Kingdom Building Game: Starting Out With A Million Upgrade Points!

Arkanos guided High Priestess Isolde away from the blood-soaked execution plaza, his steps measured, as though each one carried the weight of the lives just snuffed out.

He inclined his head toward her, the faintest hint of a nod, and murmured, "Thank you for your presence today, Head pristess. It lends a certain… legitimacy to the proceedings."

His tone was smooth, almost too smooth, the kind of polished gratitude that could either be genuine or a well-practiced mask.

With Arkanos, it was always hard to tell—It was like he had perfected the art of being unreadable, the kind of man who could smile at you while looking forward to your demise or, worse, your irrelevance.

Isolde, for her part, didn't bask in the thanks. She adjusted the silver staff in her grip, its sigils still faintly humming from the rites she'd performed.

"It's only my responsibility, no need to think my for it your majesty." she said.

Duty was her shield, her constant companion—born to a lineage of priestesses who'd served the Great Balance for centuries, she'd never had the luxury of choosing her path. Not that she'd ever complain; Isolde was the sort who'd rather bleed out than admit she felt the weight of her role.

Some might say it's because she secretly loved the power, the way her white robes made her untouchable, but that'd be too simple.

She honestly just didn't know how to be anything else.

Arkanos turned to leave, his cloak whispering against the ground, a dark ripple against the gray afternoon. He'd already dismissed her in his mind, no doubt—emperors don't linger for small talk with priestesses, even ones as vital as Isolde. But then her voice broke the silence, soft and hesitant, like a child testing the edge of a parent's patience.

"Your Majesty," she called, the words catching in her throat as though she'd half-hoped he wouldn't hear.

He paused, one brow arching as he glanced back, and she pressed on, her courage faltering but stubborn.

"A month ago, you promised to visit. To share some… divine wisdom with the priests and priestesses."

Her eyes flicked to the ground, then back up, a shy look in them.

"When might you be chanced to come?"

The shift in her was small but telling—the way her fingers tightened around her staff, the slight sway of her hips as she shifted her weight. She wasn't just asking about a visit; she was reaching, however tentatively, for something more... Something unholy.

Isolde, for all her poise, was a woman who'd spent her life cloistered in ritual and reverence, her only intimacies were shared with gods who never answered back.

Arkanos, with his aura of command and mystery, must've seemed like a flame to her moth-like soul. Pathetic, really, how even the holiest among us can't escape the pull of a well-placed promise.

And Arkanos saw it all. His eyes glinted mischievously.

He was no stranger to reading people—Every twitch, every glance, was a map to someone's desires, and Isolde's were laid bare before him now.

He smiled, slowly, the kind of smile that promised both salvation and ruin depending on how you looked at it.

"I'm free now," he said, voice low, almost playful. "I can come visit. Share that wisdom you're so eager for."

Was he mocking her? Probably.

Maybe this was how he showed that he liked her, in his own twisted way, or maybe he just enjoyed the game.

Either way, Isolde's fate was sealed the moment she'd called out to him—she'd invited the wolf into her cathedral, and he wasn't leaving without leaving his mark.

Poor thing didn't even know what she'd started.

A servant, unnoticed until now, lingered at the edge of the execution plaza, his drab tunic blending into the stone like a shadow too timid to claim its own space.

He'd caught the exchange between Arkanos and Isolde—every hesitant word, every glint in the emperor's eye—and something about it stirred him to motion.

The servant moved quickly through the dimly lit corridors of the imperial palace, the echo of his steps swallowed by the thick, embroidered rugs that lined the hallways. He had served long enough to know that knowledge was a currency far more valuable than gold in this court, and he carried a small fortune in his mind now.

Lady Sephira needed to hear this.

....

....

Inside her private chambers, high within the castle's western spire lit by the setting sun—and some candles, where Lady Sephira reclined on a cushioned chaise before a massive gilded mirror, her emerald-green eyes half-lidded as a maid carefully combed through the golden waves of her hair.

She was beautiful—she knew this, of course—but beauty alone was never enough to keep a seat at the Emperor's table.

Not when others were always waiting to steal his attention.

The maid worked methodically, her hands steady, though there was a nervous look in her eyes. Sephira was in a mood tonight, and moods often meant danger… or schemes at least.

A knock at the door.

Sephira exhaled, waving her fingers lazily. "Enter."

Her eyes tracked the servant's entrance with a touch of interest, though her expression remained calm—serene nobility at its finest.

The servant slipped inside, bowing low and he kept his gaze on the floor.

Sephira's kind didn't reward eye contact from the likes of him.

"My lady, the emperor—he's leaving with the High Priestess Isolde. To the temple, it seems. Said he'd share some… divine wisdom." The words stumbled out, clumsy but earnest.

Sephira did not react at first. But then her lips curved, a faint smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She then reached for a silver hairpin resting on the vanity, rolling it between her fingers as though the weight of it carried some hidden answer.

"The temple… How pious of him."

The servant, wisely, said nothing.

Then she leaned back against the chair, stretching out her arms like a lazy cat.

"If he's going to the church, then I want to be there to bring him back."

The maid, blinked and tilted her head. "Forgive me, My Lady, but… what would be the point of that? The Emperor is a man of many interests. If he wished to return, he would do so on his own."

Sephira's smile did not falter, but there was a sharpness to it now, like a dagger hidden beneath silk. She turned her gaze to the mirror, admiring her own reflection as though speaking to herself rather than anyone else in the room.

"A little bird told me the Empress is already with child." She sighed, a sound both wistful and bitter.

"I can't afford to be left behind. If I want my child to be the one who follows in his footsteps…" She paused, her fingers tightening around the hairpin,

"I must seize every chance I get to be with him. To make sure I am the one he looks to, not her."

The maid remained silent, understanding the meaning of Sephira's words.

Sephira's gaze softened, just a touch, as she looked into the mirror. For all the political games, all the manipulation, and all the power she so desperately craved, one truth remained.

She loved the Emperor—truly.