Soul Sword : The empire's last game

The Kingdom of Dawn did not favor warriors. It favored those who could make others believe in war without ever drawing a blade. Lies were its currency, secrets its foundation. To rule was not to command armies, but to shape perceptions, to weave reality like thread between practiced fingers.

And Liora was a marster of this Art.

She sat in the middle of an opulent chamber, illuminated by the flickering light of a solitary candle. The walls encircling her were decorated with murals—not of victors, but of manipulators, dreamers, phantoms who had altered history with whispers rather than with violence.

Opposite her, Duke Varric squirmed. A man of affluence and trickery, he had constructed his empire on half-truths and treachery, yet here, under her scrutiny, he appeared unsettled.

"You demand too much," he murmured, fingers tapping against polished wood. "Even for you. "

Liora kept silent. She understood that uncertainty was a weapon far deadlier than any blade. Instead, she merely tilted her head, allowing her dark hair to cascade over her shoulder, golden eyes shimmering like the first beams of dawn.

"Too much? " she pondered. "And yet—you came. "

The Duke's jaw clenched. The agreement had already been made, whether he acknowledged it or not.

She raised her hand.

The room dimmed—not entirely, but sufficiently for the atmosphere to change. The candle's flame elongated unnaturally, writhing as though resisting an invisible force. Shadows trembled, deepened, and then—whispered.

Varric tightened.

"I have no need for weapons," Liora said quietly. "I engage with reality itself. "

The shadows surged.

The shining floors disappeared beneath his feet. The aroma of ink and parchment vanished. The candle's flickering transformed into something else—distant cries.

He was no longer in the chamber.

He was in the execution square.

Bound. Kneeling. A blade resting against his throat.

"No," Varric gasped, hands trembling as he reached for the illusion—only for his fingers to pass through it like vapor.

Liora observed with detached enjoyment as he staggered back, eyes flitting wildly, breath uneven. She understood what he was contemplating. That this could not possibly be real. And yet, his body betrayed him—his heart raced, his skin lost its color. The mind could dismiss a falsehood, but the heart? The heart only recognized fear.

"You betrayed the wrong individuals," a voice murmured from the shadows. "And now you will bear the consequences. "

The executioner elevated his sword.

Varric slumped into his chair, perspiration forming on his brow. His whole body shook. "Enough," he croaked. "I'll do it. I'll provide you with what you desire. "

The illusion shattered.

The candle flickered, the grand chamber reappearing as though nothing had altered. But the terror in Varric's eyes lingered.

Liora grinned. "Good decision. "

That night, when the city rested in silence, Liora stood upon her balcony, staring at the horizon. The Kingdom of Dawn extended far beyond its gilded towers, whispering in the dialect of deception.

And yet—something gnawed at her.

She flipped her hand over.

Her breath hitched.

A symbol began to appear on her skin—a sign of shifting illumination, as if woven from the very essence of dawn. It pulsated—not with might, but with something ancient. Something observing.

And then—

Darkness engulfed her sight.

She found herself in a coliseum made of black stone, its pillars stretching infinitely into a starless sky.

And she was not by herself.

Figures emerged from the shadows—warriors, challengers, heirs. She recognized them, even though she had never encountered them. Their strength vibrated in the atmosphere, crackling like an approaching tempest.

At the very center—stood the Soul Sword.

"A throne awaits," a voice whispered from the darkness. "A challenge begins. Will you seize your destiny? "

Liora breathed out steadily. Unlike Raith's furious storm or Kael's quiet dread, she did not feel fear. She did not shake.

She simply watched.

And then—she grinned. "A game? " she murmured.

The world came apart.

The coliseum expanded vast and infinite, its towering black stone walls resonating with ancient power. The atmosphere felt denser here, interwoven with invisible strands of destiny, integrated into the very essence of this battleground. It was a location where kings were forged and dreams died in blood and devastation.

Liora advanced, her movements purposeful, calculated, her deep violet cloak fluttering slightly as she adjusted her gloves. To an untrained observer, she appeared as a picture of graceful composure—regal without a crown, threatening without a weapon. But beneath that poised façade, she was already manipulating the invisible.

Unlike the others—Raith, who bore his storm as both armor and armament, and Kael, who still clung to his unwilling mortality—Liora comprehended the unexpressed truth of the Empire's Game. It was not about who was the most powerful. It was about who was the most persuasive.

Power, she had learned long ago, was not taken by force. It was whispered into being. And Liora had devoted her entire life to making sure she always spoke the loudest.

She allowed her gaze to scan the other competitors, each occupying their own space, their weapons drawn, their bodies taut with the anticipation of what was to come. Some regarded her cautiously, their eyes sharp with distrust. Good. Let them be cautious. Let them perceive what she wished them to perceive.

Yet, she had not anticipated this.

She had dedicated her life to crafting the persona she wished to embody, enshrouding herself in layers of deception until she sometimes forgot what was genuine. But now, she was compelled to confront something she had buried long ago.

Her authentic self.

The illusion drew nearer, murmuring words meant solely for her. "Do you recall the first time you deceived? "

A flicker of a recollection. A young girl, positioned amidst the remains of a burning estate. Smoke twisted around her as she gazed up at a nobleman, her tiny hands grasping a pouch of gold that she had cunningly obtained from him. She had beamed then, just as she beamed now.

"Yes," Liora whispered, her fingers moving as she collected the threads of power surrounding her. "And I recall the first time I triumphed. "

With a gradual exhale, she advanced. The illusion should not be resisted. It should be rewritten.

The atmosphere shimmered around her as reality contorted. Her mirrored counterpart faltered for the first time, its assurance wavering. Liora grinned. That was the issue with reflections—they could only imitate what they were presented.

And she never revealed her truth.

The illusion stumbled. It attempted to communicate, but its voice faltered, as though it had forgotten the words to articulate. Liora raised one hand, and with a whisper, she obliterated it.

The moment it disappeared, something altered in the coliseum. A wave of power coursed through the stone, as if the game itself had recognized her triumph.

She turned back to the other heirs. Some still battled against their mirrored selves, but others—Raith, Kael—had already begun to shatter their illusions. They would endure this round.

Liora exhaled slowly, her grin reappearing. The others would contend with steel and brute force. Fools. Let them swing their swords recklessly, drowning in their own hopelessness. The throne wasn't seized by those who contended the fiercest—but by those who made others believe they had already failed.

And in this game, she never failed.

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IMPORTANT MESSAGE ^ — ^