crown of self-interest

The message arrived at dawn, carried by one of the swiftest avian couriers, its feathers black as night, its talons glowing faintly with the remnants of the arcane spell that had hastened its journey. It landed on Zaros’s windowsill with a soft thud, its beady eyes reflecting the twilight hues of Xynarith’s eternal dusk.

Zaros opened the window, taking the small parchment rolled in black silk. He unfurled it with a flick of his wrist, his eyes scanning the hastily scribbled words. His expression remained stoic, but the faint tightening of his jaw betrayed a sliver of emotion—anticipation, perhaps, or something darker.

The Aetherborn had finally acknowledged what the Mirror had foretold. The flames Zaros had seen were no longer a vision—they were real, consuming the floating islands, starting from the easternmost reaches of the Skyward Cities. Chaos reigned in their once-peaceful society, with Great Houses turning on one another, desperate to retain control as the fire spread.

Zaros crumpled the parchment in his hand, letting it disintegrate into ash as he turned his back to the window. He didn’t need to read more. The Aetherborn’s plea for aid, veiled in their haughty language, meant nothing to him. They had grown complacent in their high towers, believing themselves untouchable. But now, they reaped the consequences of their arrogance.

As he descended the spiraling staircase leading to the lower halls, he passed Calista and Velora in hushed conversation. Their heads snapped up as he approached, sensing the shift in his energy.

“They are burning,” Zaros said flatly, his voice carrying the weight of finality. “The Skyward Cities fall, as I knew they would.”

Calista’s eyes widened. “Then it’s begun?”

“Yes. And it will only escalate from here.”

Velora’s brow furrowed as she folded her arms, concern etched into every line of her face. “If their islands are falling, it’s not just the Aetherborn who will suffer. Their collapse will send shockwaves through Xynarith.”

Zaros nodded, but there was no concern in his gaze. “I know. That’s why we must act.”

Calista exchanged a quick glance with Velora before stepping closer. “So, you’ve decided to intervene after all?”

Zaros paused, his icy eyes locking onto hers. “No. I have decided to use this opportunity.”

He turned sharply, beckoning them to follow as he walked with swift purpose toward the War Room, a vast, vaulted chamber deep within the heart of the Citadel. The air inside the room was thick with the scent of parchment and ink, the walls lined with maps, diagrams, and arcane sigils that marked the movements of Xynarith’s many factions. The central table was dominated by a detailed map of the Skyward Cities, its islands connected by intricate bridges of stone and magic, now outlined in ominous red.

Zaros placed his hands on the edge of the table, his eyes narrowing as he studied the map. “The Aetherborn are too proud to beg for assistance outright, but their desperation is clear. They’re on the brink of collapse, and that’s exactly where we want them.”

Calista stepped forward, her gaze flickering over the map. “You want to strike while they’re weak.”

Zaros’s lips curled into a predatory smile. “Of course. They’re vulnerable, their Great Houses divided. We can leverage this chaos to gain control over key elements of their society—arcane knowledge, Aether manipulation, and their airships. The fall of the Aetherborn is an opportunity to extend our reach.”

Velora nodded thoughtfully, though her expression remained wary. “But it’s a dangerous game. If we overextend ourselves, we could invite retaliation from other factions.”

Zaros waved away her concern. “The others will be too busy watching the flames to intervene. And by the time they realize what’s happening, it will be too late.”

His voice carried the cold certainty of a conqueror, and both women knew there was no point in arguing. Zaros’s plans were already in motion, and once set, they would unfold with precision.

“Prepare the Voidweavers,” Zaros commanded, his tone leaving no room for delay. “We’ll move under the cover of the Aetherborn’s collapse. Their floating islands will make the perfect staging grounds for our next move.”

Velora inclined her head. “As you wish, Zaros.”

---

As the hours stretched into days, the preparations for their covert strike continued in earnest. The Voidweavers, a secretive order of sorcerers sworn to Zaros’s service, worked tirelessly to fine-tune the arcane mechanisms that would allow them to traverse the skies unnoticed. Their skills in shadow manipulation and void magic would ensure they remained unseen until the perfect moment.

Zaros watched the preparations with a calculating eye, his mind constantly assessing and reassessing every variable. The fall of the Aetherborn had opened a window of opportunity, but it would not remain open forever. He had to act swiftly and decisively.

One evening, as the sunless sky outside the Citadel shifted into deeper shades of twilight, Zaros found himself alone in his study, poring over the latest reports from his spies. The collapse of the easternmost Skyward City, Valraen, had sent shockwaves throughout the rest of the Aetherborn society. Panic had spread like wildfire, and the other islands were scrambling to defend themselves from the mysterious flames that seemed to devour their cities from within.

Zaros’s lips thinned as he read the reports. The source of the flames was still unclear, but there were whispers of something darker at play—something ancient and malevolent that had been awakened from the depths of the Aetherborn’s forgotten history.

A soft knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Zaros raised his gaze, calling out for the visitor to enter. The door creaked open, and Calista stepped inside, her expression tense.

“There’s been a development,” she said, her voice low.

Zaros set down the parchment and motioned for her to continue.

“We’ve intercepted a message from one of the Aetherborn’s Great Houses. It’s not an official plea for aid, but... they’re offering something in exchange for help in stopping the flames.”

Zaros’s brow arched. “And what exactly are they offering?”

Calista hesitated for a moment before answering. “Their airship fleet.”

For the first time in hours, Zaros allowed himself a faint smile. The Aetherborn’s airships were some of the most advanced vessels in Xynarith, capable of traversing vast distances in record time and equipped with arcane weaponry that could decimate entire armies. Gaining control of such a fleet would grant Zaros a level of mobility and power that no other faction could rival.

“And which House is making this offer?” Zaros asked, his tone one of quiet satisfaction.

“House Illyrion,” Calista replied. “They’re one of the most powerful Houses, but their island is among those most affected by the flames. They’ve lost control of several key districts, and their leadership is desperate.”

Zaros leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled as he considered the offer. “Desperation makes them malleable. And once we have their airships...”

“We can dictate the terms,” Calista finished, her eyes gleaming with understanding.

Zaros nodded, his mind already racing ahead to the next steps. “Send a response. Tell them we will assist—but only on the condition that they surrender full control of their fleet to us. No exceptions, no compromises.”

Calista bowed her head slightly before turning to leave, but Zaros’s voice stopped her just as she reached the door.

“And Calista,” he said, his voice softer now, almost contemplative, “make sure they understand that if they even consider betraying us... there will be no mercy.”

---

The deal was struck swiftly, the desperation of House Illyrion forcing their hand. Within days, the first of the Aetherborn airships arrived at the Citadel, its sleek, silver hull gleaming in the twilight. Zaros stood at the edge of the Citadel’s landing platform, watching as the massive vessel docked. The sight of it filled him with a rare sense of satisfaction. It was the first tangible sign of his expanding power, a symbol of the control he was steadily tightening over Xynarith.

As the ship’s gangplank lowered, a delegation of Aetherborn descended—pale, elegant figures draped in robes of shimmering fabric. Their leader, a tall man with sharp features and silver hair, approached Zaros with a hesitant, wary expression.

“My lord Zaros,” the Aetherborn noble said, his voice as smooth as silk but tinged with fear. “We come in the name of House Illyrion to honor the agreement.”

Zaros inclined his head, his expression unreadable. “Your House has made a wise choice.”

The Aetherborn noble nodded, though there was a flicker of unease in his eyes. “The flames are... spreading faster than we anticipated. We hope that with your assistance, we may yet save our city.”

Zaros’s gaze remained cold, his tone even. “That depends entirely on how useful your fleet proves to be.”

The noble flinched, but quickly recovered. “Of course, my lord. House Illyrion is at your service.”

Zaros watched them for a moment longer, then turned his attention back to the airship. “Prepare the fleet.