It was a new day.
Cold air followed me through the halls of the castle as I drew my long black cloak over my shoulders, the weight of it settling across my back like something remembered rather than worn.
My hair trailed behind me as I moved, stirred by drafts that carried the scent of stone and ash and old smoke.
Each step echoed sharply, too loud in corridors built to remind men of how small they were.
I walked quickly, not quite running, not quite measured, my pace enough to startle servants and guards alike as I passed.
I did not slow. I did not acknowledge them. I kept my gaze lowered, not out of fear, but because I was not yet ready to be seen as what I intended to become.
A prince was meant to move as though the world arranged itself around him.
I still felt the edges.
Mirabel had noticed the change immediately.
She always did. Not the words, not the plans, but the way my silences had shifted, the way my attention no longer drifted as easily into nothing.
That alone convinced me not to rush headlong into proclamations or banners or councils heavy with expectation.
I would not announce myself into failure. I would ease into the shape of a ruler rather than force it onto a body still learning how to move again.
Small steps. Measured steps.
Once, patience had been an excuse. Now it was a discipline.
The first step was the throne room.
Black brick walls lined the passage, their surfaces cold beneath my fingertips as I passed.
Portraits of my ancestors watched from gilded frames, eyes stern and unyielding, expressions carved into permanence by artists who had never been brave enough to paint doubt.
They looked expectant.
Stone statues and polished vases stood beside long white carpets, untouched by time, while the faint scent of burning wood drifted upward from furnaces buried deep within the castle's bones.
It took longer than it should have to find the great doors.
I had taken a wrong turn again.
The illness muddled my sense of direction when I was not careful, corridors blurring together until intention mattered more than memory.
I laughed under my breath when I realized it, thin and quiet.
Of course I was lost. I had always been good at arriving late to the places that mattered.
Eventually, the corridor opened, and I stood before the massive brown doors. Their handles were shaped like lion maws, jaws parted in silent challenge.
My hands trembled as I grasped them.
I pulled without mercy.
The moment the doors parted, pressure crashed into me.
It was not wind, not force, but something denser, older, a weight that sank straight into bone and marrow.
Authority pressed down with grief braided through it, grief sharpened by expectation, expectation sharpened by death.
My father had left this behind.
A test, or perhaps a sentence.
I dropped to my knees, coughing violently as the air fled my lungs. Pain tore through my chest, my body rejecting the space as though it knew it had no right to be here.
I had never entered this room before. Not as a child. Not after my parents died.
I had avoided it instinctively, the way one avoids places where hesitation becomes visible.
Now, for the first time, I saw it whole.
The hall stretched vast and gothic beyond me, pillars rising into shadow, gold coated statues bearing the ceiling with silent endurance.
At the far end stood two thrones, one black and carved with rising roses, the other white and untouched, a symmetry too deliberate to be kind.
My father's rune magic saturated the space. It was not carved into the room. It had forced the room to become something else.
I coughed again. Blood struck the polished black marble, bright and obscene.
Each breath scraped raw through my throat.
The illness gnawed at me, constant and intimate, a reminder that weakness still lived in my ribs, not as an intruder, but as a resident.
I pressed my right hand to my chest and drew inward.
Magicae was not magic as stories framed it. It was not flame or spell or light.
It was the breath beneath existence itself, the possibility that preceded form, the quiet agreement that something could change if will was applied with enough intent.
All things possessed it.
Very few listened.
I guided it into my chest, carving runes along my heart with the ancient tongue my father had once forced me to learn.
Each symbol burned as it formed, pain flaring before dulling as the structure took hold.
In my previous life, this sickness had been a slow execution.
Only near the end had I understood the truth.
The counter was not rest. Not acceptance. Not comfort.
It was growth.
I laughed softly at that, breathless and bitter. Such a simple answer, ignored for years because wanting effort had always felt optional.
I stood and moved forward.
"Father," I said, my voice echoing thinly through the hall, "must you have left without guiding me. You were always cruel like that."
A quiet laugh escaped me, wrong in the space, and I spread my magicae outward.
Invisible runes ignited into view, filling the air like hidden constellations, layers of dormant authority woven into the architecture itself. I released everything I had.
Then I inhaled.
The runes surged into me like polluted water, seeping into vein and marrow, warping, twisting, condensing into something heavy and sharp. My vision burned. Blood streamed down my cheeks.
My voice tore itself free, harsh and violent, dragged from my throat against my will.
"The world is now mine."
I laughed immediately after, sharp and breathless, as though the sound might sever the words from me.
[A man so arrogant, so disgusting, that he would steal the power his father left behind.]
I flinched, coughing as the voice echoed inside my skull. The air stilled. Even time seemed reluctant to move while it spoke.
This was not the voice of the world.
This was something else.
The intrusion unsettled me, but not enough to stop. Perhaps madness softened the fear. Perhaps grief had created something to occupy the silence my parents left behind.
Either way, I ignored it.
The rune magic steadied my body enough to stand.
I had two weeks before I declared war.
Today was January second. I intended to end it by March.
I staggered back and collapsed into the black throne veiled in carved roses.
[Nicholas was a foolish man, with ambition beyond his grasp.]
I laughed softly, staring at my trembling hands. I clenched them, forcing strength into fingers that still wanted to fail.
That was when I noticed it.
The Mark of Sloth was gone.
I stared, disbelief giving way to something lighter, unfamiliar. Had it been erased. Had something judged me worth changing.
I laughed again, louder this time, unsure whether it was relief or mockery.
I pulled my sleeves down and left the throne room.
The next step was simple.
I needed to see what my body could truly do.
I took a detour toward the open yard.
The sky was clear, blue and indifferent. Clouds drifted lazily overhead. The ground was churned and filthy, dirt mixed with blood, sweat, and the residue of failed ambition.
Weapon racks lined the edges. Young recruits trained poorly, forms uneven and desperate.
And then I saw him.
Sansir.
A man who had died for me once.
A sacrifice rendered meaningless by my return.
He stood among the recruits, posture relaxed yet precise, reddish brown hair cut short. Sunlight framed him rather than softened him.
Every movement was deliberate, earned through discipline rather than birth.
When he turned and met my gaze, the yard stilled.
He bowed. Every soldier followed.
"I greet the darkness which shall prevail over light, Nicholas Anstalionah."
I exhaled slowly, a quiet laugh slipping out before I could stop it.
"Continue," I said. "I only wish to speak to Sansir."
Orders barked. Training resumed.
Sansir guided me beneath the balcony's shade. The warmth drained from his expression as shadow crossed his face, resolve sharpening into something iron.
"What is it you have called me for," he asked calmly.
I smiled faintly. "War is coming. Mirabel is overwhelming."
He did not react.
"You are going to train me, just for a little while." I clarified.
Silence stretched. Then his eyes widened.
"Do not worry," I added softly. "It is only Fertical."
I laughed once more, thin and certain. "And we have to win."