang softly when she moved.

Belinda entered with her daughter — a pretty girl of perhaps twelve, with her mother’s same assessing eyes.

Her gown was tasteful, though plainer than Arabella’s, and her smile was wide but without warmth. They exchanged the usual pleasantries, and the tea was poured.

At first, the conversation was harmless — talk of weather, of the court’s festivities, of the Emperor’s recent public decree. But Belinda’s tongue had always been as sharp as her sewing needles, and it didn’t take long for the pricks to begin.

“My, what a substantial necklace,” Belinda remarked lightly, eyes drifting to the layered gold and gemstone piece resting at Arabella’s collarbone. “I suppose one must have the neck strength for such adornments. Though… I imagine it’s worth more than Father’s entire summer estate.”

Arabella smiled, lifting her teacup with steady hands. “It was a gift,” she said simply, letting the words hang between them.

Belinda’s gaze slid lower, to the gown. “And that dress… so intricate. I remember you once hated wearing anything heavier than a linen frock. But perhaps when one marries into… a certain kind of household… one learns to endure the weight.”

Her daughter giggled softly into her teacup.

Arabella felt the sting, but she would not give Belinda the satisfaction of a flinch. “One does learn,” she replied, her voice velvet over steel. “Though I find the weight is far easier to bear when it comes with the privileges I enjoy.”

Belinda’s smile tightened almost imperceptibly, but she did not yield. Her eyes flicked to Arabella’s painted lips, the faint shimmer of powder at her cheekbones.

“You’ve taken to makeup as well. Quite the transformation. I wouldn’t have recognized the little sister who once ran barefoot through the orchard with her hair in tangles.”

Arabella’s answering smile was slow, deliberate. “No, you wouldn’t have,” she murmured, setting her cup down with care. “That girl is gone. She had to be.”

The garden was quiet for a beat too long. Only the faint clink of porcelain and the rustle of silk filled the space.

In that stillness, Arabella realized something — Belinda had not come merely to visit. She had come to measure.

To see if her youngest sister, once the least favored, had truly become what rumor whispered. And perhaps, to see if she could still provoke her.

But Belinda had never played against a woman who had learned her composure under the gaze of Garmadon himself.

The game had changed. And Arabella intended to win it.

.....

The moonlight bled in pale streaks across the study’s dark wood floors, silvering the edges of the desk where Garmadon sat.

Scrolls, maps, and dispatches lay before him like offerings to a silent god, and he was deep in thought when the door opened without ceremony.

Belinda’s presence did not fit the room — the sharp scent of imported perfume, the swish of silk skirts, the faintly calculated brightness in her eyes. She smiled as if they were long-time friends sharing a private joke.

“Your Highness,” she greeted, her tone warm, too warm, “I trust you are well.”

Garmadon leaned back in his chair, gaze lifting from his work to study her with an unreadable calm. “Lady Belinda.” The name rolled from his tongue without affection, without hostility — merely recognition.

She moved closer, the heel of each step tapping softly against the stone floor. “Arabella is… such a delicate creature,” Belinda began, her voice tinged with a falsely sympathetic sigh. “Sweet, gentle… terribly innocent.” She paused by the desk, her fingers brushing the carved edge. “And yet, she’s given you only two children in all these years. A fine heir, of course — young Prince Lloyd — and your little Lysandra. But surely, a man of your… stature deserves more.”

Her meaning lingered in the air, thick as incense.

Garmadon’s gaze sharpened, but he did not move. Belinda’s confidence swelled at his silence; she stepped nearer, her hand sliding onto the desk between them. “I only mean,” she murmured, leaning forward so the lamplight caught the curve of her smile, “a man like you shouldn’t be limited. You could have—”

His hand shot forward with the suddenness of a striking serpent, fingers closing around her throat. Belinda’s breath caught in a choked gasp as her eyes went wide.

“You could have…?” His voice was low, almost curious, but it carried a razor’s edge.

Her hands instinctively gripped his wrist, nails digging in as he stood, towering over her. His grip tightened — not enough to crush, but enough to make her pulse thunder in her ears.

“Do you think I am some bored court fool?” he asked, his tone soft yet deadly. “That I would stray from my wife — from the mother of my children — for the sake of a wandering sister’s vanity?”

Belinda tried to speak, but his hand made every word a broken gasp.

“You know what I am, Lady Belinda,” he continued, leaning down so his shadow swallowed her. “You know what my family is. And still you come to my door with such… foolish ambition.” His lips twisted, halfway to a smile that was all mockery. “Did you think I would reward it?”

Her legs trembled, the perfume now sour in the air.

“I…” she croaked, desperation cracking her voice, “I’m sorry… I was wrong—”

“Oh, you were wrong,” he murmured, almost amused. Then, with a final squeeze, he released her. She staggered back, one hand clutching her throat, her face drained of color.

He returned to his desk as if nothing had happened, the rustle of papers resuming the momentary silence. “Take your leave, Lady Belinda. While you still have the grace to walk out of this room.”

Belinda needed no further warning. She nearly tripped in her haste to reach the door, her trembling fingers fumbling at the handle before she slipped out into the corridor.

By morning, the palace servants whispered: Lady Belinda and her young daughter had departed at first light, their carriage vanishing beyond the gates without farewell.

No explanation was given, but the fear in her eyes when she left told its own tale — one that would never be spoken aloud in the cruel empire.

 ........

The great hall of the imperial palace shimmered with gold and candlelight, every pillar and vaulted arch carved with the ruthless artistry of the Spinjitzu dynasty.

Musicians played in the gallery above, their low, stringed harmonies weaving through the air like a soft enchantment.

The foreign guests from the southern kingdom entered in a wave of perfume, silk, and overconfident smiles—led by their king, a tall man whose grin was too wide and whose eyes wandered far too freely.

Lloyd sat at the Crown Prince’s table, his posture straight and regal, a faint, polite smile fixed on his lips.

Yet his jade-green eyes were sharp, attentive, flicking to every movement in the hall. One of the visiting princesses—draped in sapphire silk and dripping with sapphires—leaned close as the servants poured wine. Her voice was sweetened honey, her laughter light, her gaze entirely fixed on him.

"You must tell me, Your Highness," she said, letting her hand brush the stem of his goblet, "is it true the Imperial Gardens stretch beyond the palace walls? I should very much like a tour."

Across the table, Harumi’s expression was a study in icy elegance. She sipped her wine slowly, lashes lowering just enough to veil the fury simmering in her gaze.

Her smile did not falter, but the air between her and the princess grew taut, like the silence before a blade is drawn.

The King of the southern realm lounged in his seat as though the banquet were his own, speaking loudly, laughing louder still. His gaze roamed shamelessly—lingering far too long on the bare shoulders of young noblewomen, appraising the jeweled hair of court ladies with the slow hunger of a man who had never learned restraint.

Each time a lady glanced away, he seemed to savor her discomfort.

At the far end of the table, Arabella watched this display with a quiet, unreadable expression. Her own gown of deep crimson silk and black lace gleamed under the chandeliers, the heavy weight of her necklace pressing against her collarbones.

She caught the Queen’s eye—a woman who sat beside her husband with a brittle, dignified smile that never reached her eyes. The Queen’s hands, pale against the tablecloth, were folded tightly together as though to anchor herself.

Arabella leaned in, her voice low and warm. “Do you find the wine here too heavy? I always do. Our northern vintages are far more delicate—you must let me send some to your chambers later.”

The Queen blinked, surprised, and a faint smile flickered. “You are very kind, Your Highness. I—yes, I would like that.”

They began to speak quietly, and soon Arabella had drawn her into a light conversation about garden flowers, court fashions, and—subtly—their shared disdain for endless formalities.

The Queen even laughed once, softly, and Arabella caught the way her shoulders eased just slightly.

But all the while, the music in the hall seemed just a little too slow, the shadows along the high walls just a little too deep, and the gleam in the foreign King’s eyes a little too predatory.

It was still a banquet, still polite, still bound by the rules of civility. But beneath the gold and candlelight, the air had already begun to turn sharp.

The great banquet hall pulsed with a steady rhythm of music and conversation, the warm glow of chandeliers casting honeyed light upon the gleam of gold-embroidered silks, polished silverware, and the wine-dark swirls of expensive tapestries.

The foreign guests had settled into the atmosphere—some laughing too loudly, others whispering behind gilded fans—but the subtle tension between certain corners of the room remained like a faint scent of smoke after a fire.

Harumi’s sharp gaze never once left the princess from the visiting kingdom.

The girl, lovely in a way that was polished rather than natural, was seated a few chairs down from Lloyd, her earlier coy flirtations still irritating Harumi’s nerves like a burr beneath fine silk. Lloyd, of course, had been amused by it—too amused for Harumi’s liking.

At last, with a sweetness that carried the chill of steel, Harumi rose and drifted toward him, her gown whispering along the marble. “My husband,” she said with deliberate clarity, inclining her head just enough to catch the princess’s attention, “I think it’s time for a dance.”

The princess’s eyes flickered, her carefully schooled expression cracking for the briefest moment. She said nothing—perhaps unwilling to make a scene—but her fingers tightened slightly on her goblet. Harumi smiled faintly, the satisfaction of the moment blooming inside her as Lloyd stood and offered his hand.

The pair moved onto the polished floor, the musicians subtly shifting into a slower, more intimate piece. Lloyd’s gloved hand settled at Harumi’s waist, the other clasping her smaller hand, and he began to guide her with unhurried precision.

“You’re glaring,” he murmured, amusement tugging at his mouth. His eyes—cold green with a hint of mischief—glinted under the candlelight.

“I am looking at a pest,” Harumi replied smoothly, though her voice had sharpened at the edges. “A pest wearing satin and jewels, thinking she can look at you the way only I am allowed to.”

Lloyd’s smirk deepened, the faintest trace of laughter touching his voice. “Jealousy suits you.”

Harumi shot him a glance. “And smugness does not suit you.”

“Oh, I disagree,” he countered lazily. “Besides…” His fingers pressed just slightly into her hip, lingering there as they turned across the floor in time with the music. “I am married, Harumi. To you. And I only see you.”

Her irritation wavered, tempered by the low certainty in his tone. The music swelled, and for a moment, she relaxed into the dance, though her eyes still flicked toward the princess, sharp and cold as glass.

“I still want to skin her alive,” Harumi said, her voice honeyed but venomous beneath the surface.

Lloyd’s mouth curved into a darkly amused smirk. He bent his head just enough for his words to ghost against her ear. “You still can… if you want.”

The statement hung between them, rich with implication, as the candles shivered slightly in the draft from the high windows.

Harumi’s smile returned, but this time, it was edged with something far more dangerous.

The soft hum of the banquet dulled in Arabella’s ears as she shifted her attention to the sound of hurried steps behind her.

The crowd of silks, jewels, and candlelight seemed to part for the nursemaid, who came forward with flushed cheeks and a worried expression.

In her arms, Lysandra squirmed—her small fists clutching the folds of the maid’s apron, her eyes bright with the tears of a child who had exhausted herself with crying.

“My lady,” the nursemaid breathed as she stopped before Arabella, lowering her head in apology, “forgive me, but she would not be comforted. She has been calling for you—only you—since I took her from her bed.”

Arabella’s heart softened immediately. “Oh, my darling,” she murmured, reaching for the little girl.

Lysandra practically fell into her arms, her small body pressing desperately against her mother’s chest, her sobs hiccupping into softer whimpers as she was rocked.

Arabella kissed the crown of her daughter’s silky hair, inhaling the faint, familiar scent of lavender oil and warm linen.

The Queen beside her lit up with genuine warmth, her earlier stiffness melting away. “Oh, is this your daughter? She’s… radiant,” she cooed, leaning forward to get a better look.

Lysandra, curious despite her lingering distress, peered shyly from the safety of Arabella’s shoulder, her green eyes wide.

“She was born of the same sunlight you carry in your smile,” the Queen said with surprising tenderness, reaching a hand that Lysandra accepted with hesitant fingers.

Arabella chuckled softly, the tension between them dissolving. “You’re far too kind. But I think she has her father’s stubbornness more than my gentleness.”

The Queen laughed—a genuine, full laugh that Arabella suspected she had not been allowed to let out in months, perhaps years.

Lysandra babbled something incoherent, a tumble of half-formed words that came out as, “Mama—’sandra—hungry—’daddy big—” before collapsing into another stream of childlike chatter.

“She talks as though the world will disappear if she doesn’t say it all at once,” Arabella teased, and they both laughed again.

For a moment, the banquet around them faded, leaving only the warm sweetness of shared motherhood.

But then—

A shadow fell over them, the air seeming to shift in temperature. The King, towering and broad-shouldered, strode toward them, a goblet of wine swinging lazily in his hand. His eyes—already sharpened with drink—swept over Arabella briefly before fixing on the child in her arms.

“Well, well…” His voice was a deep, oily drawl, loud enough to carry to the men trailing in his wake. “What a little jewel. A fine-blooded girl. She’ll grow into quite the beauty, won’t she?”

Arabella’s smile faltered, though she instinctively tightened her hold on Lysandra.

The King leaned closer, his gaze unapologetically raking over the child. “Best keep her close, my lady. Perhaps she should wait for me when she’s older… a beauty like that shouldn’t be wasted.”

The words landed like poison in Arabella’s ears.

A few of his ministers chuckled, emboldened by his brazenness. “Aye, a rare blossom,” one of them sneered, lifting his cup. “Mark my words, she’ll turn heads before she’s grown. Perhaps even sooner.”

The sound of their laughter—dry, leering, and without shame—was worse than the King’s words themselves.

Arabella’s arms instinctively wrapped more securely around Lysandra, pressing the little girl’s head into her shoulder as though she could shield her from every vile thought in the room.

Her knuckles whitened in the folds of Lysandra’s gown, and she felt her throat burn—not with anger alone, but with the deep, sick weight of helpless disgust.

Beside her, the Queen’s expression faltered. She cast her eyes down and, with a trembling voice, murmured, “Forgive him. Please. It’s… not your fault he speaks this way. I—” She swallowed hard, lowering her voice to a desperate whisper. “I’m sorry. So sorry.”

Arabella looked at her, tears pricking her own eyes now—not for herself, but for the woman who had clearly been forced to live beneath such a man for far too long. “It isn’t your fault,” she murmured firmly, her voice quiet but steady. “Don’t apologize to me. Not for him.”

She swayed gently, rocking Lysandra as the child began to hum softly into her neck, unaware of the foulness hanging in the air.

Arabella’s gaze stayed fixed on her daughter’s tiny face, committing every blink, every flutter of her lashes to memory—as if sheer love could form a shield that the ugliness of men like that could never pierce.

The laughter of the King’s men faded into the background, but its echo stayed like the taste of ash on her tongue.

The golden light of the banquet hall still danced on polished marble and jeweled goblets, but there was a subtle shift—like a wind that had changed direction but no one dared acknowledge.

The musicians played on, the sweet, lilting notes fluttering through the air, yet the undercurrent in the room had deepened, darkened.

Lord Daichi approached with the measured pace of a man who knew his words would tip the balance of the night. His embroidered black coat caught the torchlight as he slipped behind Garmadon, who was mid-conversation with two foreign envoys.

A bow of respect was offered—low, deliberate—before he leaned in.

His whisper was inaudible to the rest, but the change in Garmadon was instant. The relaxed weight in his shoulders tightened into a predator’s coil.

His eyes, already sharp, turned to shards of obsidian, and yet… his lips curved into something more dangerous than a scowl—a slow, amused smirk, like a man who had just been handed a reason to set the world alight.

Across the room, Arabella felt the air change. Her arms instinctively curled tighter around Lysandra, who was now resting her small head against her mother’s collarbone, little fingers tangling in the silk of her gown.

Arabella pressed her lips to her daughter’s fine hair, breathing in her warmth as though it could shield them both.

Then the scrape of a chair echoed.

The King—already red-cheeked from drink—rose from his seat with a swagger that made her skin crawl. His ministers watched him with drunken grins, some nudging each other as though anticipating sport.

“My, my,” the King drawled, weaving through the crowd toward her table. His eyes roved with a brazen slowness that made Arabella’s stomach twist. “Even holding a child, you are a vision, Princess Arabella. A rare beauty indeed…”

She stiffened, clutching Lysandra’s small body protectively.

The King’s smirk widened. “That bosom of yours could still put maidens to shame,” he added crudely, his gaze sweeping lower with undisguised hunger. “And those hips… they were made for sons, were they not?”

A ripple of coarse laughter erupted from his ministers, their jeweled rings clinking against goblets as they raised them in mocking toasts.

The queen shifted forward in her seat, voice low but firm. “That is enough, Your Majesty.”

The King merely chuckled and took another step closer.

“You ought not to hide such charms away, my dear,” he continued, leaning slightly forward, his breath heavy with wine. “The court should appreciate them more often.”

One of the ministers chuckled darkly, adding, “A pity to waste such beauty on—”

Arabella stood abruptly, her grip on Lysandra iron-strong. “Stop.”

The word was quiet but steady, shaking only at the edges.

The King’s smile faltered into something colder. “You would command me, Princess?”

“I would ask you to respect yourself,” she replied, her voice trembling but unyielding.

The slap came so fast it stole the sound from the room.

A sharp crack split the air.

Arabella stumbled, clutching Lysandra instinctively, the child letting out a startled cry. Her cheek burned hot, the taste of copper flooding her mouth.

Silence fell like a guillotine. The musicians froze mid-note, servants stiffened in place, and even the drunken ministers’ laughter died.

From across the hall, Garmadon’s head turned toward the scene, his smirk still carved into his lips—but now his eyes… his eyes were all shadow.

The King stood over her, chest rising and falling, the weight of his hand still raised as though daring her to speak again.

No one moved.

Not yet.

The great banquet hall had fallen utterly still.

The golden light from the chandeliers seemed too bright now, gilding the frozen scene in a cruel, unreal glow.

Goblets and cutlery sat untouched on the long banquet tables, wine trembling in crystal stems as if the very air were shivering.

Almost everyone—save the bewildered foreign dignitaries—had gone pale, their mouths half open, their eyes wide. They knew what was coming. They had seen the glint in Garmadon’s eyes before.

The Crown Prince moved. Slowly. Calmly. His bootheels clicked on the polished marble floor, an unhurried predator closing the distance.

The foreign envoys, still caught between confusion and offense, shifted uneasily as his towering frame came to stand just short of them.

The King—foolish, smirking, his voice reeking of arrogance—spoke as though nothing had happened.

"Men," he said, lifting his goblet, "must know how to control their wives. A woman who forgets her place is worse than an enemy army. Wouldn’t you agree, Prince?"

Garmadon’s smile was thin, almost courteous. "Oh… certainly," he drawled, his tone low, velvety, but edged with steel. "A man should… set an example. Make it very clear what happens when lines are crossed."

Somewhere along the wall, a woman’s gaze dropped to her lap, her knuckles white as she gripped her skirt. Others—wives of ministers, daughters of lords—turned their faces away.

They already knew.

The men, however, leaned forward, watching intently, their eyes gleaming as though they were at a gladiator’s match.

At a gesture, unseen but understood, several of Garmadon’s guards swept in from the edges of the hall. In a flash, the foreign ministers were seized—startled protests bursting from their lips, voices growing frantic. The scrape of steel echoed.

Then—

Thud.

The first head rolled across the marble, the rich fabric of a foreign cloak darkening in an instant.

The second fell before the first had even stopped spinning.

Screams tore through the air, some muffled by gloved hands, others ragged and raw.

Arabella instinctively turned, clutching Lysandra close, shielding her daughter’s face from the horror.

The King surged to his feet, outrage etched deep into his features. "You dare—"

His words cut off in a howl. His right arm—his offending hand, the one that had struck Arabella—was no longer attached to his body. It lay discarded on the marble, fingers twitching uselessly.

He collapsed to his knees, clutching the bleeding stump, his voice cracking in pain. The scent of blood spread thick and metallic, making the candle flames seem to waver.

Garmadon stepped forward, dark amusement curling at the edge of his lips.

"Tell me, Your Majesty," he said softly, crouching just enough to meet the man’s pain-glazed eyes, "does that hand still feel strong enough to ‘control’ a woman?"

The hall held its breath.

Arabella, still with her back turned, spoke quietly—almost gently.

"My prince… spare his queen. And their daughters. They are innocent of his pride."

Garmadon’s head tilted, his gaze sliding from her to the shuddering king. His voice turned mocking, almost playful.

"Ah… you hear that? My wife shows you mercy. Pity she did not ask it for you."

The blade moved faster than most could see.

The King’s body slumped forward, crown tumbling from his head and clattering onto the marble.

Garmadon straightened, his presence filling the hall like a shadow swallowing the light. He turned to the silent court, voice carrying with effortless authority.

"His son will take the throne," he declared. "And the queen, with her daughters, will live… as my wife wished."

His gaze swept the crowd once, sharp and unyielding, before he strode back toward Arabella and Lysandra, as though nothing more than an inconvenient chore had just been completed.

...........

The chambers were dimly lit, the velvet curtains drawn tight against the moonlight, muffling the distant echoes of the palace’s unrest.

Arabella moved back and forth across the carpet, her bare feet silent, her silk gown whispering faintly with each step.

Lysandra was nestled in her arms, her tiny head tucked beneath Arabella’s chin, a soft bundle of warmth that she clutched as if the world itself might try to take her away.

Her tears were soundless now, her breath unsteady—not for the carnage left behind in the banquet hall, nor for the sharp sting of the slap still tingling on her cheek.

It was the words.

Ugly, dripping words from the dead ministers. The casual, disgusting remark from the king before his life was ripped from him.

They festered in her mind like rot, poisoning her thoughts until her grip on her daughter tightened further. She could not—would not—let Lysandra grow in a world where such things could be said about her.

The door opened without sound.

Garmadon stepped in, his towering frame filling the threshold, the scent of steel and blood faint but undeniable about him. H

e didn’t speak, didn’t demand to be acknowledged—just stood there and watched her, his eyes following her movements with an unreadable expression.

For a long moment, the only sound was the faint creak of the floor beneath her feet and the steady, fragile breaths of their sleeping child.

When he finally moved, it was without haste. He crossed the room and came to stand before her, his hands reaching—not for her, but for Lysandra.

Arabella hesitated for a fraction of a second before letting her go, watching as his large hands cradled the child with surprising care.

“She’s beautiful,” he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent as he gazed down at her face. “Pure.” His thumb brushed the downy softness of her cheek, and then his tone shifted, iron sliding beneath the velvet. “If anyone dares speak of her like that again… or even looks at her wrongly…” His jaw tightened, and he didn’t need to finish the sentence.

The weight of his earlier executions hung heavy in the air, the implication clear. Heads would roll.

Garmadon’s eyes lifted to Arabella then, sharp and unblinking, lingering on the faint flush marring her cheek. “Does it hurt?” he asked, voice deceptively calm.

She shook her head quickly, brushing it off. “It doesn’t matter. I’m fine. I only care for her.”

His gaze softened—not warm, but approving, like a man observing a finely forged blade. “Such a good mother,” he said quietly.

He looked back down at Lysandra, his thumb still stroking her small hand, before adding almost idly, “Killing that king was… satisfying. He was irritating. And his kingdom?” He gave a faint, humorless smile. “Insignificant.”

The words hung in the air like a dark benediction, the velvet tenderness of his tone laced with the cold finality of his power.

And in that quiet, Arabella knew he meant every word—not just about the king, but about what he would do to protect their daughter.

.....

The morning light filtered weakly through the high windows of the imperial dining hall, casting long golden beams across the polished obsidian floor.

The air smelled faintly of roasted meat, spiced tea, and the smoke of the braziers set to chase away the early chill.

Garmadon sat at the head of the long table, posture languid yet radiating authority, a plate of steaming rice, pickled vegetables, and salted fish before him.

Beside him, Daichi lounged slightly in his chair, dark eyes watchful, as silent and unmoving as a sentinel.

The sound of the great doors creaking open echoed through the cavernous chamber. At Garmadon’s curt order, the guards ushered the foreign envoys forward.

They shuffled in, their silken robes and jeweled sashes now seeming gaudy against the cold severity of the hall.

The moment they crossed the threshold, their backs bent, and they dropped to their knees, their heads bowed low enough to touch the stone.

The Crown Prince did not speak immediately. He sliced through his fish with deliberate slowness, savoring each bite as though the groveling of foreign dignitaries was no more significant than the crisp texture of the meat.

The silence dragged on, punctuated only by the muted clink of porcelain and silver.

“You beg for mercy,” Garmadon finally said, his voice deep and calm, almost conversational. “Tell me—are you prepared to be fools like your king? To strike my wife? To speak of my daughter as though she were some… court trinket?”

The envoys’ heads shook violently, voices trembling in unison. “Never, Your Highness. Our kingdoms are loyal. We are your allies. We would never dare such an insult.”

A slow, humorless smile curved his lips. “Allies…” He leaned back, chopsticks set down with a faint click. “I have learned that alliances are only as strong as the price paid to keep them. Tell me—would you prove this loyalty?”

Their nods came quick, desperate.

“Then become my eyes and ears in your courts,” he said, his tone casual, almost bored. “Bring me whispers before they are spoken aloud. For each secret you bring, I will see your purses heavy with gold.”

Two envoys, eager and short-sighted, agreed instantly, their heads still bowed but their eyes brightening at the promise of wealth. Garmadon’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Kill them,” he said, without so much as a glance toward the guards.

There was no gasp from Daichi, no hesitation from the soldiers. Steel rang softly as blades were drawn, and moments later, the bodies of the two unfortunate men lay crumpled upon the marble, crimson pooling dark and warm around them.

Only then did Garmadon look up, his gaze cutting to the survivors. They trembled, their foreheads nearly scraping the floor.

“If I can buy your loyalty with gold,” he said, voice now as cold as steel, “then another man can buy it from me with more. You will prove your allegiance in ways coin cannot touch—or you will join them.”

The surviving envoys swore their devotion through quivering lips.

Garmadon returned to his meal, as though nothing had transpired, the metallic scent of blood mingling seamlessly with the aroma of breakfast.

****

Chapter Text

The air in the royal gardens was light with the scent of early blossoms, the slow breeze carrying the perfume of white lilies and sweet jasmine.

Harumi walked at the center of a cluster of court ladies, her silken gown swaying in precise rhythm with each step.

The women were chattering about trivialities—whose cousin had married whom, whose embroidery had won the Queen Sera's approval—until Harumi’s ears caught something far more interesting.

Ahead, two younger maids stood near the rose trellis, giggling in poorly suppressed excitement. Their whispers were not meant to be overheard, yet the garden’s quiet carried every word.

“…and she just went right into Prince Lloyd’s study,” one maid said breathlessly. “No knocking, no nothing. Sat herself there like she belonged, and when he looked up from his papers, she gave him that smile.”

The other gasped. “Do you think she…?”

“That’s exactly what I think. She’s been trying to catch his eye for weeks. Some say she even brushed his hand when she poured his tea.”

The words struck Harumi like a thin, sharp blade beneath the ribs—silent but cutting. Her steps slowed, her fan lowering just enough to hide the flicker of cold in her eyes.

She had been raised to keep her composure, and she did; her lips curved into the same polite smile, her voice still lilting as she spoke to the women beside her. But within, her mind churned.

A maid—bold enough to enter Lloyd’s study uninvited. And the final detail stung most sharply: she works in Arabella’s wing.

That detail rooted itself like a thorn. To Harumi, it was not coincidence.

No, this was too pointed. Arabella, with her soft manners and falsely sweet demeanor, must have arranged it—an attempt to remind Harumi of her place, perhaps to humiliate her in the quietest way possible.

The fan in Harumi’s hand stilled. Her smile remained, but her thoughts twisted darkly.

When the court ladies paused beside a marble bench shaded by pear blossoms, Harumi began to speak—low, deliberate, as though reluctant to voice what weighed on her mind.

The trick, she knew, was not to appear as if she wished to gossip, but as though she were reluctantly confiding. That always made others listen harder.

“I hesitate to say this,” she began, letting her voice falter just slightly, “but I fear… our dear Princess Arabella is far more involved in the affairs of this palace than she ought to be. I’ve seen her taking too much interest in matters that are not hers—asking about my betrothal, about my time with the Crown Prince… and now, a maid from her wing finds herself in my fiancé’s study? Boldness like that rarely grows from nowhere.”

The court ladies exchanged glances, leaning in. Harumi’s gaze dropped demurely, a perfect mask for the satisfaction curling through her chest.

“Of course,” she continued softly, “I’ve heard other things as well. That His Highness… tolerates her, but no more than that. That his affections wander—how could they not, when she is so… gentle, so yielding? It’s not a nature fit for this family. She survives only by looking the other way, I suspect.”

Her words rippled through the group like dye through silk. The women’s eyes gleamed with the thrill of scandal, eager to add their own stitches to the tapestry.

“Oh, I heard,” one lady chimed in, “that she meddles far too much in her children’s affairs. Watches over them as if they were infants, even the Crown Prince.”

“And I heard,” another said, lowering her voice with mock caution, “that Lord Garmadon keeps company elsewhere, and she pretends not to notice. A wife like that… perhaps she thinks ignorance will protect her.”

Their laughter was soft, poisonous. The rumors—fabrications sewn together with threads of envy and invention—began to take form right there beneath the blooming trees.

Harumi merely sipped her tea, the corners of her lips curling just slightly. She didn’t need to spread the words herself; the ladies would carry them through the palace like bees drunk on nectar, eager to share what they had tasted.

And by the time they reached the right ears, Arabella’s delicate, untouchable image would no longer seem quite so unblemished.

......

Morning sunlight filtered through the gauzy curtains of Arabella’s chamber, casting faint gold patterns on the polished onyx floor.

The faint scent of jasmine tea lingered on the air, a comfort she usually found soothing—yet today, it seemed cloying. She sat at her vanity, her back straight, her posture flawless, as her lady-in-waiting, Mia, slowly drew a silver-backed brush through the smooth river of her hair.

Each stroke was deliberate, almost reverent, but the atmosphere in the room was taut, as though a storm pressed at the windows.

Mia’s reflection met hers in the mirror, hesitant, unsure if she should speak. Finally, the young woman lowered her gaze and murmured, “Your Highness… there is something you should know.”

Arabella’s slender fingers rested still on the edge of the vanity. “Go on,” she said quietly, her voice calm, measured—though a faint current of dread curled in her stomach.

“It began as whispers in the corridors,” Mia said, choosing her words carefully. “But now the servants speak more boldly. They say… you are a meddlesome mother, a harsh and unwelcome presence to Prince Lloyd’s Wife. That Lord Garmadon tolerates you, but… does not value you. That he…” She hesitated, her lips tightening. “…that he seeks comfort in the arms of other women.”

The brush stilled against Arabella’s hair.

Mia, emboldened by the silence, continued in a low voice. “Some even claim you are too gentle to survive in this family, that you will be replaced in time. There are maids—foolish ones—who speak openly of trying to reach His Lordship’s bed, convinced they would fare better than you.” The last words dripped with disgust.

For a long moment, Arabella said nothing. Her reflection in the mirror was serene, almost expressionless, but in her eyes there was a flicker—like a candle guttering in the wind.

She could hear the echo of the whispers Liora described, feel the poisonous threads weaving themselves through her household.

This was deliberate, she knew. The precision of the lies, the intimate nature of the attacks—these were not the careless words of idle servants.

This was the work of someone with intent, someone who wanted her undermined. And Arabella, with the cool certainty of instinct, suspected Harumi.

Her lips curved faintly—not in amusement, but in a wry, almost tired understanding. Of course.

Harumi’s pride was as delicate as glass and as sharp when shattered. The young woman’s jealousy was a spark in dry grass; it didn’t take much for it to catch and spread.

But still… retaliation was not Arabella’s way. Not now.

“Continue brushing,” she murmured. Mia obeyed, though the tension in the room did not ease.

Arabella’s mind, however, was already moving elsewhere. She would not defend herself in the servants’ halls, nor would she stoop to trade poison for poison.

She knew the truth—and so did her husband. That was enough for now.

Still, as the silver brush glided once more through her hair, her heart carried a quiet, aching question: how long could she allow others to speak such things before their poison seeped into the very foundation of her place in this palace?

And somewhere, deep in the Wing of Obsidian, the whispers only grew louder.

...

The divan was draped in dark velvet, its cushions soft and sunken from years of use.

Arabella sat curled against one armrest, a book open in her lap, her eyes tracing the inked lines while her mind wandered far from the words.

The soft glow of an oil lamp gilded her pale features in warm amber, but her expression remained still—calm to the casual eye, yet troubled beneath the surface.

Rumors were strange things, she thought.

They bloomed like poisonous flowers in the shadows, needing neither truth nor proof to grow. A single careless whisper, and suddenly the whole garden reeked.

She had seen it happen before—how one idle tongue could spark a wildfire of speculation. And yet, she also knew that most of them died as quickly as they were born.

A gust of time, and they were carried away, their ashes scattered.

Her fingers turned a page, but her gaze lingered on the edge of the paper as memory pulled her back to the earliest days of her marriage. Oh, the storm that had brewed then.

The palace corridors had been thick with it—maids carrying baskets and scandal in equal measure, guards speaking in hushed tones over their night patrols.

Garmadon’s choice of bride had confounded them all. Why the youngest daughter of a minor southern kingdom, when her older sisters were so much more… suitable?

Why the delicate one, the quiet one? And why—most bewildering of all—would the fearsome Prince of Shadows go so far as to threaten war to ensure she was his?

She could almost hear the echoes now, the same foolish voices from years ago.

But those voices had been silenced, not by fear, but by the truth the servants themselves had witnessed: the way Garmadon looked at her as though no other woman existed, the way his hand lingered protectively at her back in public, the rare softness in his voice when speaking to her alone.

These were things no lie could erase.

Closing her book, Arabella rose, smoothing her skirts. The click of her slippers against the polished floor followed her through the long, candlelit corridors.

She passed the occasional servant, their heads bowing low, though she could feel the furtive glances—the subtle prickle of eyes that had perhaps heard something.

It was when she rounded a corner into one of the smaller galleries that she heard them. A cluster of maids, their voices hushed but thick with the fever of gossip.

She didn’t need to catch the words to know the shape of them. She had learned long ago that people who spoke in that tone rarely deserved the dignity of attention.

She walked past without breaking stride, her chin lifted, her expression dismissive, almost bored. Let them have their little moment. Let them cling to their small, petty entertainments. She would not be dragged into it.

And yet… the thought shadowed her as she continued down the hall. The dread was not for herself—it never had been—but for them.

The bold ones, the careless ones, and even the innocents who had only overheard but never repeated the filth.

In Garmadon’s wing of the Obsidian Palace, rumors were not harmless. They were treason in miniature. And when he learned of them—he would learn of them—his wrath would be swift and unmerciful.

She could already see it in her mind: the cold summons, the kneeling rows of servants, the sword or the noose or the quiet disappearance in the night. None of these people understood how close they stood to the edge of the abyss.

Arabella’s pace slowed. She would not defend lies, nor tolerate insult—but she could not stomach needless blood on the floors she walked every day. Not for something as small and poisonous as gossip.

And so, though she said nothing, a quiet resolve began to take shape. If she could, she would cut these rumors down before they ever reached his ears.

For their sake. Not her own.

....

The library was cloaked in the scent of old parchment and polished mahogany, its vaulted ceilings casting a hushed reverence over every whispered word.

Shafts of amber light from the late afternoon sun streamed through the tall, narrow windows, catching dust motes that drifted lazily in the air.

At one of the corner tables—far from the scholars’ alcove—Harumi lounged in her chair like a queen in miniature, one gloved hand idly flipping through the pages of a gilded tome she clearly wasn’t reading.

Across from her, Ultra Violet sat with her booted feet shamelessly propped upon a low stool, her fingers drumming on the hilt of the dagger strapped to her thigh.

Her eyes, sharp and gleaming with that ever-present hunger for mischief, were fixed entirely on Harumi, as if the princess’s words were a performance meant for her alone.

Harumi leaned in slightly, her voice low and silky, each syllable deliberate. “It’s simple, Violet. The Obsidian Palace has its own order—its own ladder to climb. Queen Sera sits at the top, untouchable. I have no desire to wage war with her.” She allowed herself a faint smile, the kind that promised the listener there was always more beneath the surface. “But the others? Arabella and Aurora? They’re the next rungs down. And of them… Arabella is the real threat. Her position, her precious ‘virtue,’ her… untouchable little marriage to Garmadon.”

Ultra Violet smirked. “Aurora doesn’t even matter to you, then?”

“I’m not her daughter-in-law,” Harumi replied flatly, brushing an invisible speck of dust from her sleeve. “She holds influence, yes—but it’s not influence I need to contest. Arabella, however… she will be queen when Garmadon inherits the throne. The First Spinjitzu Master and Queen Sera won’t live forever. Decades from now, she’ll be the most powerful woman in this palace.” Her voice lowered further, like silk being drawn through fingers. “Unless I make sure she isn’t.”

Ultra Violet laughed, low and delighted, the sound curling in the air like smoke. “And the rumors? That’s your first strike?”

“Of course.” Harumi’s smile was almost innocent. “They eat away at reputation faster than any blade. Already, some are doubting her worthiness for the crown. Questioning whether she’s too good for a family like ours. Questioning Garmadon’s choice.” She let the book close with a soft thump, her emerald eyes narrowing with satisfaction. “It’s only the beginning. I will weave my words through every corridor, every servant’s whisper. By the time she realizes how deep the rot goes, it will be too late to cut it out.”

Ultra Violet leaned forward, her grin widening. “Spread your roots further, Harumi. Influence isn’t worth anything unless it chokes the whole garden.”

The two of them shared a look—one of conspirators who had already tasted the thrill of their own cunning. But before Harumi could respond, the sound of muffled voices floated in from the corridor beyond the open library doors.

“…the Crown Princess Consort is too virtuous for him…” one maid murmured, her tone both daring and scornful.

“…wouldn’t mind if I had the chance to warm the prince’s bed myself…” another giggled.

Ultra Violet’s eyebrows shot up, amused. Harumi, however, tilted her head ever so slightly, her lips curling in satisfaction.

“Bold little fools,” she murmured, her tone like honey laced with poison. “They’ve no idea they’re watering the seeds I’ve planted.”

Her fingers traced the edge of the book cover, as though it were the hilt of a blade. “Let them talk,” she whispered to Ultra Violet. “Every word they utter is another step toward their own undoing—and toward my rise.”

The doors of the library closed with a muted thud behind them, the scent of aged paper and ink giving way to the sharper notes of polished stone and the faint trace of incense that clung to the palace corridors.

Harumi’s heels clicked in measured rhythm upon the obsidian floor, her every step deliberate, her chin tilted in that perfect angle that said she was both untouchable and wholly aware of it.

Ultra Violet trailed just a half-step behind, her smirk thin and sharp as the edge of a blade.

The quiet between them was purposeful—a pause to let the ideas already forming in their minds take root. It was Harumi who broke it first, her voice low, the tone silken yet edged with a poisonous intent.

“We’ll start with the kitchens,” she murmured, her green eyes fixed ahead as though she could already see the ripples of chaos spreading. “The cooks speak to the maids, the maids to the guards, the guards to the market… By the time it reaches the streets, it will be gospel.”

Ultra Violet’s chuckle was a dark hum in the air. “And what will they be preaching, Your Highness?” she asked, though the title dripped with mocking amusement.

“That Arabella is not who she seems,” Harumi replied smoothly, her lips curling in faint satisfaction. “That the Crown Prince’s devotion is a facade—one born of a spell, perhaps, or debts of her father that must be paid in blood and coin. That her jewels and silks are the chains that bind him.”

Ultra Violet’s eyes gleamed. “Spells and blood debts… oh, the servants will drink that like wine.” She leaned closer. “We should make it uglier—say her smiles are rehearsed, her voice an act. That she—”

“That she fears him,” Harumi finished, her tone calculated, almost scholarly in the precision of her cruelty. “And that his love is just control dressed as devotion.”

The two descended a narrow stairwell, emerging into the lesser-used servants’ passages. It was here the air was heavier, carrying the scents of bread baking, wool being beaten clean, and woodsmoke curling from the hearths.

Every turn brought them into brief contact with busy hands and lowered eyes—yet Harumi ensured she lingered just long enough to let her voice carry into corners, her words disguised as casual confidences to Ultra Violet.

“…Of course, no one will say it to her face,” she said at one such pass, her tone feather-light but pitched just enough for the nearby laundry girls to hear. “But everyone knows a marriage like that cannot be what it seems. She’s playing the part she’s been given, and it’s only a matter of time before…”

She let the sentence trail off like smoke, allowing the imagination of her listeners to finish it.

Ultra Violet played her role to perfection—leaning in, gasping at just the right moments, whispering additions that tangled fact with fiction until the two were indistinguishable.

They drifted through the servant quarters like shadows, scattering seeds of suspicion and envy with the ease of seasoned gardeners tending their most poisonous blooms.

By the time they reached the outer gardens, where the scent of night-blooming flowers curled thick in the warm air, Harumi was smiling faintly.

“In a week,” she said, adjusting a strand of hair with elegant precision, “Arabella will be more loved for her beauty than trusted for her power. And when a queen is not trusted… she is halfway dethroned already.”

Ultra Violet’s laugh was low, wicked, and unrestrained. “Let’s see how your dear Crown Princess enjoys her tea now.”

They slipped deeper into the gardens, leaving behind a palace that already began to hum—softly, faintly, like a hive stirred awake.

.....

The late afternoon sun slanted through the carved obsidian windows, spilling faint gold over the black stone floors of Garmadon’s study.

He was standing beside his desk, arms folded, reviewing a series of scrolls with the detached focus of a man who had spent decades shouldering the affairs of an empire.

Arabella sat in the low-backed chair near the hearth, her posture graceful, head tilted slightly as she brushed a strand of hair from her face.

Lysandra was playing on the rug nearby, surrounded by a scattering of wooden animal carvings.

The quiet was broken by Garmadon’s voice, low but edged.

"I heard something peculiar today."

Arabella’s fingers stilled on the armrest. She turned her head just enough to meet his gaze without appearing startled. "Peculiar in what way?"

"Pointless chatter in the corridors," he said, almost dismissively. But his eyes—dark, sharp—remained on her as if reading the smallest shift in her expression. "Something about you. Something… I don’t particularly care for."

Her breath slowed. He had clearly caught only a shadow of the rumor—perhaps a careless phrase or half-snicker from passing servants.

She could not outright deny it without drawing more suspicion, nor give it weight by asking questions.

Arabella leaned back in her seat with an air of mild curiosity, as though he’d told her of an unusual bird sighting. "The palace seems to thrive on peculiar chatter. Next week, perhaps they’ll claim I’ve grown wings."

His brow lifted a fraction, the closest he came to amusement. But he didn’t release her from that quiet, assessing stare.

Before the tension could deepen, a small voice broke through.

"Papa."

Lysandra, with the proud wobble of a two-year-old, pushed herself upright and toddled toward Garmadon with determined little steps.

Her tiny hands clutched at his trouser leg before she reached up for him with open palms.

Arabella rose just slightly from her chair, watching the scene unfold. Garmadon, still imposing even in domestic moments, bent and lifted his daughter with surprising gentleness.

Lysandra immediately reached for his face, grabbing his ears with chubby fingers and babbling a string of sounds that were half-words, half-nonsense.

"Hmm? Is that so?" he murmured, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.

She then tugged at the collar of his shirt and, without ceremony, leaned forward to gnaw on the edge of the fabric.

"Lysandra," Arabella chided softly, though there was laughter in her tone. "Papa is not your teething ring."

Garmadon’s deep chuckle rumbled in his chest, and he adjusted his daughter to a more comfortable perch on his arm. "She seems to think otherwise."

Arabella’s gaze softened as she watched them—the intimidating warlord entirely undone by a child’s grip. The tension in the room ebbed, the earlier topic left behind like smoke dissipating in the air.

She settled back into her seat, savoring the sight. Whatever poison was being whispered in the palace halls, here in this moment, none of it mattered.

.....

The fire in the hearth burned low, casting long, jagged shadows over the black marble of the chamber. The hour was late, and the palace was steeped in the heavy stillness of night.

Garmadon sat at the carved onyx writing desk, one hand idly turning the pages of a dispatch while the other drummed once against the wood.

He was alone—Arabella had left only moments ago to put Lysandra to bed in the nursery, her soft laugh and the child’s sleepy babble still lingering faintly in his ears.

The door creaked open without a knock.

A young maid slipped inside, head bowed but shoulders taut with something far too deliberate to be shyness. Behind her, in the half-lit corridor, several other maids lingered like moths caught between flight and flame.

Garmadon’s brow creased. “Later,” he said, his voice flat, dismissive, already returning to his papers. “Her Highness is tending to our daughter.”

The girl did not leave. Instead, she stepped forward—one careful, practiced movement after another—her gaze lifting just enough for the flicker of candlelight to catch the curve of her lips.

“I’m not here for her,” she murmured. Her fingers toyed with the ties of her uniform, tugging them loose until pale skin gleamed beneath the loosened fabric. “I’m here for you, my prince.”

Garmadon’s pen stilled mid-mark. His head rose slowly, eyes narrowing to a sharp, predatory slit.

“And why,” he asked, voice so quiet it might have been mistaken for mildness, “would that be?”

She smiled with the slippery confidence of one who thought she understood the game. “Everyone knows, my lord. They talk. They say she—” the maid leaned closer, scenting the air between them like bait— “is not enough to satisfy you. That you have needs a proper wife would never understand. That—”

She never finished.

His hand shot out, iron-clad fingers locking around her throat, and in a single, effortless motion he lifted her from the floor.

Her gasp choked off into a strangled squeak, her feet kicking uselessly in the air.

The room seemed to shrink around them, shadows pressing closer, heat from the fire coiling like a serpent around the edges of the scene.

“Rumors,” Garmadon said at last, his voice now stripped of all pretense of calm, “are a currency for fools. And I do not tolerate fools in my household.” He tilted his head, studying her as if she were an insect pinned under glass. “Tell me, girl—what exactly have you heard?”

Her eyes darted toward the door.

The maids in the corridor, wide-eyed and pale, scrambled inside at last, falling to their knees on the cold stone floor.

One dared to speak through the tremor in her voice. “Mercy, my lord! We… we did not mean harm. The gossip has spread through the lower halls, through the kitchens, through the laundries—”

Garmadon’s eyes cut to them, black with fury. “Then speak, and be done with it.”

The words spilled out in halting bursts—whispers of Arabella’s supposed neglect, of her beauty being nothing more than ornament, of her disinterest in her husband, of other women stepping in to take her place. Potent words, planted with care by tongues that knew the shape of malice.

He dropped the struggling maid as though she were refuse. She crumpled to the floor in a heap, scrambling backward until her back met the wall.

“Pathetic,” Garmadon said, his voice now as cold and precise as a blade fresh from the whetstone. “You mistake this court for a marketplace of lies. You mistake my patience for weakness.”

He turned his gaze to the doorway. “Daichi.”

The shadow of his most trusted aide appeared almost instantly, silent and waiting.

“Execute every servant who has carried this rot upon their tongue,” Garmadon ordered, his words carrying the weight of inevitability. “And find its root. Rip it out.”

Daichi bowed once. “Yes, my lord.”

As the maids’ cries began to rise in the chamber, Garmadon leaned back in his chair, reaching again for the papers as though the entire exchange had been nothing more than an irritating interruption to his night.

The fire cracked. The door closed. And the palace would remember, by morning, exactly what it meant to let rumor touch the Crown Prince’s household.

..

The nursery was quiet when Arabella left it, the faint smell of milk and lavender following her out. Lysandra was asleep, the little rise and fall of her chest steady in the dim candlelight.

Arabella closed the carved door gently, careful not to let it creak, and made her way down the dark corridor to their bedchamber.

She returned to their chambers a few minutes later, the faint scent of jasmine trailing her like a shadow.

The fire in the hearth had burned lower, throwing long, amber-edged shadows across the stone walls.

Garmadon was at the table, reading, posture calm, as if nothing had occurred earlier. 

She thought nothing of it. With practiced ease, she began undoing the pearl clasps of her gown, the heavy fabric sliding from her shoulders with a muted rustle.

Her hairpins followed, one by one, until thick waves of hair fell loose down her back. She felt rather than saw him rise from his chair.

Without a word, his large, cool hands brushed her fingers aside, taking over the task of loosening the corset laces at her back.

The pressure eased with each tug, and she breathed in a little deeper. His touch was precise, almost careful—yet there was a weight to his silence that drew her senses taut.

It was only when the last lace was loosened that he spoke, voice low, almost soft, but edged in steel.

“Tell me,” he murmured near her ear, “about these rumors.”

Arabella stilled. The tone wasn’t one of idle curiosity—it carried an almost threatening patience, like a predator testing the air. She tilted her head just slightly, keeping her voice light.

“There are always rumors. You know this.”

A short, humorless chuckle vibrated from his chest.

“Yes,” he said darkly, “but this one was… entertaining.”

She felt him shift, his breath brushing the side of her neck as he continued, almost amused.

“A maid—bold little thing—thought herself worthy to offer her body to me. Her reasoning?” He pulled the corset away from her frame, tossing it onto the floor. “Apparently, you do not please me in bed.”

Arabella’s hands stilled on the hem of her chemise. For a brief, unguarded moment, her mind snagged not on the insult, but on the audacity of the maids. Why would they dare?

He circled to face her, retrieving a white nightgown from the armoire. He shook it out with one hand, the other brushing the silk along her bare arm as he helped her slip it over her head.

His movements were unhurried, almost tender, the contrast making his words cut deeper.

“Who spread it?”

She kept her gaze lowered. “I… do not know for certain." 

The corner of his mouth curved, though his eyes stayed cold. “You’re quiet.”

She sat on the edge of the bed, fingers sliding beneath her skirts to roll down her stockings.

Garmadon knelt before her, his imposing form folding down until he was level with her knees. His hands replaced hers, gripping the soft fabric, tugging it down in one smooth motion—rough in speed, yet careful not to tear.

“Enough,” he snapped, voice sharp enough to slice the dim air between them. “Tell me.”

Arabella’s eyes flicked to his, the firelight catching the gold flecks there. She drew a steady breath. “…If I were to guess… perhaps Harumi.”

The words barely left her lips before his expression shifted into something darker—pleased, in a way that unsettled. He discarded her stocking onto the floor and straightened.

“I’ve already had every servant who whispered such things executed.”

Arabella’s head jerked up. “Executed? You—” She stopped herself, voice faltering. “So many… they may have been innocent.”

His mouth twisted in mockery. “Innocent? These are the same women who’d gladly crawl into my bed, who undermine you, who covet your title. Why weep for them?”

Her lips pressed into silence.

He leaned down, bracing one hand on the bed beside her hip, his presence closing in until she could feel the weight of his gaze as much as the heat from the hearth. His voice dropped, almost intimate.

“Forget your softness, Arabella. These are not friends. They are wolves, and wolves deserve the blade. If you pity your enemies, you invite your own ruin.”

His fingers ghosted along the curve of her jaw—gentle, almost reverent—as he delivered his last words. He adjusted the fall of the nightgown over her shoulder, his tone dropping into something quieter, more dangerous.

"Forget your empathy for your enemies, Arabella. It will be the first thing they use to destroy you."

****

The morning air in the training courtyard was cool, carrying the faint scent of dew and steel.

The clang of weapons and the soft thud of footsteps on the packed dirt filled the space in a steady rhythm, punctuated by the occasional grunt or sharp inhale.

Lloyd’s blade locked with Kai’s, sparks briefly flickering between them. Kai’s stance was firm but relaxed, the controlled precision of someone who’d done this countless mornings before.

Off to the side, Jay and Cole were in their own bout—less elegant, more force and stubbornness clashing with unpredictable energy.

Nya, arms crossed, was pacing along the edge of the sparring ground, glaring daggers at Kai whenever her brother’s footwork got sloppy.

“You’re leaning too much into your left side again,” she snapped.

Kai huffed through a smirk. “And you’re talking too much again.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, do you want to keep getting knocked on your back?”

Before Kai could retort, Cole—his back to them as he wrestled Jay’s weapon out of his grasp—spoke over his shoulder. “Speaking of people who should watch themselves… I heard some nasty rumors floating around the servants’ quarters the other day.”

Jay, now freed from Cole’s grip and stepping back into stance, raised a brow. “Rumors? Oh, this is going to be good. What is it this time—someone’s cheating at cards, or the kitchen burned down?”

Cole’s voice was low, almost casual, but there was a dangerous edge in it. “No. Worse. They were talking about the Lady Arabella. Saying she doesn’t please Lord Garmadon. Saying she's too...virtuous. Saying other women could do better.”

The sound of metal on metal paused for a beat. Even Kai’s strikes slowed as Lloyd blinked in confusion, blade halfway raised.

“What…?” Lloyd asked, unsure if he’d misheard.

Cole rolled his shoulders, almost dismissive, though his eyes were sharp. “I handled it. Ripped their tongues out. Figured it’d be a nice reminder of what happens when you get too bold with your words about your betters.”

Jay let out an exaggerated whistle, mock-applauding. “Wow. Bravo. Cole the moral enforcer. Maybe next time you can add a nice little speech about loyalty before you do it.”

Cole shot him a glare. “You want to end up in the same position as them? Keep running your mouth.”

“Oh, please,” Jay muttered, stepping into his next attack with renewed energy. “At least I’m entertaining when I run mine.”

Their bickering escalated into the familiar back-and-forth of Cole’s blunt insults and Jay’s lightning-fast comebacks, the rest of the group half-tuning it out.

Lloyd’s gaze shifted back to Kai. “Why would anyone even say that about Mother?” His voice was quiet, but it carried an undercurrent of anger.

Kai’s expression was more serious now, his strikes slowing to a measured pace so they could speak without breaking form. “Because they’re afraid of her influence over your father. People like that—servants, ministers, even some family—they don’t like anyone who can sway the man in charge. Makes them nervous.”

Lloyd frowned, parrying a quick strike. “But it’s just lies.”

“Exactly,” Kai said, his voice firm. “And that’s all they’ll ever be. Don’t waste time worrying about them. Rumors are like smoke—choke on it, and you lose sight of the fire. But it can’t hurt you unless you believe it.”

He stepped in closer, lowering his voice just enough for only Lloyd to hear. “Never believe lies. Doubt is poison. Once it’s in you, it spreads fast—and it kills more than just trust. Understand?”

Lloyd swallowed and nodded. “I understand.”

From the edge of the sparring ground, Zane, who had been quietly practicing his own kata, finally spoke.

His tone was calm, but his words carried weight. “Even so, stay cautious. Rumors may be hollow, but they often hide the truth about someone’s intentions. Pay attention not to the words, but to who spreads them—and why.”

The morning resumed its rhythm, the clang of blades filling the air again. Yet for Lloyd, the echo of Kai’s warning—and Zane’s subtle reminder—lingered longer than any strike.

**

Chapter Text

The study smelled faintly of ink, old parchment, and the cool iron tang of weaponry—an environment usually left in perfect, calculated order by its owner.

Which was why the sight that greeted Garmadon upon pushing open the heavy double doors brought him to a complete, stunned halt.

At the center of the room—right in front of his desk—sat a tiny, dark-haired culprit, her chubby fingers wrapped triumphantly around a rolled map that now bore a suspicious damp mark near one corner.

The once-pristine desk had been transformed into a battlefield: important documents lay scattered like fallen soldiers, a vase had been reduced to glittering shards near the bookcase, and one of the decorative spears from the wall leaned precariously as though it had only barely escaped being pulled down entirely.

And Lysandra, Princess of the Realm and his two-year-old daughter, was gnawing contentedly on the end of a tassel from his desk lamp.

For several seconds, Garmadon simply stared.

“...Did you do this?” His voice was low, quiet—not the voice he used in court, but the one laced with disbelief.

Lysandra’s head popped up, big amber eyes locking on him, and she responded without hesitation:

“Yesh!”

He arched a brow, stepping closer. “You’re admitting guilt so easily?”

But before he could say anything else, she clapped her hands, reached for him with grabby little fingers, and latched onto his hand the moment he was within range.

Then, with all the solemnity in the world, she pulled his index finger straight to her mouth and began chewing on it.

Garmadon blinked. “...Are you eating me?”

A muffled, happy hum was the only answer.

Realization dawned. The vase, the papers, the chewing—of course. She was teething again. He let out a long, resigned sigh, lifting her up in one smooth motion.

“You’ve declared war on my study just because your teeth hurt,” he muttered, adjusting her against his chest as she babbled a string of nonsense words that only she understood. He caught “puppy,” “boom,” and something that sounded suspiciously like “smash.”

Stepping toward the door, he called for a servant.

“Bring a bottle. Now. And make sure it’s warm.”

When the servant hurried off, Garmadon returned to his desk, sitting down with Lysandra perched on his knee. She immediately set to work on his collar, tugging and attempting to gnaw at the stiff fabric like a determined little wolf pup.

“You’ll ruin this shirt,” he told her, but his voice lacked any real reprimand. If anything, there was the faintest curve to his mouth—a rare, almost-smile.

While they waited, he indulged her, tapping her tiny nose, letting her catch his hand and babble at him about her “day,” which involved—if her enthusiastic gestures were to be believed—running from her nursemaid, knocking over something large, and finding a “shiny stick” (the spear, no doubt).

The servant finally returned with the bottle, and Garmadon took it without ceremony.

“There,” he said, offering it to her. Lysandra took to it instantly, her little fingers curled tightly around his larger ones as she drank.

For the first time since he’d walked in, the study was quiet—save for the faint sound of his daughter’s contented sipping.

Garmadon leaned back in his chair, his free hand absently stroking her hair. “You’re lucky you’re mine,” he said under his breath.

If she heard, she didn’t answer—too busy conquering her bottle.

The feeding went gone smoothly enough—Lysandra was now warm, full, and happily burbling in his lap while Garmadon sat back in the high-backed chair in his study.

For a fleeting moment, he entertained the idea of keeping her here for the rest of the day, safe from the incompetence of Arabella’s foolish nursemaids who, in his opinion, treated her like a porcelain doll instead of a child who could already cause minor disasters.

But the moment passed. With a resigned sigh, he rose to his feet and said, in the deep, authoritative tone that made soldiers stand straighter, “Come. We are returning you to your mother.”

Her round, dark eyes blinked at him. For a second, he thought she hadn’t understood.

Then, to his astonishment, she wriggled free of his arm with surprising speed, dropped onto all fours, and scuttled across the carpet like a determined little spider.

“Lysandra,” he barked.

She didn’t even look back.

By the time he stepped into the corridor, she was already halfway down, her tiny hands smacking the polished stone, her dress fluttering behind her like a rebellious banner.

“You dare defy me?” he growled, stalking after her. “In my own halls?”

She let out a squeal—not of fear, but of sheer, giddy triumph—and picked up speed.

“Do not test me, girl—” He lunged just as she reached the archway that led into the sunlit gardens. His hands closed around her middle, lifting her clean off the ground.

“Got you,” he said, holding her at arm’s length like a prisoner caught mid-escape. “Do you realize the trouble you—”

It was then he saw it. The tremble of her lip. The widening of her eyes. The unmistakable shimmer of moisture gathering.

“Don’t you—” he started, but it was too late. The first wail pierced the corridor like a war horn.

He winced. “Stop that.”

She didn’t. In fact, she drew in an even bigger breath and released a sob that rattled the windows.

“Lysandra—” He tried to adjust his tone, but it came out harsher than intended. “Enough.”

She erupted into louder cries, flailing tiny fists and burying her face into his chest, hiccupping between sobs as if her heart had been broken beyond repair.

Panic—actual panic—crept into his veins.

This wasn’t like with Lloyd. Lloyd had been stoic, even as a baby—quiet, watchful, only crying when something was truly wrong. But this? This was chaos in miniature. “Why,” he muttered under his breath, “are daughters so different?”

She wailed louder, as if personally insulted.

“Fine, fine—stop crying.” He shifted her higher against his shoulder, patting her back in awkward, almost mechanical motions. “I did not mean it. Your father is—look—calm yourself. You are safe.”

Nothing. The crying continued, echoing down the hall like the screams of a siege.

“By the heavens —shhh.” His voice dropped to something uncharacteristically soft. “I apologize. I should not have scolded you. There. You see? It is fine.”

He began pacing, holding her tighter, rocking her slightly like he’d seen Arabella do—an act he had always mocked, but now found himself performing desperately. “You are my daughter. I do not wish you upset.”

Gradually, the sobs became hiccups. Her damp little face pressed into the fabric of his tunic, and she gave one last pitiful whimper before sniffling into silence.

Garmadon exhaled slowly, realizing his shoulders had tensed as if he’d been in battle. “Sons and daughters,” he muttered again, shaking his head. “Two entirely different creatures.”

Her tiny fingers curled around his collar.

And for the rest of the walk back to Arabella’s chambers, he didn’t let her go.

..

Garmadon strode into Arabella’s sitting room, his long shadow spilling across the polished floorboards as the door swung shut behind him.

Arabella sat at her desk near the balcony, sunlight catching in the inky waves of her hair as she bent over a pile of ledgers and fine parchment. Her quill moved with sharp precision, columns of numbers blooming under her hand.

She didn’t even look up when he entered—only the faintest quirk of her lips betrayed she had noticed.

“I brought your daughter,” Garmadon said flatly, shifting the small, warm weight in his arms.

Arabella finally glanced up, her dark eyes glittering with curiosity. “My daughter?” she echoed, as though the wailing, wriggling bundle in his arms belonged to someone else entirely.

He stepped forward, holding Lysandra out as though he were delivering an urgent parcel. “Yes, yours. Take her.”

But Lysandra, traitor that she was, chose that exact moment to let out an ear-piercing scream—not the usual soft fuss of a baby, but a full-bodied protest that made the glass in the windows tremble.

Arabella’s brows arched, her mouth twitching upward. “Oh, so she doesn’t want to leave you.”

“She’s screaming,” Garmadon pointed out darkly.

“Yes,” Arabella murmured, leaning back in her chair, utterly entertained. “Because she doesn’t want to go to me.”

Garmadon scowled, pulling Lysandra back against his chest. “That’s absurd. She’s a baby. She doesn’t think like that.”

Arabella’s smirk deepened. “Mm. If you believe that, you are a far more foolish man than I thought.”

His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “Careful.”

“Careful?” she asked innocently, still scribbling on her parchment without missing a beat. “Oh, please, Garmadon—you’re the one who looks ready to beg her not to cry.”

He was not going to admit she was right, but the truth was, Lysandra’s small, trembling breaths against his collarbone were already making him hold her more gently.

Arabella set down her quill at last and folded her hands, tilting her head with the patient amusement of someone watching a predictable play unfold. “You know,” she began conversationally, “daughters are not harder to handle than sons. They’re simply… different. Gentle. Sweet. They need care. A little more patience. A little more…” her gaze flicked pointedly to the way he was holding Lysandra now, “…softness.”

Garmadon grunted but said nothing, because—though he would sooner be thrown into a pit of venomous snakes than admit it—he already knew she was right.

With Lysandra, he found himself weighing every word, every gesture, as though she were a porcelain doll that might shatter if his voice grew too sharp.

Just as he was contemplating retreat, Lysandra suddenly went very still in his arms. She stared up at him with those bright, curious eyes, opened her tiny mouth, and—clear as day—said a word that made Arabella’s entire body freeze.

“...What did she just say?” Arabella’s voice was sharp now, her humor stripped away in an instant.

Garmadon’s jaw locked. “Exactly what you think she said.”

Arabella straightened, her expression darkening. “Where did you learn that, little one?” she asked in a careful, coaxing tone.

Lysandra only tilted her head, babbling something about “maids” in the half-formed jumble of toddler speech.

Garmadon’s entire body went rigid. “I will have them executed by sundown.”

Arabella’s head snapped toward him. “No, you will not.”

“They corrupted her—”

“They said a word, Garmadon. You will not kill the maids.”

He held her gaze for a long moment, his eyes like shards of volcanic stone. “You think I am jesting?”

“I think,” Arabella replied coolly, rising from her chair to take a calm step toward him, “that you have more sense than to start an execution over one ill-chosen word from a servant.”

Lysandra, oblivious to the brewing marital debate, giggled and reached for her father’s collar, gnawing on the leather edge.

Arabella sighed, rubbing her temples. “And now she’s teething again. Wonderful.”

Garmadon glanced down at the mischievous little princess in his arms, her small teeth digging into his collar with fierce determination.

For a moment, he said nothing—just adjusted her so she could chew without hurting herself.

And though his face remained as severe as ever, his hand lingered against her back, rubbing slow, calming circles.

....

The corridors of the palace were hushed at this late hour, the torchlight burning low and warm as Garmadon strode beside Arabella toward the nursery. Lysandra, nestled in the crook of his arm, had her little cheek pressed firmly to his chest, her tiny fists clutching at the folds of his tunic with a strength far beyond what her size should allow.

Arabella’s gown whispered over the marble floor as she walked ahead, glancing over her shoulder with a faint smile that said she already knew how this scene would play out.

The nursery smelled faintly of lavender and warmed milk, the curtains drawn to keep out the night chill. Arabella went straight to the changing table, motioning for Garmadon to hand their daughter over.

“Come here, my little star,” she cooed softly, reaching for Lysandra. “We’ll get you all clean, and then you can go back to Papa.”

The moment Garmadon loosened his hold, Lysandra’s face crumpled. A high, indignant wail erupted from her, and she latched herself tighter against him, small legs curling as if she feared being pried away.

Arabella chuckled under her breath. “She has decided you’re hers tonight.”

“She can decide whatever she wants, but she still needs changing,” Garmadon muttered, though his hands didn’t move to relinquish her.

“Hold her this way,” Arabella instructed, amused, shifting forward to unfasten the ties of Lysandra’s sleep tunic while she still rested in his arms. The whole process was awkward—Arabella working quickly while Garmadon tried to keep his large hands steady around their squirming daughter—but in a surprisingly short time, the little princess was clean, swaddled in a fresh soft gown, and smelling faintly of rosewater.

“Better?” Arabella murmured, brushing her fingers across Lysandra’s downy hair.

“Better for her, not for me,” Garmadon grumbled, but when he glanced down, there was no mistaking the warmth in his eyes.

Lysandra had her fingers hooked into the edge of his collar again, tugging as she babbled some incoherent story.

He carried her to the crib, leaning down to set her inside, but the instant his arms loosened, she clung with a desperate cry.

The wailing was sharp enough to make him flinch. He tried again, more gently—same result. Arabella only shook her head, her lips twitching.

Minutes later, their bedchambers were filled with the faint creak of floorboards as Garmadon paced in slow, deliberate strides.

Lysandra lay against his shoulder, her little face turned toward his neck, speaking in that earnest, unintelligible babble that only she understood.

“Yes,” he rumbled, nodding gravely as though she were discussing matters of state. “Mm. I see.”

Arabella sat at her vanity, brushing out her hair, watching the scene in the mirror. “She has you wrapped around her finger,” she teased.

Garmadon shot her a brief, half-serious glare before focusing again on the child in his arms.

When a set of tiny teeth suddenly sank into his finger, he didn’t so much as twitch, merely letting her chew in peace as he kept walking.

Arabella turned back to her mirror, hiding the small, content smile that tugged at her mouth.

In the soft lamplight, the image was almost absurd—her fearsome warlord of a husband, pacing with the patience of a saint, nodding along to the bedtime ramblings of a two-year-old who had no intention of sleeping anywhere but in his arms.

It was a battle Garmadon clearly had no intention of winning.

....

Chapter Text

The war room was dimly lit, its towering stone walls lined with banners depicting the crest of the imperial house—black and crimson silk embroidered with gold thread.

A long table of obsidian dominated the center, its surface scattered with maps, scrolls, and carved markers denoting armies and territories.

The air was thick with the scent of burning incense from the braziers in the corners, meant to keep the mind sharp and the room free from lingering shadows of ill fortune.

The First Spinjitzu Master stood at the far end of the table, one hand resting heavily on the map spread before him.

His dark gaze swept over the southern borders drawn in ink, lingering on the small crimson markers where trouble had been whispered into existence. Across from him, Garmadon and Wu waited in silence, the flickering torchlight glinting off their armor.

“These talks of rebellion in the south,” the FSM began, his voice deep and even, though it carried the weight of thunder, “are not mere tavern gossip. Word travels faster than steel, and this particular word stinks of treachery.”

Garmadon’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of irritation sharpening his expression. “Then why waste time? Give me an army—or better yet, a handful of skilled assassins—and I’ll see to it that no one dares to breathe the word ‘rebellion’ again.” His tone was edged with cold certainty, like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.

The FSM’s gaze slid to him, unimpressed. “An army cannot march against smoke, Garmadon. These rebels have no fixed territory. No fortresses to siege. They move like rats—through tunnels, caves, and hidden paths in the southern hills. Strike too hastily, and you will chase shadows until you bleed the empire dry.”

Wu shifted slightly, his brow furrowed in thought. “Then what is their purpose? These men risk everything. Why? Do they believe themselves champions of the people, or are they mercenaries paid to disrupt us?”

“That,” the FSM said, leaning over the map, “is what remains uncertain. But know this—they are not simply against a law, or a tax, or a policy. They are against us. Against our rule. Against the empire itself. Every banner they tear down, every caravan they plunder, every whisper they spread serves one goal—to undermine the power of the imperial house.”

Silence followed, save for the faint crackle of the braziers.

Garmadon’s hands tightened against the table’s edge. “If they are against the empire, then they are enemies of Ninjago itself. And enemies deserve no mercy.”

The FSM allowed himself a faint, humorless smile. “Spoken like my son. And yet…” He straightened to his full height, the gold clasp of his cloak catching the light. “We will not waste blood and resources chasing them without precision. We wait, we watch. And when they make their move—when they rise from the shadows—we will strike swiftly and cruelly enough that the very thought of rebellion will wither from their tongues." 

Wu inclined his head, though his gaze was still fixed on the southern markings. “Then we prepare for the moment they reveal themselves.”

“Indeed,” the FSM replied, voice final. “For now, we will speak of them no more—unless something of true consequence occurs.”

With a wave of his hand, he dismissed them. The brothers stepped back from the table, their footsteps echoing in the cavernous war room as they turned to leave.

Behind them, the First Spinjitzu Master remained still, eyes fixed on the map—like a predator watching the brush for the first twitch of prey.

........

The corridors of Garmadon’s wing were unusually quiet for midday, the polished marble floors reflecting the faint winter light streaming in through the narrow windows.

Only the rustle of skirts and the soft clinking of a bronze water jug betrayed the presence of the newest staff—maids freshly hired to replace those who had met the swift, brutal fate Garmadon dealt to gossipers and rumor-mongers.

In one corner of the servants’ quarters, three of the younger women gathered around a table, folding freshly laundered linens with deliberate slowness.

Their voices were kept low, though the sharp gleam in their eyes betrayed the thrill of speaking about things they ought not to.

“Have you seen the princesses lately?” the youngest one whispered, her voice carrying both awe and envy. “Crown Princess Consort Arabella in all her silks, Princess Aurora with her jewels, Princess Harumi looking as if she could slit a man’s throat with a smile... and the others, Selene and Naomi. I swear they don’t even walk, they float.”

Her companion snorted softly. “And yet, all that beauty won’t save them if they fall from favor. Not in this palace. Servants aren’t the only ones who can be replaced.”

A third maid, bolder than the rest, leaned in. “True enough. But it’s not the princesses I worry about—it’s their families. Did you hear? The King of Vassari—Arabella’s father—may be in league with those rebels in the south.”

The first maid’s eyes widened. “Are you mad? Saying that aloud?”

“Just repeating what I’ve heard in the market,” the bold one said with a shrug. “Apparently he’s funneling gold their way. If that’s true, imagine the scandal—Garmadon’s own father-in-law, undermining the empire!”

Before more could be said, a sharp thwack of folded linen striking the table made them all flinch. One of the older maids, her graying hair pulled into a tight bun, stood glowering at them.

“Enough,” she snapped. “Do you have death wishes, talking like that in this palace? King Theodric is the father of our Crown Princess Consort. Speak such filth again and I’ll not be the one to save your tongues when the prince hears of it.”

The younger women shuffled uncomfortably under her stern gaze, but the older maid wasn’t finished. She set down the stack of linens and straightened her back with the poise of someone who’d survived decades in imperial service.

“You little fools don’t even know the story, do you? The one about how Prince Garmadon claimed Lady Arabella for his own? I was there when the seamstresses whispered it over their needles.”

And with that, she began to recount it—the tale winding through memory like silk thread through a needle’s eye.

She spoke of the Winter Solstice Convocation, the gleaming halls filled with kings and courtiers, and how Prince Garmadon’s gaze had fallen not upon the favored daughters of King Theodric, but upon the shy, quiet Arabella—so unassuming that even her own father barely regarded her.

She told of how Garmadon had ignored offers of older, more politically advantageous brides, threatening instead to burn the Southern Capital to ash if Arabella was not given to him.

How the girl, too timid to understand the forces moving around her, was swept into a betrothal within days.

The older maid’s voice softened as she described the wedding—the wisteria strung over every arch, the black and gold carriage carved of obsidian, and the bride who looked every bit the lamb led to a wolf’s den. And yet, she said, the wolf never bit.

“No disloyalty. No public cruelty. Not a hand raised against her. He treats her like glass—dangerous if shattered.”

The younger maids listened, wide-eyed now, their earlier bravado replaced by a sort of hushed fascination.

“And that,” the older maid finished, her gaze sweeping over them like a blade, “is why you do not speak against her or her family. The prince chose her. And when Prince Garmadon chooses something, nothing in heaven or earth can take it from him. Remember that before your tongues get you killed.”

The room fell silent save for the rhythmic folding of linen, and though the younger maids exchanged glances, none dared to speak another word.

.....

Wu’s quill scratched faintly across parchment, the dim lamplight throwing sharp shadows across the walls of his study.

The air was still, heavy with the faint scent of ink and wax, his mind still lingering on the quiet, simmering conversation with his father and brother a week earlier.

The rebels—those shifting, shadow-bound pests—still gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. He had been tracing possible supply lines, mapping out movements on the southern front, when a frantic pounding rattled the carved double doors.

Without waiting for permission, a young maid stumbled in, breathless and pale, clutching her skirts as if holding herself together.

Wu looked up slowly, irritation flickering in his gaze.

“Is there a reason you thought it wise to barge in unannounced?” His tone was calm, but sharp as a blade drawn just enough to glint.

She swallowed hard, her voice trembling. “M-my lord… the family… they are gathered in the sitting room—”

He set the quill down, leaning back in his chair with the faintest sigh. “And? I presume this is not a matter of tea and idle talk if you’ve decided to interrupt my work.”

Her hands twisted in the fabric of her apron, eyes darting away. “It… it concerns… Lord Adler. And… and…” She trailed off, unable—or unwilling—to complete the sentence.

Wu’s brow knit, annoyance deepening into something colder. “Speak plainly, girl.”

But she only stammered, “It… it would be best if you saw for yourself, my lord. The lady and the young lords… they are already waiting.”

For a long, taut moment, Wu simply studied her, his mind still echoing with the First Spinjitzu Master’s warning about vigilance and cruelty. His patience thinned.

Without another word, he rose, the rustle of his robes crisp in the silence. The war maps and rebel reports remained spread across his desk, unfinished—an irritation in itself.

As he stepped into the hallway, his strides were measured, deliberate, but his mind kept circling back to the rebels.

Even as the muffled noise of raised voices drifted toward him, he was still weighing whether this disruption was truly worth pulling him away from matters of actual importance.

The door to the sitting room swung open with deliberate force, and the sound of raised voices faltered into an uneasy silence.

Wu stepped inside, his expression a mask of cool annoyance, his measured gait betraying the simmer of irritation beneath. His gaze swept the scene in a single, sharp motion—Aurora with her lips pressed tight, Abraxas standing as though braced for impact, Adler with a defensive set to his jaw, Selene hovering protectively near Naomi, whose tear-streaked face was turned downward.

And there, standing stiffly behind Adler, was a young maid—Katya—her eyes darting between the floor and Wu as though searching for an escape that didn’t exist.

“Quiet,” Wu ordered, his voice low but cutting enough to slice through the tension. No one dared breathe too loudly after that.

Without waiting for further explanation, he moved past them, crossing the room with an unhurried precision.

His robe sleeves trailed in soft folds as he lowered himself onto the carved divan positioned at the front of the room, posture regal yet faintly exasperated, as if the very act of sitting here was beneath him when his study and its papers were waiting.

His gaze, sharp as polished steel, landed on the group still standing before him. “I was in the middle of work,” he said, the words crisp, deliberate—an accusation more than a statement. “So, explain to me… what catastrophe warrants dragging me here?”

Naomi’s breath hitched, and Selene’s arm tightened around her. The young woman’s face was blotchy from crying, her voice trembling when she finally forced herself to speak.

“I—” She sniffled hard, glancing at Adler only briefly before her eyes darted away, as if even looking at him burned. “I went to his chambers, and I… I found him.” She swallowed, voice breaking. “In bed. With her.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and poisonous.

Abraxas’s jaw clenched, Aurora’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and Adler shifted his weight, defiance flickering across his face like the shadow of a smirk he didn’t quite dare to show.

Katya, the maid in question, kept her gaze pinned to the floor, though a faint tremor betrayed her fear.

Wu’s expression didn’t change—no outrage, no disbelief, just an unreadable stillness that made the room feel colder. But the air had shifted, charged and waiting, like the moment before a storm broke.

The room was still heavy with the echo of Naomi’s trembling accusation, the firelight in the corner painting every face with a molten edge.

Wu leaned back on the low divan, his expression an unreadable mask, though his eyes—sharp and cold—moved between his sons with the weight of judgment.

Abraxas began speaking almost instantly, words tumbling from his mouth in a rush, his tone defensive but carefully measured.

“Father, this has been exaggerated—grossly exaggerated. Naomi must have misunderstood what she saw. Adler would never—”

“Do not speak for him,” Wu cut in, his voice so calm it was more dangerous than a shout. “If he has nothing to hide, he will speak for himself. Infidelity is not a mistake—it is a deliberate sin. It is an insult to one’s wife and, by extension, to this household. And to me.”

Adler, who had been staring at the floor, finally lifted his head. His voice was low, almost sulky. “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t plan it. I… lost control. She came to me.”

Wu’s mouth curved into something that might have been called a smile, though it held no warmth—only a cutting mockery. “Lost control? So you are telling me you are no better than an animal in rut, incapable of restraint? That is the defense you offer me?”

Adler’s jaw tightened. “You don’t understand—”

“Oh, I understand,” Wu interrupted smoothly, leaning forward slightly. “You couldn’t resist temptation. You dishonored yourself, your name, and your bloodline for a moment’s satisfaction. How very noble of you.”

The young man flinched under the sting of those words, his cheeks reddening. “It wasn’t—”

“Do you need me to draw it for you in ink and paper?” Wu’s tone grew silkier, more venomous with each word. “You climbed into a bed that was not yours to take. Then you expect pity. Do you think I will pat you on the head and tell you it was an accident? You disgrace me.”

Adler’s composure frayed, the words spilling out harsher than intended. “And you think you’re better? You spend every other night in yours and Mother’s chambers, in bed, and we all know exactly what you’re doing there.”

The room went so still it felt as if even the fire held its breath. Aurora’s eyes widened, her hands twisting in the folds of her gown.

Abraxas’ gaze darted between them, knowing full well his brother had just crossed a line that could not be uncrossed.

Wu’s head turned toward Adler with the slow precision of a blade being drawn from its sheath. “You dare,” he said, his voice low enough to make the air feel colder. “You dare speak of what is between your mother and I as if it were the same. As if the bond between husband and wife—my wife—could ever be compared to your cheap, filthy indulgence.”

“You’re just angry because I said the truth,” Adler snapped back, his youthful arrogance flaring like oil to flame. “And you—”

“Enough!” Wu’s voice cracked like a whip, his composure finally breaking. “You have been nothing but a stain on my patience, Adler. Always trouble, always dishonor. I have punished you more times than I can count, and still you learn nothing. You walk the same path again and again, dragging my name into the dirt with you.”

Aurora stepped forward, her voice soft, almost pleading. “Wu, please. This—this can be handled more—”

“No,” he said sharply, without even glancing at her. His gaze stayed fixed on Adler, dark as obsidian and twice as unyielding. “You will be confined to your quarters until I see fit to release you. No visitors, no privileges.”

He then turned his gaze to the trembling maid, who stood pale and rigid near the door. “And as for you… you will be executed before sundown. This house does not tolerate such filth.”

A muffled gasp escaped Naomi, and Selene lowered her gaze, hiding whatever expression threatened to betray her thoughts.

Aurora closed her eyes briefly, the set of her shoulders tightening in silent resignation.

Wu rose from the divan with a fluid, deliberate motion, his shadow stretching long across the carpet. “I have work to return to. See it done,” he ordered coldly, before sweeping from the room, leaving behind only the sound of the fire and the heavy, suffocating silence he had woven around them.

........

The halls of the Obsidian Palace were a labyrinth of shadows and silence.

Even now, a month into her marriage, Arabella still felt like a stranger wandering through a vast and foreign fortress.

The walls of polished onyx gleamed faintly in the dim candlelight, their surfaces so dark they almost seemed to swallow her reflection.

Her steps were quiet against the velvet runner that stretched the length of the corridor, but her ears caught faint voices ahead.

She slowed.

The sound of soft laughter drifted from around the corner—a pair of maids, their tones hushed, the kind of half-whisper that was meant to be overheard by the wrong ears.

“…of course he has other women. What else is a warlord to do? She’s so young, so new… perhaps she’s only a convenience.”

“I heard he still visits the lady from the eastern quarters—the one with the silken voice and hair like black glass. She was seen coming from his wing late last night.”

Arabella’s breath caught. Her fingers tightened around the folds of her skirt.

“Men like him don’t stay faithful. It’s just the way of it. A wife is for politics, mistresses are for pleasure.”

The two women laughed again, though one tried to hush the other. Their footsteps faded into another passageway, leaving Arabella standing frozen in the corridor, her pulse loud in her ears.

She told herself it couldn’t be true.

But she was twenty, far from home, and every corner of this palace seemed to hide a secret.

What did she know of her husband’s heart? He was distant, stern—cold more often than not. H

is touches, when they came, were deliberate, careful, like a man offering something rare but not easily given.

By the time she returned to their chambers, her composure had cracked completely.

She sank onto the divan by the window, fingers clutching the embroidered cushion, and the tears came hard—hot, unrelenting.

When the door opened, she didn’t hear it over her sobs.

Garmadon’s shadow stretched across the floor before he stepped into the room, his heavy boots pausing on the carpet. His brows furrowed at the sight of her, hunched and trembling.

“What happened?” His tone was clipped, though not unkind—concern wrapped in steel.

Arabella lifted her tear-stained face, her voice breaking as she spoke. " Were they… prettier than me?”

He stilled, confusion flickering over his features. “What are you talking about?”

“All of them,” she choked out. “All the ladies you’ve been with. Why did you marry me if you didn’t care for me? If you…” Her words faltered under another wave of sobs. “…if you already had others?”

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly, his shoulders eased, and the harshness in his expression softened.

He crossed the room, crouching beside the divan, his hand brushing a damp strand of hair from her face.

“You believe this?” His voice was low now, steady in a way that made her feel small and foolish. “That I would take you as my wife and dishonor you in the same breath?”

“I heard—”

“From whom?” His tone sharpened, a faint edge of anger threading through. “Who said such things to you?”

Arabella hesitated, suddenly aware of the weight behind the question.

“They… I don’t know their names. The maids, in the corridor—”

“Rumors,” he interrupted, his eyes narrowing. “Vile things born of jealousy or idleness. And you believed them without asking me?”

Her lips trembled. “I’ve never… I didn’t know people could just… say such things.”

He exhaled, long and slow, as if steadying himself. His hand slid from her cheek to her shoulder, grounding her. “You are my wife. That alone is reason enough for tongues to wag. They will invent stories, poison truth with lies, if it amuses them. But I will not have my household speaking filth about me—or about you.”

The anger was there now, simmering beneath his calm, not directed at her but at the faceless voices that had planted the seed of doubt.

“Tell me exactly where you heard them,” he said. “And I will see to it those voices are silenced.”

When she hesitated, he went on, his tone rich with the weight of tradition.

“This is Ninjago—a land built on honor. We do not keep taverns for drunken filth. There are no whorehouses to rot the soul, no gambling dens to hollow men’s worth. Mistresses and concubines are forbidden; disloyalty is the gravest of disgraces. A betrayal—whether in love, in loyalty, or in duty—is a stain that cannot be washed away. It is worse than death.”

She sniffled, looking up at him through damp lashes, and muttered almost petulantly, “Yet you are all killers.”

For the first time since entering the room, his lips curved—not in mockery, but in faint amusement. A low, warm chuckle rumbled from his chest as he brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb.

“Yes,” he murmured, eyes glinting. “We are. But even killers keep their vows.”

****