The Last Banner

The grand hall of Thrace's keep glimmered with restored splendor, its white marble columns polished to perfection. Crystal chandeliers hung above the long banquet tables, casting golden light on the lords and ladies of Thrace's vassal states. The smell of roasted meats and mulled wine filled the air as the nobles feasted, their laughter echoing off the high ceilings.

Despite the opulence, the atmosphere was laced with disdain. The nobles, many dressed in silks and adorned with jewelry, exchanged snide remarks and poorly concealed smirks as they ate.

"Seven months," a baron sneered, swirling his goblet. "And we're supposed to believe a boy rebuilt all of this? A miracle-worker, they say. A savior." He chuckled bitterly, his tone mocking. "A child playing at kingship is more like it."

Another noble, a stout woman with a string of pearls around her neck, leaned forward. "Reforms, armies, and even a new religion—all in a handful of months. Who does he think he's fooling?" Her lips curled into a smirk. "We'll see the truth soon enough. Smoke and mirrors never last."

A younger lord laughed. "You've all seen him—what is he, fifteen? What could a boy possibly know of governance, let alone war?"

Their laughter grew, filling the hall as the wine flowed. They speculated openly about Hadrian's absence, each comment more dismissive than the last.

"He dares summon us here and then keeps us waiting," a wiry noble muttered, his thin fingers drumming impatiently on the table. "A display of power, no doubt. A pathetic one at that."

As the clock struck the hour, the laughter faltered. The sound of boots echoed faintly through the hall, distant but steady. It grew louder, closer, each step deliberate and unhurried. The chatter dwindled, replaced by an uneasy silence.

The massive oak doors groaned open, revealing Hadrian at the top of the marble staircase.

He stepped forward, his presence commanding the room without a word. Hadrian was no longer the frail, sickly boy they remembered. At six feet tall, his imposing height alone set him apart, but it was the rest of him that truly unnerved.

His golden hair, cut short in a crew style, gleamed under the chandeliers' light, framing a face that seemed almost divine in its sharpness. High cheekbones, a straight nose, and a strong jawline gave him a sculpted appearance, as if carved by the hands of a god. His steel-gray eyes were cold and unrelenting, carrying an intensity that seemed to pierce through flesh and bone.

The crimson and gold of his tunic contrasted sharply with the black cloak draped over his shoulders, embroidered with the falcon crest of Thrace. Each step down the staircase was slow and deliberate, the soft click of his boots against the marble floor echoing like a judge's gavel.

The nobles sat frozen, their earlier bravado evaporating under the weight of his presence. His gaze swept the room, unblinking, dissecting each face in turn.

"Do you feel it?" one noble whispered to another, his voice barely audible. "It's... as if the air itself bends around him."

Hadrian stopped at the base of the staircase, letting the silence stretch. The golden light seemed to dim around him, shadows pooling unnaturally at his feet as if the very hall responded to his arrival.

He moved to the head of the table, standing before the throne-like chair reserved for the Duke of Thrace. His hand rested lightly on its back as he surveyed the room, his expression unreadable.

"You feast," he said at last, his voice low and steady, cutting through the tension like a blade. "You laugh. You mock what you cannot understand."

The nobles flinched, their eyes darting to one another.

Hadrian tilted his head slightly, his gaze narrowing. "Seven months. That is all it took to rebuild this city—no, to rebuild this duchy. Roads, armies, laws... and yet you sit here, bloated and complacent, doubting the reality of what has been done."

His sharp features hardened as he straightened, his hand falling from the chair. "You call me a boy. A pretender. A liar. But tell me—what have you done for Thrace? While I worked to lift this duchy from ruin, where were you?"

A murmur rippled through the hall, but no one dared to speak.

"Exactly," Hadrian said softly, his tone laced with venom.

At his subtle nod, the heavy oak doors creaked open once more. The sound of boots echoed as a line of musketeers marched into the hall. Clad in polished steel and crimson sashes, their presence was a stark contrast to the decadence of the seated nobles.

The musketeers took their positions along the walls, their rifles gleaming under the chandelier light. The nobles turned pale, their earlier confidence now replaced with unease.

Hadrian turned to his chair, lowering himself into it with deliberate grace. He rested one elbow on the armrest, his fingers steepled beneath his chin as he regarded the room.

"Tonight," he said, his voice calm but carrying an ominous weight, "marks the beginning of a new Thrace. A Thrace unburdened by corruption, cowardice, and weakness."

His gray eyes swept the room once more, colder than the winter seas. "You have been weighed. And now... we begin to separate the worthy from the unworthy."

A flick of his hand.

The musketeers raised their rifles, the metallic click of barrels snapping into place echoing through the hall like the tolling of a death knell.

Panic erupted as nobles scrambled to rise, their cries of protest drowned out by Hadrian's voice—quiet, steady, and final:

"Fire."

The cries of the wounded faded into uneasy silence, replaced by the slow, deliberate echo of Hadrian's boots against the blood-slick marble floor. He stood at the center of the carnage, his golden crew-cut hair gleaming faintly under the warm light of the chandeliers. His sharp, almost ethereal features were composed, yet his steel-gray eyes burned with an intensity that froze the surviving nobles in place.

Hadrian's voice, low and steady, cut through the oppressive quiet like a blade. "Do you even fathom what I have endured?"

He turned to face the trembling nobles, his piercing gaze locking onto each in turn. "While you feasted in your keeps, while you grew fat on the labor of those beneath you, my own flesh and blood—" his voice cracked for the briefest of moments before hardening into something colder, more vicious "—were defiled by the xeno scum who dared breach these walls."

The room seemed to shrink under the weight of his words. The nobles averted their gazes, their faces pale and slick with sweat.

"My sisters, Sophia and Cassandra, who trusted me to protect them—raped and slaughtered like animals!" Hadrian's voice rose, the sharp edges of his grief and rage slicing through the air. "My father, bound and executed before my eyes, his blood spilled at the feet of those monsters!"

He took a step closer to the nobles, his tall frame casting long, dark shadows across the trembling survivors. His gray eyes, filled with an unrelenting fury, bore into them. "And you dare sit here, questioning the necessity of what I've done? Mocking the rebuilding of this city as if it were some child's game?"

Hadrian's hands clenched into fists at his sides, the tremor in his voice betraying the storm within. "You call me a boy. But tell me—where were your sons? Your husbands? Your knights? When Thrace was burning, where were you?"

One noble, braver—or more desperate—than the others, stammered, "W-we were not called upon—"

"Not called upon?" Hadrian's voice roared through the hall, silencing the man instantly. He stepped closer, his sharp features twisted in a cold fury. "Do you think that absolves you? Do you believe your silence, your inaction, makes you any less complicit?"

His expression shifted, the rage giving way to a grim, icy resolve. He straightened, his presence towering and unyielding. "Machiavelli once wrote, 'A ruler who is not ruthless cannot guarantee the survival of his people.' You have seen the truth of those words here tonight."

He gestured to the lifeless bodies slumped over the banquet tables, their once-proud forms reduced to grotesque reminders of their failures. "Humanity cannot afford weakness. We cannot afford cowardice. And we most certainly cannot afford you."

Hadrian turned his back on the survivors, walking slowly toward his throne. As he lowered himself into the seat, his gray eyes turned back to the trembling remnants of Thrace's noble class. His voice softened, though the weight of his words only grew heavier.

"My sisters are gone. My father is gone. The blood of my family stains this hall, and it will stain my hands forever. But their deaths will not be in vain. Thrace has been rebuilt, not for you, but for the people who will fight for it. For humanity, which will rise from the ashes stronger than ever before."

He raised his hand, his expression unreadable. "You were the past. And the past has no place in the future."

His fingers flicked downward. "Fire."

The musketeers obeyed without hesitation. The sharp crack of gunfire filled the hall once more, the final volley silencing the last protests and pleas of the nobles. Blood pooled across the marble floor, mingling with the remains of the feast in a grotesque tableau of justice.

Hadrian remained seated as the musketeers began clearing the room, their movements precise and methodical. He watched in silence, his expression calm but distant, the weight of his losses etched into his sharp, divine features.

As the hall grew still, save for the crackle of dying flames, Hadrian whispered to no one in particular, "If blood must pave the way to salvation, then let it flow."

Far to the north, in the heart of Lysara, the flickering light of a dozen candelabras illuminateing a hall. It was alive with muted conversations and the gentle clinking of goblets as Lysara's nobility indulged in their carefully constructed illusions of peace and prosperity. Helena sat near the edge of the gathering, her sharp blue eyes scanning the room from behind a mask of practiced poise.

For seven months, she had lived in this gilded cage, navigating court intrigue and studying diplomacy under Isadora's watchful eye. The lessons were invaluable, but the court's endless games of manipulation and flattery had begun to wear thin. More than anything, she missed her family. The silence from Thrace had grown louder with each passing week, and despite Isadora's reassurances, a nagging unease had taken root in Helena's heart.

"Lady Helena," Isadora's smooth voice broke through her thoughts. The Duchess, resplendent in a deep emerald gown, approached with her ever-present air of authority. Her golden hair, streaked with silver, caught the flickering light as she offered Helena a faint smile.

"You seem distant this evening," Isadora observed, her tone light but probing.

Helena returned the smile, her mask slipping effortlessly into place. "My apologies, Your Grace. I was merely reflecting on the tasks you've set before me. The intricacies of court life never cease to demand my full attention."

Isadora's sharp green eyes lingered on Helena, searching for cracks in her composure. "Of course," the Duchess said smoothly. "You have adapted well, though I suspect there is more on your mind than courtly matters."

Helena's fingers tightened slightly around the goblet in her hand. "It is only natural to wonder about my family, Your Grace. Seven months is a long time."

Isadora tilted her head, her smile widening just enough to suggest she knew more than she was letting on. "Thrace thrives under your brother's leadership," she said, her voice carefully measured. "Hadrian has proven to be... resourceful."

The words were meant to reassure, but they only deepened Helena's unease. Hadrian was never supposed to lead; Alexander was the heir. If her younger brother now held the dukedom, it could only mean something had gone terribly wrong.

"Resourceful indeed," Helena replied evenly, though her mind churned with unanswered questions.

As Isadora turned to engage with another guest, Helena let her gaze drift to the nobles gathered in small clusters around the room. Their whispers were quiet but not quiet enough.

"...a boy of fifteen?" one lord murmured, his tone incredulous. "And yet they say he's rebuilt the city entirely. Roads, armies, even a new church—can you believe it?"

"Rebuilt, yes," his companion replied, his voice lower. "But at what cost? There are rumors... unsettling ones. They say the boy is ruthless, that he's purged Thrace of its nobility. Entire families executed without trial."

Helena's heart clenched, though her expression remained calm. She had always known Hadrian to be clever, ambitious even, but ruthless? The image didn't fit the brother she had grown up with—the boy who had once stayed up late to help her memorize old texts, who teased her for being too serious but always listened when she spoke.

Could the pressures of leadership have changed him so completely?

Later, in the privacy of her chambers, Helena sat at the ornate desk by the window. The faint sounds of Lysara's bustling streets drifted through the open shutters, but they did little to ease her growing unease.

On the desk lay a collection of letters from Thrace, their words polite but vague. Alexander was never mentioned. Her father's condition was glossed over. And Hadrian's name appeared only in passing, spoken of as though his rise to leadership were an inevitability rather than an anomaly.

Helena's fingers hovered over the latest letter, her instincts screaming that something was being kept from her. She had been raised to read between the lines, to see what others tried to conceal, and the omissions in these letters spoke volumes.

She pressed her lips into a thin line, folding the letter back into its envelope. If there were answers to be found, they would not come from the scraps of information carefully filtered through Lysara's court.

Helena stood and crossed to the window, her gaze drifting toward the distant horizon. Thrace was far away, but her connection to it felt closer than ever.

"Hadrian," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "What are you hiding from me?"

The words hung in the air as Helena's thoughts raced. She needed to find a way back to Thrace, to see the truth for herself. Whatever her brother had done—whatever had happened to their family—she had to know.

For now, though, all she could do was wait. And waiting, Helena decided, was the most agonizing game of all.