The Sovereign-V1: C28: Twin Stars

The Sovereign-V1: C28: Twin Stars

High in the shadowed galleries, where the obsidian walls met the ice carved ceiling depicting the mutilated heavens, a sliver of movement. Not a guard. A sliver of silver threaded blue fabric, the colour of a winter sky at dusk, withdrawn quickly behind a pillar. Lord Haruto Isamu. His face, usually composed, was pale, etched with a mixture of horror and dawning resolve as he witnessed the brutality below. He hadn't expected this. Beside him, almost invisible in the deeper gloom, a glint of dull, star pitted metal, a rusted vambrace. Sir Ryota "Polaris" Veyne. His jaw was clenched so tight the muscle stood out like stone. His hand rested on the pommel of his plain sword, knuckles white. He saw Kuro’s defiance, Shiro’s rage, Ryo’s cruelty. He saw the chains, the blood, the dissolving brand. He saw the constellation of scars on Kuro’s arm, still weeping stardust. And then, as Shiro lunged against his chains, tearing his sleeves, Ryota’s sharp eyes caught a glimpse of Shiro’s left forearm, exposed by the violent movement and the shredded fabric.
As Shiro strained against his chains, screaming obscenities, raw agony tearing through his wrists, the violent motion ripped the already tattered left sleeve of his tunic wide open. It wasn't just a tear; it was a gaping rent, exposing his forearm from elbow to wrist.
There, stark against the blood smeared, bruised skin, impossible to miss, was a constellation of scars.
Not random cuts. Not frostbite. Identical to the sigil Kuro had carved into his own arm moments before. Tiny, intricate, interlocking lines, glowing faintly but unmistakably with the same ember bright starlight. The pattern was undeniable: Shattered chains. Dissolving into minute motes of pure stardust that drifted upwards like inverse snowflakes before winking out. It pulsed in time with Shiro’s ragged breaths, and the furious thrum of the crystal embedded in his palm. It was a mirror to Kuro’s mark of defiance; a twin wound, a twin rejection, blazing in the obsidian gloom.
Gin, cradling the frozen crow, had been drinking in the cruelty with rapt fascination, his pendant pulsing erratically. He saw Shiro’s rage, the crystal’s pulse. He saw Kuro’s excised brand, the ember scar blazing. And then, Shiro’s arm. Exposed. Illuminated.
The sight struck Gin like a physical blow.
He jerked, a sharp, involuntary intake of breath hissing through his teeth. His skeletal fingers convulsed, crushing one of the crow’s brittle wings into glittering ice dust. His pupils dilated to voids, fixed unblinkingly on the two identical, starlit sigils, one on the renounced prince, one on the gutter rat. His lips, thin and bloodless, parted silently.
The prophecy, dredged from the frozen archives, the words delivered by the now destroyed crow, echoed deafeningly in his mind:
"When twin stars bleed..."
Here they were. The Twin Stars. Not metaphorical. Not celestial. Flesh and blood. Bleeding onto the obsidian floor of the King’s own throne room. One bleeding from self liberation, the other from chains and rage. Bleeding. Gin didn’t need the rest of the verse. The sight was confirmation, terrifying and exhilarating. The frost didn’t just remember; it had guided. It had delivered its heralds, marked by their shared defiance, scarred by their shared pain, directly into the heart of the King’s power. Akuma’s cruelty, Ryo’s malice, they weren’t just punishing rebels; they were fulfilling an ancient, frozen destiny right before Gin’s eyes. He remained utterly still, a statue of ice except for the frantic pulse in his throat and the chilling certainty solidifying in his fanatical heart: The Sovereign stirs. Its vessels are here.
The throne room hung suspended. Ryo’s sneer of triumph faltered slightly as he registered the sudden intensity in Gin’s frozen posture, the way the priest stared not at him, but at the two broken figures on the floor. Akuma’s predatory focus shifted minutely, sensing a shift in the unseen currents. Kuro, gasping through agony on the blood slick floor, saw the blazing sigil on Shiro’s exposed arm through his one good eye. A flicker of stunned recognition cut through his pain. Shiro, panting, wrists screaming, felt the crystal pulse resonate with the light from his own scar and saw its twin blazing on Kuro’s arm. Twin stars… The phrase whispered from some deep, forgotten corner of Aki’s teachings.
The air crackled, no longer just with pain and hatred, but with the terrifying, palpable weight of prophecy unfolding. The King’s pronouncement of their end rang hollow against the silent scream of destiny written in twin, bleeding constellations of shattered chains. The reckoning promised to be written not just in ice, but in the blinding, unforged light of stars long awaited.
Then the world exploded.
Not with fire, but with feathers, fury, and fractured light.
The towering, reinforced obsidian doors, symbols of Ryo’s impregnable power, didn’t just burst open. They shattered inwards with the force of a glacial calving. Not from battering rams, but from a living hurricane of crows. Hundreds. Thousands. A seething, shrieking maelstrom of ink black bodies, their wings beating a thunderous cacophony that drowned out all other sound. But it was their eyes that froze the blood, prismatic voids, blazing with impossible colours: emerald, sapphire, amethyst, crimson, swirling like captured nebulae. They didn’t just fly; they attacked. A coordinated swarm of vengeance. They dive bombed the stunned Temple guards, razor sharp talons slashing at exposed faces, hands, eyes. The air filled with screams, human this time; and the wet thunk of talons finding flesh, the rip of silk and leather, the metallic clang of dropped weapons. Guards stumbled, blinded, flailing uselessly at the feathered onslaught that moved with terrifying, unnatural synchronicity. The reek of bird shit, ozone, and fresh blood layered over the throne room’s existing stench of decay and fear.
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Through the swirling vortex of black wings and prismatic fury, a figure emerged. Not charging but striding with lethal purpose through the chaos. Cloaked in tattered rags patched with shimmering, stardust infused cloth that seemed to drink the ambient light, their face hidden deep within a voluminous hood. In each hand, they hurled fist sized clay orbs that shattered at the feet of the remaining coherent guards.
WHUMPH! WHUMPH! WHUMPH!
Acrid, choking fog, thick and white as a blizzard, erupted. It reeked of burnt peppers, sulphur, and spoiled milk, clawing at throats, stinging eyes, reducing visibility to arm’s length. The throne room descended into utter pandemonium, guards choking and disoriented, crows shrieking and slashing in the fog, Ryo bellowing incoherent orders lost in the din, Akuma snarling as he batted crows away from his face.
"MOVE! NOW!"
The roar cut through the chaos like a war horn. Not from the cloaked figure, but from beside them. Sir Ryota "Polaris" Veyne. He was an avalanche given human form. His once gleaming star forged armour was gone, replaced by scarred leather and a rusted breastplate bearing the faded, scratched outline of the Polaris sigil. But his eyes… his eyes were supernovae. His irises weren't just blue; they were the heart of the Polaris constellation itself, starburst pupils radiating intricate patterns of white gold light that fractured and reformed like living galaxies, casting shifting, miniature constellations onto the acrid smoke around him. He held not a knightly lance, but a heavy, notched executioner’s axe, its blade dark with old blood and fresh crow feathers.
He didn’t head for the throne. He charged straight towards the dais, towards Shiro and Kuro. The axe became a whirlwind of brutal efficiency. A guard lunged from the smoke; Ryota didn’t parry, he smashed. The axe head connected with the man’s helmeted head with a sickening CRUNCH SPLATTER, dropping him like a sack of meat. Another swung a halberd; Ryota ducked under the blow, coming up inside the guard’s reach, driving the axe’s spike into his throat with a wet gurgle. He moved with the terrifying economy of a man who’d fought in the frozen hells of the Northern Wars, every step crushing bone, every swing ending a life. The crows seemed to part for him, a feathered honour guard for the disgraced knight.
Beside Ryota, a flash of silver and deadly grace. Lord Haruto Isamu. His fine silver threaded blue tunic was smudged with soot, his aristocratic composure replaced by fierce, focused intensity. His own eyes, usually sharp and calculating, now blazed with pupils burning with righteous fury, not fanaticism. He wielded a narrow, wickedly sharp duelling blade, its edge glinting like captured starlight. While Ryota carved a path with brute force, Haruto was precision incarnate. A guard stumbled out of the smoke, coughing; Haruto’s blade flickered, a silver streak, and the man’s sword hand, still clutching its weapon, tumbled to the floor before he could scream. Another turned, raising a shield; Haruto darted low, his blade finding the gap at the knee, severing tendons with a slick sound, dropping the man shrieking. He moved like quicksilver, a dancer of death amidst Ryota’s thunder.
Haruto reached Shiro first. He didn’t speak. His eyes met Shiro’s comet blaze for a fraction of a second, an unspoken understanding passing between the noble and the slum rat. His blade, humming with barely contained energy, flashed twice. Not at the manacles’ locks, but at the chains themselves, near the anchors bolted to the floor. Star metal met star metal with a shriek of protesting reality and a shower of white sparks. The chains fell away. The relief of pressure on Shiro’s shredded wrists was instantly replaced by fresh, agonizing fire as blood rushed back. He staggered, catching himself on his knees.
“Who the fu…” Shiro began, voice raw, clutching his bleeding wrists, the starlight scar on his forearm pulsing in time with his pounding heart.
“NO TIME!” Haruto barked; the endearment laced with desperate urgency. He hauled Shiro upright with surprising strength. His pupils darted towards the obscured throne, where Ryo’s enraged bellows competed with Akuma’s snarling commands. “The King’s Shadow Hounds are coming! The real ones! Not frost phantoms, teeth and talons bred in the Black Vaults! MOVE!”
He shoved Shiro towards Ryota, who had reached Kuro. The big knight didn’t bother with finesse. He dropped the axe, hooked his massive arms under Kuro’s shoulders, and hauled the groaning prince upright with a grunt. Kuro’s face was a mask of agony, blood streaming from his jaw and ribs, but his single eye burned with feral awareness. He clutched his own starlit scar, the ember bright chains pulsing defiantly.
“Can you stand, princeling?” Ryota growled, his Polaris eyes scanning the swirling smoke and chaos.
Kuro spat a mouthful of blood, his voice a wrecked rasp. “Just… point me… at something… to kill…”
A section of smoke near the shattered doorway coalesced. Akuma emerged, frost swirling violently around him like a protective blizzard, his star pupiled eyes burning with cold fury. Several crows lay dead or dying at his feet, frozen solid mid attack. He raised a hand crackling with hoarfrost, aiming towards Ryota and the wounded Kuro.
Shiro saw it. Rage, white hot and purifying, surged through his pain. He stumbled forward, not away, but towards the threat. He had no weapon, only his bleeding hands and the crystal pulsing like a trapped star in his palm.
Kuro saw it too. With a guttural snarl ripped from the depths of his broken body, he shoved against Ryota’s supporting arm, finding a surge of adrenaline fuelled fury. His free hand dipped into his boot, a hidden sheath Ryota hadn't found. He came up clutching not a noble dagger, but a jagged shard of black ice, identical to the one he’d used on his brand, still slick with his own blood. He didn’t throw it. He lunged, a wounded panther striking, driving the freezing shard deep into Akuma’s thigh, just above the knee joint, with every ounce of his remaining strength.
SCHLLLK!
The sound was wet, brutal. The ice shard sank deep. Akuma roared, not in pain, but in pure, incandescent rage. Frost exploded outwards from the wound, crackling over Kuro’s hand, but Kuro held on, twisting the shard, his face inches from Akuma’s contorted features.
“Tell your rotting master,” Kuro spat, blood and defiance mingling on his lips, his voice a guttural rasp amplified by hatred, “this isn’t over. We’re just… fucking… getting started.”
He wrenched the shard free, tearing flesh and spraying dark, almost black blood that froze instantly into crimson icicles on the floor. Akuma staggered back, a snarl of pure venom twisting his face, frost surging to seal the wound even as he raised a hand crackling with killing cold.
“NOW!”
Ryota bellowed, grabbing Kuro and bodily hauling him back. Haruto seized Shiro’s arm. The cloaked figure by the door whistled, a sharp, piercing sound that cut through the crow shrieks. The swarm reacted instantly, surging towards Akuma and the recovering guards, a living wall of feathers, talons, and prismatic fury, buying precious seconds.

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V1: C28: Twin Stars