The citadel burned.

  Queen Anika stood by the narrow passage, her fingers trembling as she adjusted the thick cloak wrapped around her son. The boy stirred in the arms of her most trusted handmaiden, unaware of the carnage echoing through the halls above. The scent of blood and fire mingled in the air, the sharp clang of steel against steel growing closer.

  She turned her gaze to the babe—her legacy. His breath was steady, his tiny fingers curled into a loose fist. He was everything Kshira had hoped for, a child of rare soul-bound potential. His soul capacity was immense, a gift that promised an age of strength for their people. Yet none of that mattered now. Kshira was dying, and its heir would be smuggled away—not to a hidden refuge, but to the heart of the enemy’s empire.

  A bitter smile curled her lips. They would never think to look for him there.

  A soft growl rumbled beside her, deep and regal. Vayrash, the great white tiger of her lineage, shimmered into existence, golden bands of ethereal light forming his massive body as he emerged from the soul-bound markings along her arm. His piercing amber eyes met hers, filled with silent understanding.

  “Take him,” she whispered, brushing a final kiss against her son’s forehead. “And do not look back.”

  The handmaiden, eyes brimming with sorrow, bowed her head. Nestled against her chest, the prince slept peacefully, but he was not the only one she carried. At her side, wrapped in silken cloth, lay a small tiger cub—the last of the great tigers’ bloodline, a lineage as old as Kshira itself. Even in its infancy, its presence pulsed with power.

  They vanished into the concealed tunnel, shadows swallowing them whole.

  Anika exhaled, steadying herself before turning toward the throne room. The heavy oak doors trembled as the clash of battle neared.

  The Naga Lords had betrayed her.

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  For centuries, the vassal lords of the southern highlands had sworn loyalty to the royal bloodline. They had feasted in her halls, sworn oaths of fealty before her throne. But while Anika had been focused on securing Kshira’s borders against foreign threats, the Naga Lords had already let the enemy in.

  They had been falsifying reports for months—claiming no enemy fleets had been sighted, assuring her that the Western Empire’s forces had been contained beyond the mountains. Lies.

  In truth, the Naga Lords had been allowing the Westerners to sail into their ports, to marshal their forces in the dense jungles of their territory, all while bolstering their own armies. When the time came, they struck as one—opening the city gates to the enemy while setting fire to Kshira’s outer defenses from within.

  Most of the kingdom’s greatest allies such as—the Gajapati Lords of the elephant legions and the Mahinash Lords of the armored rhinos—were too far to help, stationed near the distant borders to counter a threat that had never existed. They had been played for fools, and now, the capital was defenseless.

  Anika’s breath hitched as she thought of Rudravan—her son’s father, the Captain of the Royal Guard. If the enemy had reached this far into the palace, then he was surely dead. Slain in the blood-soaked corridors or cut down while making his last stand at the gates.

  A deafening crash sounded as the throne room doors were forced open.

  Anika turned, her silk gown gliding over the bloodstained marble. The first of the enemy knights stepped through, his armor slick with the remnants of her people. Behind him, more poured in—black-plated warriors bearing the sigil of the Western Empire.

  At the center of them stood a man she once called brother.

  Lord Virathya. Once a sworn protector of the crown. Now, a traitor.

  He removed his helmet, revealing a face carved from stone, eyes cold as winter. A black serpent coiled around his arm, its scales shifting as its forked tongue flickered in the smoky air. With a pulse of dark energy, it expanded, unraveling into a massive king cobra, its hood flaring as it hissed at Vayrash.

  Anika’s tiger bared his fangs, stepping forward, a phantom of regal might. The two soul-bound creatures faced each other, the throne room crackling with tension.

  Virathya’s lips curled into a smirk. “Your Majesty,” he said, voice laced with mock reverence. “It is over.”

  Anika straightened, regal even in the face of death.

  “No,” she said, voice calm. “This is only the beginning.”

  And with that, she reached for the dagger at her waist.

  The end of Kshira had come.

  But its heir would live.