"I am deeply sorry, Your Majesty."
The girl bowed low, her forehead nearly brushing the marble floor. Her voice shook despite her effort to steady it, fingers clutching the leather strap of her packed belongings as though it were a lifeline.
"I cannot keep pace with him any longer. His moods change without warning. ..One moment distant, the next unbearably cold. I hold the Kingdom of Eidralis in the highest respect, but I will not sentence myself to a future hollowed by fear and silence."
The rustle of her skirts was the only sound as she straightened, bowed once more, and left the chamber without looking back.
The doors closed with a dull, echoing thud.
"The sixth," the queen whispered.
She sat upon the high-backed throne of ivory and gold, candlelight catching in her hair, which fell in soft waves of pale blonde like spun sunlight.
Her golden eyes, sharp and weary in equal measure, fixed upon the empty space where the girl had stood moments before. Fine lines creased her brow as she pressed her fingers to her temple, the weight of the crown suddenly unbearable.
"How is he meant to reclaim the throne," she sighed, "when he remains as stubborn as a mule and twice as unreachable?"
Silk rustled as she shifted, the sound small against the vastness of the hall. Anxiety clung to her like a second cloak.
"Elodie."
The princess turned.
Silver hair cascaded down her back, smooth and cold as moonlight on steel. Her posture was flawless, her presence unnervingly still. Golden eyes, identical in color to the queen's yet far sharper, gleamed beneath lowered lashes.
There was something in that gaze that made courtiers avert their eyes, as though she were capable of seeing not just lies, but the bones beneath them.
"Yes, Mother?" Elodie replied, her voice calm and precise.
"Ensure the girl does not speak of what she witnessed within these palace walls," the queen said quietly. "Your brother has grown unstable. We cannot afford whispers."
Elodie inclined her head in a perfect bow, her expression serene.
"We will need a new fiancée," the queen continued, her voice tightening with resolve. "This pattern cannot continue."
A long pause settled between them, thick and unspoken.
"The throne must be taken soon."
Elodie's lips curved, just barely. Not a smile, but something colder.
"As you wish," she said.
The walls of the palace gleamed in gold and white splendor, polished to perfection, radiant enough to blind. Yet beneath the brilliance lingered a suffocating heaviness, as though the stone itself carried unspoken dread. Maids whispered as they hurried through the corridors, voices slipping between marble pillars like nervous prayers.
Everyone felt it. Something was about to break.
Then it did.
A violent crash thundered from the Crown Prince's chambers, shattering the fragile hush.
The sound rippled through the halls, silencing every whisper at once.
"You cannot keep doing this, Nikolai," the queen said as she stepped inside, her voice firm but strained.
Shattered glass glittered across the floor like fallen stars. Curtains swayed. Furniture lay overturned, bearing the marks of raw mana carved into wood and stone.
"How do you expect to ascend the throne?" she demanded. "How will you rule like this?"
The young man stood rigid at the center of the room.
Silver hair fell in wild disarray around his face, as though he had torn through his own restraint. His dark blue eyes burned with something far more dangerous than anger. There was death in them. Slaughter. A cold promise of violence barely restrained.
With a single glance, he fixed the queen in place.
"You worry about the throne," he said quietly, his voice edged with venom, "more than you worry about your own son."
The words struck harder than any blow.
Before she could answer, he seized his coat, the fabric crackling faintly as mana surged around him.
The air grew heavy, unstable, trembling as if recoiling from his presence.
"Where are you going?" the queen called after him.
He paused at the doorway, his back to her.
"To war at the coast," Nikolai replied. "That is the only use you have ever had for me, is it not? A path to reclaiming the throne. A weapon forged for slaughter."
Then he was gone.
The door slammed shut with a resounding thud. Heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor, each one accompanied by a violent fluctuation of mana that made the walls tremble. Candles flickered. Servants froze in place.
The palace exhaled, slow and fearful.
And the crown prince vanished into the night, carrying war in his wake
…
Aster woke with a quiet sigh.
The bed beside him was empty. Eloise had already gone to the bakery, chasing the warmth of morning and the promise of bread. Rowan was away as well, off to the public school in Eladric to learn his letters, his numbers, and the shape of a future Aster was trying to protect.
The house felt smaller without them.
He dressed quickly, pulling on clothes meant to endure blood, dirt, and cold nights. Sturdy fabric. Reinforced seams. He strapped his dagger at his side, familiar and balanced, then slung his satchel across his shoulder before stepping into the street.
The guild hall buzzed with noise when he arrived. He scanned the mission board, eyes narrowing. Every notice worth taking required a full party. Bandit suppression. Forest clearance. Orc activity near the eastern woods.
Aster tore one down anyway.
At the registry, the clerk barely looked up as he signed his name. Solo dispatch was discouraged.
He did not care.
By the time he reached the forest, he wore a hood and mask, his presence swallowed by shadow. The air smelled of damp leaves and smoke.
The orcs came into view soon after.
They were massive, each nearly seven feet tall, bodies thick with muscle and scarred hide. Torches burned in their hands, crude clubs slung over their shoulders.
Their yellowed eyes shone with hunger as they rummaged through stolen human belongings scattered across the forest floor. Broken crates. Torn sacks. Blood-stained cloth.
Seven of them.
One stood taller than the rest, broader, clad in heavier armor fashioned from bone and rusted iron.
The leader.
Aster exhaled slowly.
With a sudden burst of motion, he lunged.
His dagger flashed as he closed the distance, slashing clean across the giant orc's throat. Blood sprayed hot and dark as the creature gurgled and collapsed, shaking the earth as it fell.
The others roared in fury.
They charged.
Aster sprinted toward the trees, boots striking bark as he vaulted upward. Using the height, he swung down, driving a kick into one orc's face before landing and plunging his dagger twice into another's chest. The blade sank deep. The orc fell without a sound.
His breath came hard.
A massive hand seized his hood and lifted him from the ground, fingers crushing fabric and flesh alike. The orc snarled, preparing to hurl him aside.
Aster reacted instantly.
He locked his legs around the creature's arm and twisted with everything he had. Bone cracked. The orc howled.
Using the momentum, Aster swung upward and slammed his fist into its face, striking its tusk and forcing its head sideways. He climbed the creature's body like a shadow, shifting his weight just enough to drive it forward.
The wounded orc stumbled.
Straight into one of its own.
The collision was brutal. Bodies crashed together in snarls, blood, and broken limbs.
Aster landed lightly, dagger raised, eyes sharp and unblinking.
Two orcs tore themselves free from the pile, rage burning brighter than pain. One swung its club wildly, splintering a tree trunk where Aster had stood a heartbeat before.
"Wow," Aster muttered, ducking under the next strike. "No finesse. Do you all train by screaming and hoping for the best?"
He darted forward, slashing across the orc's thigh. The creature bellowed and staggered.
"Yep. Thought so."
The second orc charged, mouth foaming, tusks lowered. Aster vaulted onto a fallen log, kicked off, and flipped over its head.
"Missed me," he said lightly, driving his dagger down between its shoulder blades as he landed. "Try aiming next time."
The orc collapsed face-first into the dirt.
Only three remained, circling him warily. Their hunger had shifted into something uglier.
Fear.
Aster rolled his shoulders, breath steadying, dagger slick with blood.
"What's wrong?" he asked, tilting his head. "I thought there were seven of you. Did the rest decide this job wasn't worth the dental bills?"
One lunged.
Aster caught its wrist, twisted, and drove his elbow into its throat. As it choked, he leaned in close.
"Personal space," he advised, then slit its throat and let it fall.
Another rushed him from behind.
Bad idea.
He spun, kicked the back of its knee until it buckled, then rammed the dagger into its skull with a sharp, practiced thrust.
Silence fell.
Aster exhaled slowly, wiping his blade on the orc's rough hide. "See? Much quieter already."
Then the ground trembled.
A wet, furious growl rose behind him.
Aster turned.
The leader stood again.
Blood poured from its neck, black and steaming, yet the massive orc refused to fall. Mana pulsed around it in violent waves, thick and oppressive, warping the air. Its eyes burned with feral intelligence now, not just hunger.
"Oh," Aster said softly. "You're one of those."
The leader roared and charged, uprooting a tree and swinging it like a weapon.
Aster barely dodged as the trunk smashed into the earth, spraying dirt and splinters.
"Overcompensating," Aster called as he sprinted forward. "It's alright. Happens to everyone."
The orc swung again.
Aster slid beneath the blow, slashing at its calf. The blade barely bit.
"Tough skin," he muttered. "Rude."
The leader backhanded him across the clearing. Aster hit the ground hard, air knocked from his lungs. Pain flared, sharp and bright.
He laughed anyway, breathless.
"Alright," he said, pushing himself up. "You're officially annoying."
The orc charged once more.
This time, Aster ran toward it.
At the last second, he leapt, planting a foot against the orc's chest and climbing upward, using its own momentum.
He drove the dagger into the wound at its neck again, deeper, twisting the blade as mana screamed around them.
"Should've stayed down," Aster whispered
.
The leader howled, stumbling, swinging blindly. Aster ripped the dagger free and flipped off its back, landing hard but upright.
The orc took two steps.
Then its legs gave out.
It collapsed face-first into the forest floor, the earth shuddering as its massive body finally went still.
Aster stood there for a moment, chest rising and falling, then nudged the corpse with his boot.
"…Yeah," he said. "Next time bring friends."
...
Waves battered the blackened cliffs in relentless fury, crashing against stone as storm clouds coiled low above the sea. War banners snapped violently in the wind, their sigils soaked in salt and rain. Soldiers lined the shoreline in rigid formation, armor trembling as mana pressure thickened the air until breathing felt like drowning.
At the front stood Nikolai.
Silver hair whipped around his face, rain slicking it to his skin. His dark blue eyes were cold, empty of hesitation, fixed on the enemy fleet advancing through the fog. Dozens of ships cut through the water, siege weapons primed, mages already weaving spells in preparation.
Nikolai raised one hand.
The storm froze
Mana erupted outward, not in waves, but in force. It crushed down on the battlefield, forcing soldiers and enemies alike to their knees. The sea stilled, as if seized by the throat.
His voice carried.
Not a chant. Not a song.
A command.
"Bind."
Thunder detonated across the sky.
Chains burst from the ground and the air itself, forged from condensed mana and crackling lightning. They tore forward with violent precision, wrapping around masts, snapping through decks, coiling around men mid-scream. Electricity surged through the links, turning the ocean beneath into a writhing grave.
Nikolai stepped forward.
"Drag them down."
The chains tightened.
Ships groaned as their hulls split apart. Wood screamed. Iron bent. Men were ripped from their footing and hurled into the sea, where lightning followed them like judgment.
Enemy mages screamed incantations, raising barriers of light and sigils in desperate resistance.
Nikolai turned his gaze on them.
"Break."
The chains obeyed.
They speared through the barriers as if they were paper, wrapping around the mages and yanking them forward. Bodies struck the cliffs below with wet finality.
Rain poured harder, soaking his coat, streaking down his face. He did not wipe it away.
The final ship turned to flee.
Nikolai raised both hands.
"End it."
The chains surged as one, coiling around the vessel from keel to mast. Lightning flared blinding white as he clenched his fists.
The ship imploded.
Silence followed.
Only rain remained, tapping softly against wreckage and corpses scattered across the shore.
Nikolai lowered his hands. Mana still hung thick in the air, heavy and suffocating, refusing to dissipate. Soldiers stared at him in stunned terror, unsure whether they had been saved or sentenced.
He did not look back at them.
"You wanted a weapon," he said coldly, voice carrying over the wind. "You have one."
Thunder rumbled low above, not as a response, but as acknowledgement.
And far away, beneath gilded ceilings and quiet forests, the kingdom shifted uneasily.
Because the crown prince did not sing the world into ruin.
He ordered it to kneel.
The rain thickened.
Nikolai stood amid the wreckage, chains still embedded in shattered decks and broken stone. The battlefield lay silent except for the sea dragging bodies back and forth like refuse. Mana clung to the air, heavy and unstable, vibrating beneath the skin.
Then something inside him snapped.
His breath hitched once.
Twice.
And then the world tore open.
Lightning detonated outward from his body in a blinding explosion, thunder crashing so violently it shattered the cliffs.
The sky screamed as white-blue light consumed the shoreline, vaporizing water, stone, and steel alike. Soldiers were thrown backward like ragdolls, armor ripping from their bodies as the shockwave ripped across the coast.
The sea erupted.
A wall of electrified water surged upward, boiling as lightning chained through it again and again, turning the shoreline into a storm-forged grave. The ground split beneath Nikolai's feet, fissures glowing with raw mana as thunder slammed down in relentless succession.
Chains went wild.
No longer precise. No longer controlled.
They lashed in every direction, tearing through wreckage, crushing bodies, wrapping around cliffs and snapping them apart. Each strike landed with the sound of judgment being passed and revoked in the same breath.
Lightning wrapped around him like a crown, his silver hair lifting as if caught in an unseen current. His eyes burned brighter than the storm itself, pupils blown wide, reflection of ruin staring back from within.
The thunder did not follow him.
It answered him.
Another explosion ripped outward, brighter than before. Ships still afloat were erased in an instant, reduced to splinters and steam. The shockwave flattened everything within its reach, leaving scorched earth and smoking water behind.
When the storm finally broke, it did so slowly.
Rain fell again.
Silence crept back in, broken only by the distant roll of retreating thunder.
Nikolai stood alone at the center of the devastation, boots sunk into cracked stone, breath ragged, mana still crackling across his skin like embers that refused to die.
There were no enemies left.
No battlefield.
Only ruin.
Far away, something ancient stirred.
And in the heart of the kingdom, whether they knew it yet or not, the throne had just become a liability.