Soul Sword : The empire's last game

( Vera Thorns Point Of View )

The night in the Forest of Blackthorns was calm—too calm. The regular symphony of insects had disappeared, leaving only the faint murmur of the wind rustling through twisted branches. Moonlight streamed through the uneven canopy, fragmented into silver pieces that scarcely touched the ground below. The aroma of moist soil mingled with something harsh, something unsettling, intertwined with the metallic essence of magic.

Vera crouched down, her gloved hands gliding over the deep claw marks etched into the roots in front of her. The indentations were new. Something enormous had passed through this area recently. Something hazardous.

Her heart raced in her throat as she breathed out quietly, her breath visible in the chilly night air.

Her sword, Nightpiercer, rested beside her, its jet-black blade appearing dull under the moon's light. It had been her closest ally for many years, a weapon crafted in the heritage of the Kingdom of Thorns—light, silent, deadly. She had taken lives before. Violence was not unfamiliar to her.

Yet tonight, the sword felt unique.

A soft hum pulsed beneath her fingers as she lightly traced the hilt, a tremor so subtle she almost thought it was her imagination. A feeling that flowed through her bones like a soft whisper.

She stood up slowly, muscles tensed, her cloak flowing around her like living shadows.

Then the tranquility shattered.

A deep, guttural growl echoed through the air, thick and wet, resonating through the very ground beneath her feet. The noise was unnatural—not produced by teeth and flesh, but by something even more sinister.

A hunter was present. Observing. Anticipating.

Vera tightened her hold on Nightpiercer as she controlled her breath, taking it slowly. The wind shifted, bringing with it the stench of decay and sulfur. The trees above quivered, their thorn-covered branches trembling.

Then it emerged.

A distorted creature sprang from the darkness, its form a writhing mass of black tendrils, shifting like living shadows. Its mouth opened wide, excessively wide, brimming with rows of glistening fangs that dripped with a viscous, dark liquid. But it was the eyes that caused her breath to catch.

Too many.

Each glowed amber, resembling embers in a dying fire, focused on her with an awareness that sent a shiver through her veins.

Vera acted on instinct.

She sidestepped, her cloak billowing behind her as she unsheathed her sword in one smooth motion. The blade caught the moonlight, but rather than reflecting the silver radiance, it appeared to absorb it.

The beast hesitated. Vera's heart raced. It was afraid. Her fingers tightened around Nightpiercer's hilt. What was this creature? And why—why did it recognize her weapon?

A moment of uncertainty. Then the beast lunged once more.

Vera rolled beneath its attack, feeling the rush of air as a clawed limb narrowly avoided her. She twisted, rising onto one knee, and struck fiercely across its flank.

Nothing. The blade slid through it, as if slicing through fog.

Cold terror settled in her stomach. The creature emitted a shriek, its shape warping and flickering, as if it barely hung onto the fabric of this realm. Not flesh. Not mortal. This was something created from magic.

And then—anguish.

A sudden, searing heat flared against her collarbone, burning through fabric and skin like a brand pressed into flesh.

Vera inhaled sharply, reeling, her vision blurring for one shattered second.

The forest shifted. She perceived—not the trees, not the creature—but a throne room illuminated in silver light. A skeletal throne. A blade lodged in its core. The Soul Sword.

And then, a voice—not her own, not human—whispered inside her mind.

"You are chosen. "

Vera's knees almost buckled.

The mark throbbed in reaction.

The creature lunged.

She did not waver.

Her body acted before her mind could catch up. She twisted, turning mid-air, and brought Nightpiercer down with all her might.

The blade sang—not as steel should, but a deeper, resonating hum, vibrating through the very atmosphere.

When it hit—the glow burst forth.

A shockwave surged outward, ripping through the night.

The creature emitted an unearthly screech before its form fractured, wisps of darkness dissolving into the air.

Then, quiet.

Vera swayed, breath uneven, her fingers trembling around the hilt of Nightpiercer.

But the mark on her collarbone still burned.

And then—words materialized in the air, spun from silver light.

"A throne awaits. A challenge begins. Will you claim your fate? "

Her stomach twisted.

She recognized what this was. Every kingdom did. Every heir had heard the tales.

The Empire's Game.

The mark pulsed once more, and Vera realized—if she declined, it would be taken as forfeit. Another would assume her place.

She had spent her life avoiding politics, from the burden of a realm she did not wish to govern.

But if she triumphed…

No longer a pawn. No longer an heir shackled by obligation.

If she triumphed, she would be queen.

A slow grin crossed her lips.

She lifted Nightpiercer and rested it against her shoulder, tilting her chin toward the words of light.

"I, Vera Thorns, accept the challenge. "

The world erupted in blinding light.

She gasped as the ground disappeared beneath her feet.

The teleportation was not instantaneous.

The light did not consume—it unraveled.

She felt herself being disassembled, piece by piece, like threads from a tapestry.

It was cold. Not like ice. Not like winter.

This was the cold of something ancient. Something immense.

Whispers brushed past her ears.

Laughter. Screams.

A battlefield. Soldiers clashing beneath a fiery sky.

A city turning to ash.

A throne remaining empty.

Then—darkness, and then, solid ground. Vera staggered, breath catching, the forest was gone. She stood in a new place. Somewhere ancient. The air crackled with magic.

A vast, circular arena extended before her, hewn from black stone. Five towering pillars rose around its borders, each decorated with an ancient sigil.

And she was not by herself. On the other side of the arena, four additional figures were present.

Arms raised. Gaze keen. The five heirs were here. And the game had begun.