Chương 65: Book One Epilogue: Anastasia

Anastasia could barely hear her own thoughts over the constant hum of conversation filling the grand hall. The hundred-year celebration of the Auric Empire was in full swing, and with it came an overwhelming tide of nobles. Silk and gold, perfume and pretense, all gathered beneath the vaulted ceilings of the royal palace. Laughter echoed. Glasses clinked. Voices overlapped in a carefully curated chaos.

Snippets of conversation drifted past her ears, spoken in hushed tones that were not nearly as discreet as their owners seemed to believe. Anyone with even a modest investment in Perception could follow along without effort. Anastasia, unfortunately, had far more than modest. She did not need to listen. She could not stop listening. Boasts of newly acquired Beastkin slaves. Idle assurances that the Empire remained untouchable. Reassurances—repeated, hollow—that everything was as it should be.

That nothing was wrong. That nothing was changing. Anastasia kept her expression composed. Her smile remained gentle. Her posture remained perfect. Inside— They were fools. Not ignorant. At least, not entirely. That would have been easier to tolerate. No, they knew. They simply refused to accept it. Because accepting it would require change. And change would cost them something. The truth was already in motion. Velkhar's elite forces were burning farms by the thousands. Supply chains were collapsing.

Famine would follow. It was inevitable. Their vassal states were already destabilizing as slave networks were dismantled with surgical precision, and their Claw operatives—quiet, methodical, and unseen—were laying the groundwork for something far worse. A fall. A complete one. Velkhar would destroy the Auric Empire. Anastasia was certain of it. It would be a long and hard battle. Years, perhaps even decades if the situation didn't change in a highly convenient way. But it would happen.

Mainly because Velkhar was not working blindly. They had guidance. Information. Someone positioned where it mattered most. Her. Anastasia Aurelia Valencrest, the Second Princess of the Auric Empire. A title that carried prestige, expectation, and a carefully maintained illusion of importance. In practice, it meant isolation. Containment. She was the "problematic" one. The inconvenient voice that insisted Beastkin were not lesser.

The one who proposed infrastructure for the lower districts, who questioned policy, who refused to quietly accept the slow decay of the Empire from within. Every effort had been met with resistance. From the nobles now indulging themselves without restraint. From the court. From her own family. Her gaze shifted, just slightly. The thrones stood elevated above the hall, gleaming in gold and excess. Upon them sat the pillars of the Empire. King Lucian Valerius Valencrest. Queen Seraphina Aurelia Valencrest.

Crown Prince Cassian Valerius Valencrest. First Princess Lysandra Aurelia Valencrest. And behind them— Herself. Together, they formed the royal family. Those entrusted with the fate of billions. Those who should have cared the most. Instead— They indulged. The King and Queen ruled through absence, delegating responsibility to others while maintaining the appearance of authority. The Royal Mage, Octavian, carried the weight of governance, the titled duke operating freely in the shadows, unchecked and unquestioned.

The Crown Prince pursued conflict with reckless enthusiasm, his "loyalty tests" little more than sanctioned violence. And Lysandra— Anastasia's gaze lingered for the briefest moment. Pursued her research with a complete and utter disregard for consequence, developing weapons that should not exist. It made her stomach tighten. An empire of this scale, with this many lives under its banner. And not one of them cared enough. Anastasia forced the thought away. Not here. Not now. Her role, for the moment, was simple.

Stand. Observe. Smile. She stood just behind the thrones, hands folded neatly before her, expression calm, posture flawless. Every inch the perfect princess. Even if no one in the room truly wanted her there. Including herself. Unfortunately for her, Octavian chose that moment to approach. He did not announce himself. He did not pause at a respectful distance. If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. He simply walked.

Straight through the gathered nobles, straight past the invisible boundary that should have separated him from the royal family, and stopped just close enough to be… inappropriate. No one intervened. No one even looked surprised. Normal court etiquette dictated that even a duke must request permission before approaching royalty. Octavian did not bother, and no one dared to correct him. Power had a way of rewriting rules.

As the most powerful mage in the Empire—and the one personally responsible for the king's protection—he existed in a space where etiquette became optional and consequence became… unlikely. Especially when the royal family itself permitted him his excesses. Sanctioned them. Encouraged them, even. All neatly filed under the ever-convenient label of "research."

"A fine evening, is it not, Princess?" His voice was smooth. Polite. Just a shade too deliberate. Anastasia turned toward him, lowering herself into a perfectly measured curtsey. Graceful. Controlled. Completely silent. Then she rose again, expression unchanged. She did not respond. She never did.

'The Quiet Princess.' It was a role she had cultivated carefully, deliberately, until it became an expectation rather than an anomaly. A convenient solution to an inconvenient problem. If she did not speak, they could not twist her words, could not bait her into arguments, could not use her voice against her. Silence was safe. Silence was effective. Silence was— Not who she was. But the mask worked, so she wore it. Octavian, unfortunately, was not deterred by such things. If anything, it seemed to encourage him.

He knew. Of course he knew. He always did. That her silence was not emptiness, but restraint. That beneath the composed exterior was a mind very much active, very much aware, very much... uncooperative. Which, to him, made her interesting. He came not for conversation, but for a reaction. For cracks. For the slightest fracture in the mask she maintained so carefully. An irritating habit. A persistent one.

Anastasia held his gaze for exactly the appropriate amount of time before allowing it to drift away again, dismissing him without a word. Internally— He is a problem. A significant one. Not merely because of his disposition, though that alone would have been enough to warrant a punch to the face. Maybe two. Instead, the problem is what he represented. An obstacle. If Octavian did not exist— The king would already be dead. The thought passed through her mind cleanly, without hesitation, without emotion.

A simple fact. One she had accounted for. One she would continue to account for. For now— She remained silent. Just a little while longer. Anastasia kept her expression perfectly composed as the thought passed quietly through her mind. She could endure this. A few more pleasantries. A few more rehearsed conversations. A few more carefully veiled insults wrapped in silk and courtesy. Then the main event would conclude, and she would be dismissed.

At which point she would return to her chambers, close the doors, and allow herself the deeply necessary luxury of collapsing face-first into her pillows and expressing her thoughts in a far less… refined manner. A highly exciting outcome. And so, she waited. Time passed in measured increments, marked not by the clock, but by the procession of nobles stepping forward one after another. Introductions. Flattery. Declarations of loyalty that rang hollow beneath their polished delivery.

Each interaction followed the same pattern, the same script, the same predictable rhythm of deference and self-interest. A performance. One she had memorized long ago. Anastasia remained still, her presence little more than a silent fixture behind the throne, observing without engaging, listening without responding. Until the grand doors opened. The sound carried through the hall, cutting cleanly through the layered noise of conversation.

The room stilled almost immediately, attention shifting as a single figure entered. An old man. Time had left its mark upon him. Graying hair, lined features, the unmistakable weight of years carried in his appearance. And yet, he moved like a man untouched by it. His steps were steady. His posture, unyielding. Each movement precise, controlled, deliberate. There was no hesitation. No weakness. The Seer. The Empire's foremost prophet, bearer of a Fate Aspect, and chosen of the Sun God itself.

Anastasia's attention sharpened. He approached without deviation, crossing the length of the hall before lowering himself into a kneel at the base of the throne. Notably, Octavian moved. A subtle retreat, a quiet withdrawal from the immediate space of the royal platform, as if even he recognized that this was not a moment to intrude upon. Thank the gods.

"I have arrived, Your Majesty." The Seer's voice was calm and measured. The king rose in response, satisfaction evident in his expression.

"Very good." He turned, addressing the gathered nobles with practiced authority, his voice rising to carry across the hall.

"Today marks the one hundredth year of Asteria, and the dawn of a new Integration! A momentous occasion, not merely for our Empire, but for the world entire." A grandiose pause.

"We may reside upon a humble island, distant from the mainland, yet tonight we celebrate as any great nation should. As is tradition, on the eve of a new year, the greatest prophet of our land shall peer into the threads of fate and reveal what lies ahead." His gaze lowered to the kneeling figure before him.

"As the Sun God wills it." The nobles echoed the phrase in unison.

"As the Sun God wills it." The Seer lifted his head, his expression solemn, almost… heavy.

"As the Sun God wills it." He rose to his feet. Anastasia watched him closely. Interest, for once, unfeigned.

"By the light that reveals and the light that burns, by the threads unseen and the paths unbroken. Let the future stand unveiled before the present. As the Sun bears witness, so too shall fate be known." He looked up.

"Thread of the Unfolding Dawn." However, the expected did not happen. The threads of sunlight streaming through the palace windows did not bend, nor did they warp toward the Seer. Shadows did not recede. The air did not shift. The Seer did not age a single second. There was only silence. Anastasia held her breath. Something was wrong. Tick. The sound rang through the hall, sharp and absolute, and everything froze. The Seer's eyes began to glow.

Not the radiant gold of the Sun God's blessing, but a cold, steely silver. There was no divine presence. No warmth. No reverence. And yet— Anastasia understood. The realization came instantly, as if it had always been there, waiting. The System. The System itself was about to deliver a prophecy. Judging by the sharp intakes of breath around her, she was not alone in that understanding. The Seer—no, the System, wearing him like a puppet—opened his mouth. The voice that emerged was not human. It was ancient. Heavy.

It pressed against the very air, as though reality itself strained beneath its weight.

"The moment arrives. The chains loosen. The Age of Chaos awakens. The world will choke on its neglected sins. Kingdoms will fracture. Hope will be weighed and found wanting. From ash rise seven souls— Each marked by consequence, Each destined for upheaval. A flower unbound. A crown unyielding. A flame unrepentant. A stillness unbroken. A voice unerring. A shadow unfed. And the sta—" The voice stopped. Not paused. Stopped. The Seer's mouth remained open, frozen mid-word. The world held its breath.

Then, it continued, as if nothing had happened.

"And the undefined. Seek not to claim her. Seek not to command her. For if she is roused to fury… Your story ends." The silver light vanished. The Seer collapsed. He hit the ground hard, gasping, sweat pouring down his face as his body trembled under the strain. The hall erupted. Voices rose all at once. Panic, confusion, frantic attempts to interpret what they had just witnessed. The words Age of Chaos passed from mouth to mouth, along with speculation, fear, and desperate rationalization.

"What did it mean?"

"Seven souls—who—?"

"That interruption—did you hear—?"

"The undefined? What does that—?"

"Silence!" The king's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and absolute. The hall stilled instantly.

"Compose yourselves," he continued, his tone firm and assured.

"A prophecy of this scale does not concern us. We are but an island nation, removed from the conflicts of the mainland. Whatever turmoil arises, it will not reach our shores." Relief spread quickly. Too quickly. Nobles nodded to one another, reassured by authority rather than logic. The fear dulled, replaced by convenient belief. It wasn't their problem. It couldn't be. And yet, Anastasia remained still. Because strangely, she felt it. Felt that they were wrong. The interruption—that glitch —it was not a mistake.

It was not insignificant. It was the most important part. The undefined. Her gaze drifted toward the window, toward the vast lands beyond the palace walls. The nobles resumed their indulgence. The king and queen reclined once more upon their gilded thrones, secure in their delusion of permanence. Only the second princess watched as the wheel of fate began, slowly, inexorably, to turn. And unbeknownst to her, the same scene unfolded across Asteria. Every prophet, in every land, received the same message.

The same words. The same fracture. Across the world, birds took to the skies without reason. Those who lived in shadow stilled, gripped by a dread they could not name. Animals fled to burrows and dens. Monsters retreated into forests and caverns, instincts screaming in warning. And seven rose. In a remote village choked by death and decay, a single flower blooms crimson red. In the frozen tundras of the north, an ancient evil cracks the ice of its frigid prison.

In the dunes of the southern desert, an entire city is quietly swallowed by ash. In the deep forests of the heartlands, a lazy cat opens one eye… and the forest holds its breath. In a far off land, a lone traveler crests a hill and sees civilization waiting on the horizon. In the lightless depths of the Abyss, an egg splits open, unheard by the world above. And beneath an unfamiliar sky, a white-haired Foxkin tilts her head in curiosity— —and the Age of Chaos begins.