Prologue

Everything was red.

Yuri curled into a fetal position at the bottom of the lake.

Everything is so futile.

She could hear it. Priests chanting hymns, while magi conjured their thaumaturgicae arts, offering a spark of hope to the hearts of their allies. But there was no use in raising fists or voices to the heavens.

It was all some cruel joke by the gods…

Perhaps. Yet even the immortals shared the same entanglement in the threads of fate. And the empire remained shackled to a fragile cycle of hope, inevitably followed by despair.

She dared to wish for an end to it all.

Over the past seven hundred years, she had slain more agents of the Convergence than she could remember. It wasn't driven by unbridled ambition, nor by vengeance. All she wanted was to silence the fevered babble of those still clinging to that putrid existence.

Yuri simply did what needed to be done. And in that — only in that — they could agree.

***

Tiny bubbles burst, disturbing the stillness of the lake.

It lay placid beneath the twisted vastness of a dead tree, blackened as if kissed by flames, its charred branches stretching skyward like hands in supplication. The surface reflected a thick, viscous hue of deepest crimson.

The air was saturated with a metallic scent, tinged with a floral note from the roses growing in wild disarray. These flowers — in stark, vivid tones of pure white, deep black, searing red, and icy blue — bloomed among sparse tufts of grass on the cracked soil.

Waves finally shattered the blood’s surface calm as she emerged from its scarlet depths. Her long hair fluttered in the breeze like cherry blossoms, a soft pink hue that evoked the melancholy of twilight.

Yet that graceful wind unveiled a macabre detail as it brushed the rose petals: humanoid faces. Twisted in despair and agony, they were hidden within that delicate beauty. Each whisper of the breeze seemed to steal a muted lament — distant murmurs echoing sorrow in an otherwise tranquil scene.

Yuri gazed at the flowers, her eyes two pale red hollows, dulled like rubies worn by time. Her finely sculpted face bore an unnatural perfection, tempered by a cold expression that drained the will of anyone who dared to meet her gaze.

And she smiled.

A slight curve of the lips that never reached the eyes. A smile terrifying in its beauty, both alluring and bleak — concealing not only her sharp, predatory teeth, reminding all that her beauty was a trap — but the complete emptiness those suffering souls meant to her heart.

"Bloody Roses…"

She called. And they came.

The sky was an unending vault of darkness. Upon raising one’s eyes with care, it was possible to discern that the ceiling was carved from stone, its once-detailed reliefs nearly erased by time. A subtle clue that the entire landscape was, in truth, an artificial construct.

Confinement, disguised as vastness, lying beyond the edge of light. And from there, they arrived.

Yuri did not mind standing nude before the five. Her alabaster skin, in all its purity, was marked by intricate patterns of black lines, snaking as if darkness itself sought to claim her.

The markings pulsed with a life of their own as they drank the last droplets of blood trickling over her flawless, voluptuous curves. Never once marring the statue-like beauty of her form.

“White rose dyed in red” they answered in unison.

“What news do you bring me, my Bloody Roses?” she asked the figures partly hidden in the gloom.

They belonged to her, each in ways they could not even imagine. They were extensions of herself. Her most precious pawns.

A man cleared his throat before speaking.

He had shoulder-length black hair and wore a lavish sky-blue tailcoat, a cravat fastened at the collar with a white rose brooch speckled with crimson. His face was hidden behind a black velvet mask, trimmed in silver arabesques and frozen in an enigmatic smile — unsettling in its stillness. Mounted on a handle, he held it before his face with one hand.

“For five years, Ultio Fatidica has worked to infiltrate the Imperial Senate, Your Grace. But recently, we’ve accomplished something even more noteworthy: we have usurped leadership of the Swords Party.”

His voice was clear and youthful.

“How so, Ash of Gold?” Yuri asked him.

“We assassinated Korsos, the Storm-Blessed, Your Grace. And we placed a double in his auction house in the Gran-Devana. We now have all the financial support needed to lay the foundations for a new age on the Grand Continent.”

“And what is still lacking for us to obtain it? This new era you speak of.”

Ash of Gold stepped back at the chill in her voice.

“We are… slightly behind schedule. It’s a time of great instability due to the election.”

“Then order your subordinates to solve the problem!” Yuri snapped. “Why else did I assign each of you to command a unit of our agents?”

Saying no more, the man bowed in submission to her decision.

“We’ve also advanced the preparations for the ritual, Your Grace,” echoed a gloomy voice, rasping like the scrape of bones.

Yuri turned to study the hooded figure, his grotesqueness hidden beneath a heavy black cloak. He leaned on what was more a twisted branch than a proper staff, with an amethyst trapped in the grain of the wood, pulsing with a sinister violet glow. His face was hidden by a golden mask shaped into human features, with sharp eyes and a pointed beard.

"Under my supervision, our agents traced the exact coordinates for access to the Eldritch Nexus. The capital proved far more prolific than I had initially imagined. However, we still lack an event brutal enough to imbue the blessure points with the necessary malevolence.

“Gather the black roses, the ones that destroy all they touch…”

A slight cough dared draw Yuri’s attention — not quite interrupting her, but the lack of reverent silence could easily be interpreted as disrespect.

The woman who attracted their eyes had long white hair cascading in soft waves down her back. Thin eyebrows framed a delicate face, with lips that seemed to waver between silence and prayer.

She wore a red nun’s habit, which fit her body with modest grace, evoking a figure of devout religious discipline. Her eyes were covered by a crimson cloth blindfold, as if to shield her from the world’s sufferings. A necklace hung from her neck, inevitably drawing the gaze to its pendant: an ouroboros — a perfect circle, a serpent devouring its own tail. Within the circle bloomed a lotus flower, and above the serpent’s head gleamed an eight-pointed star.

“Forgive me, Your Grace... Vel'Shaad” she begged, voice slightly trembling, kneeling amidst a bed of white roses, her palms pressed in prayer.

“If you have something to say, then say it quickly, Misty Lake!”

At times, even Yuri couldn’t bear their blind reverence. Still, unquestioned control over their beliefs and aspirations was necessary for her goal.

“Diabolus, Your Grace... is taking care of it.”

Yuri smiled, prompting the woman to bow her head and curl even deeper into her penitential posture, before turning her gaze to Diabolus.

A tall man, with a broad-shouldered and athletic build. He wore deep tones of black and crimson, his ceremonial outfit a blend of military discipline and gothic nobility. His cloak was darker than a stormy sky, and his ruby tunic, with silver fastenings and linings, resembled a suit of ceremonial armor.

His face was partly concealed by a wide-brimmed crimson hat with a rounded crown, tied with a hemp cord. Long black hair spilled down to his shoulders, and his mouth bore a severe line, partly hidden beneath a thick beard.

In his hands, he held a black trident — more nightmare than weapon — its three curved prongs twisted like barbed thorns, the metal so ridged it looked fossilized.

“We have proceeded with the ritual sacrifices as Your Grace instructed” he reported, voice disturbingly hoarse. “Disposing of nosy and unsuspecting citizens. However, we’ve recently encountered a new problem when using the intermediary chambers of the Warlock’s Crypt.”

“Enlighten me” Yuri requested, doing her best not to lose patience with yet another setback.

“Yellow Turbans” Diabolus revealed, shifting his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot. “The cult seems to have allied with the Beholders from the deeper levels. They are competing with us for... the attention of our liberators.”

Vel’Shaad pondered briefly. There was no reason to antagonize the southern occultists, as long as they were fed with violence, there wouldn’t be any complaints.

“Organize a peace envoy, Diabolus. We will descend to the lower levels, accompanied by the Emissary of the Stars.”

“As you command, Your Grace” he said with a bow.

“Splendid! Then all that remains is for us to succeed in dealing with the elections.”

“Your Grace, if I may?” came the voice of the last of her Bloody Roses.

“Speak, Mave Lestat!”

Near the twisted tree stood a tall woman with a slender torso and a robust build. Her face was narrow, noble-featured, and wore an enigmatic smile. She donned silver armor, adorned with blue spirals radiating from the breastplate — elegant yet protective — and a heavy white cloak embroidered with floral motifs.

Her pale blonde hair was arranged in regal elegance, the front locks gently framing her face. The rest woven into a braided bun — a style marrying the grace of royalty with a warrior’s practicality.

“If we are so in need of violence, perhaps my subordinates could pose as agitators amid the elections. We could accomplish two goals at once.”

Her voice flowed like nectar, provoking a subtle lethargy as it reached the others’ ears. For a moment, Yuri felt a mist of forgetfulness squeeze through the cracks of her mind, while Mave Lestat stared from behind her golden vector mask, which barely hid her face — especially not the mismatched eyes, one entirely blue, the other emerald green.

“Splendid!” Vel’Shaad agreed enthusiastically, blinking to clear her mind, briefly unsure of what she’d just said. But soon the words returned to her with ease. “All that remains is for us to succeed in dealing with the elections.”

The five nodded, and with nothing further to report, kept a respectful silence.

“When the final light goes out, there shall be freedom…”

And they replied:

“When the final breath is lost, there shall be salvation!”