Inside Theosis' house, the silence was deceiving.
Theosis himself lay hidden beneath his bed, breath shallow, too frightened to move. Fortune had spared his home for now—one of the few yet untouched by the inferno that consumed Kintol.
The door creaked open.
Gavurn stepped inside, carrying the broken body of Valerius in his arms. Blood stained of his burnt clothes, his limbs limp, his breathing ragged. Behind them, Mathen leaned heavily against Gavurn for support, his face twitching with triumph and madness.
Valerius, barely conscious, whispered in his thoughts: "Why didn't you tell me there was more?"
Yelleen's voice answered in his mind, calm and unapologetic. "Because I refused to give them the satisfaction."
Valerius coughed blood, eyes flicking across the room. "Where is it?"
Yelleen replied, "There—between the cracks in the floorboards."
With tremendous effort, Valerius dragged himself toward the edge of the room, his fingers scraping at the wood. He pried open the loosened boards, revealing a single glowing shard of crystal—the last remnant.
He took it and extended his hand.
Mathen seized the crystal, eyes wide. For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he laughed. A horrible, dry, rasping laugh. He clutched the shard tightly in his palm and leaned closer to Valerius, who stared back, unwavering.
"Where are the rest?" Mathen asked.
Valerius met his gaze. "That's the last one."
Mathen turned to Gavurn. "Take me closer."
The knight bent down, letting Mathen face Valerius directly. The mad noble's face hovered inches from Valerius's own, a grin spreading like a disease.
"I hope you're lying," Mathen said, voice barely above a whisper. "I truly do."
He stood up, gesturing with a flick of his hand. "Capture everyone."
Valerius tried to rise, but Gavurn's blade met him instantly—a hair's breadth from his eye.
Mathen smirked. "Did you forget? I have your people. Resist, and they die."
And just like that, it was done.
Kintol fell.
The remaining Weston mages conjured carts from bark and branch—twisted prisons of living wood. The captured villagers, shackled and silent, were locked in caged wagons drawn by snorting Auses. The beasts galloped tirelessly, their pace unrelenting.
Valerius lay half-conscious inside the lead cart, his body shattered, barely able to breathe. In that same cart rode Gavurn, ever watchful; Mathen, twitching and restless; Grace and her mother Anna, locked in a quiet, mourning embrace; and one observing mage.
The mage glanced at Gavurn. "Why not put him in another cart?"
Gavurn replied, eyes fixed on Valerius, "I need to watch this one."
He nodded at Grace and Anna. "And they are incentives."
He crossed his arms, brow furrowed. Where the hell did he come from... to wield such strength?
Mathen sat in the corner, hunched like a starved wolf, eyes darting with addiction. He muttered to himself, twitching occasionally. The crystal had not been enough.
Anna whispered gently into Grace's ear as the girl wept quietly. She had lost her father. Her home. Her childhood.
Gavurn glanced at Valerius again.
To stand against an Enhancer with nothing but raw strength... he thought. If he joins our ranks, we will spare his life.
---
Three days later, the gates of Grekon groaned open.
Carts rolled into the capital under gray skies, the banners of Weston flapping as townsfolk gathered to watch the battered procession. Whispered rumors had already spread—about a village razed, a boy who fought like a mad man, and a knight brought low.
Gavurn stepped down from his mount first, armor glinting, voice cold:
"Lock them all up."
At once, guards yanked open the carts.
The villagers of Kintol, ragged, bruised, and hopeless, were dragged out one by one. Some wept. Others were silent.
Valerius, unconscious, his face bruised and body limp, was lifted by a knight and carried like cargo. His wrists and ankles were shackled in heavy mana-resistant chains. They tossed him into a cell and slammed the gate.
Grace screamed, "Let him go!"
Her mother clutched her tightly as they too were forced into a neighbouring cell.
---
Elsewhere, in the inner sanctum of the Mage Templars—
A chamber of stone and fire, where refined mana was normally prepared with precise, sacred methods.
Mathen stormed in, cradling the final Vitalis crystal like a relic.
"I want this refined. Now."
The chief Templar, a bald, elderly man with glowing ink across his arms, stepped forward, hesitant. "My Lord… this is not like ordinary mana crystal. It pulses—it's unstable."
"I don't care," Mathen snapped. "You will refine it. You will give me back what I lost."
The mages huddled, murmuring among themselves. Then they began the ritual.
They placed the crystal on a floating pedestal. Incantations echoed. Glyphs glowed. The chamber's temperature dropped sharply.
The crystal began to disintegrate—turning to a faint, invisible mist that hovered in the air like silver breath.
Mathen stepped forward greedily, his arms wide.
"No one disturb me."
He inhaled—deeply—and the mist surged into his lungs, eyes, and veins.
His body convulsed.
He screamed.
Then—
Silence.
He straightened.
His veins glowed faintly. His eyes sparked.
He exhaled, smiling. "I am whole again."
---
In the King's Solar
The chamber was silent, save for the faint rustling of banners by the tall windows. King Aerion stood with his back to the room, his royal mantle cascading down his shoulders, hands clasped behind him, eyes fixed on the distant cityscape beyond Grekon's walls.
The doors creaked open.
Mathen entered—shoulders squared, his steps unhurried. Two armored knights flanked him, but it was the weight of his presence that filled the room.
Aerion turned sharply.
"You were not ordered to raze Kintol," he said coldly. "Explain yourself."
Mathen's lips curled into a slight, measured smile. "They defied the crown. Lied to your knights. When commanded to surrender all Vitalis crystals, they concealed one."
Aerion's jaw tensed. "Dozens of civilians were killed. Elders. Women. Children."
Mathen stepped forward. "Because they disobeyed."
He spoke with quiet certainty. "Your Majesty, mercy is admirable in storybooks. But in a kingdom, it breeds dissent. If the villages learn that they can lie with impunity, your rule dissolves into suggestion."
"I never gave you permission—"
"You didn't need to," Mathen interrupted, his voice smooth as a blade. "You are king. But you have yet to become a ruler. And rulers," he said, raising a finger, "make examples."
Aerion's voice sharpened. "By slaughtering their own people?"
"When necessary, yes," Mathen answered coolly. "You are no longer a boy, Aerion. You must wield the authority that has always been yours. Fear," he said, spreading his arms slightly, "is the marrow of power."
He walked closer, slowly, his boots echoing against the polished stone floor.
"If you let ants rise unchecked, they swarm. And when they swarm, the kingdom collapses."
Aerion's gaze flickered.
"The duty of a king," Mathen continued, "is to prune the garden of rot. To rid the soil of pests so that the nation might flourish."
He paused before Aerion. His tone dropped—sharp, almost intimate.
"It is time you rid yourself of this... weakness."
Aerion's face flushed with heat. "You think me weak?"
"I know you are," Mathen said plainly. "But I'm not here to shame you. I'm here to strengthen you. To guide you into becoming the king this kingdom needs—one that no traitor would dare defy."
Aerion shook his head. "You want me to kill my people? I will not. I am not you."
Mathen's eyes flashed. "Then you are a fool."
He stepped closer, his voice rising.
"This—this is why your authority wanes. Why the generals defer to me. Why the lords whisper when you walk past. Why even now, your crown is heavier than your will."
He stood face to face with Aerion now, their breath inches apart.
"You may wear a king's robes," Mathen said, voice low and venomous, "but all this kingdom sees is a grieving child in a gilded chair."
Aerion's fists clenched at his sides.
"Oh, you're angry," Mathen said, grinning now. "Angry at me? At your people? At the ghosts of your dead parents, perhaps? Good. You should be."
He leaned in slightly.
"Because anger means you've finally felt something beyond doubt. So channel it. Prove them wrong. Prove me wrong. Show your kingdom you are not just a boy with a crown."
Mathen stepped back and raised his hand toward the throne.
"Execute the villagers," he said simply. "Let them see what defiance earns."
A long, suffocating silence.
Then—Aerion turned. Slowly. Deliberately.
He walked to his throne and sat.
He tapped his fingers once on the armrest.
"…Very well," he said at last, his voice low and cold. "The prisoners from Kintol will be hanged at dawn."
Mathen bowed.
"You've chosen wisely."
---
Word spread swiftly.
From low taverns to lofty balconies, whispers rustled through the capital like wind through leaves: There would be an execution.
In the alleys, by candlelight, rumors bloomed.
"I heard they defied a royal decree," one man muttered, voice low with both awe and fear.
A woman shook her head. "I wouldn't want to be them."
---
In the Royal Prison
Chains clinked. Damp stone echoed every movement.
Grace sat curled against her mother's side, her eyes hollow with exhaustion and dread. She whispered, "What's going to happen to us, Mother?"
Anna placed a trembling hand over her daughter's. "Pray. That's all we can do now."
Suddenly—metal grated.
A guard appeared at the door.
"You two. Up."
Grace looked up, startled. "Where are you taking us?"
The guard gave no answer. He pulled their chains harshly, forcing them to their feet.
As they stepped into the corridor, they saw the others—dozens of villagers, chained and solemn, being led forward by guards in grim silence.
No one spoke.
Their footsteps carried them out of the prison and into the early light. The walk to the execution ground was fifteen minutes long. And that was when it started.
The scream.
A long, tortured cry of agony that tore through the air like thunder.
"AGGHHHHHHH!"
Grace stopped walking.
She turned toward the prison behind them, toward the dungeon tower.
"Lerius …?"
The sound grew louder.
The chains rattled in rhythm with the tremors from deep underground.
---
Inside the Dungeon
Valerius convulsed on the cold floor, body arching violently.
Bones realigned with loud, sickening cracks. Muscles clenched and expanded as his shattered frame rebuilt itself. His fingers clawed furrows into the stone. Veins pulsed across his arms like fire through rivers.
His scream echoed again—primal, savage, deafening.
BOOM!
The floor split. A crater burst open beneath him.
The stone beneath his back gave way as his body seized.
"RAAAAAHHHHH!"
A nearby cell gate blew off its hinges.
Two inmates sprinted toward the exit—then stopped.
They saw him.
Valerius, drenched in sweat, eyes rolled back, body writhing. He slammed his head against the wall.
The guards burst in.
"RESTRAIN HIM!"
They charged.
One grabbed for his arm—shhk!—Valerius's hand tore through the man's torso like wet paper.
Blood sprayed.
Another guard lunged.
Valerius's knee jerked upward. Crack. The man's head snapped back—severed clean from his shoulders.
Screams followed.
"Get reinforcements! He's tearing the place apart!"
Valerius slammed both fists into the floor.
A shockwave erupted.
Guards flew.
Gates bent.
Dust and debris filled the corridor.
Other prisoners screamed. "Let us out! We don't want to die!"
The ceiling cracked. Chunks of stone fell.
And through it all, that roar. A monstrous roar.
Bestial. Endless.
---
Outside the Prison
People across the city heard it.
A merchant froze mid-sale. "What in the gods' names—?"
A noblewoman clutched her pendant. "Is it… is it a beast they've chained down there?"
Even from the palace steps, the sound carried.
King Aerion turned, eyes narrowed, as the wind carried the echo to his ears.
"What was that?"
Mathen didn't stop walking. "Let the guards handle it," he said with a cold smile. "We have an execution to attend."
---
On the Execution Grounds
The nooses were ready. Forty of them—swung gently in the morning breeze, hung from a long wooden platform hastily constructed the day before.
The prisoners were led up the steps, one by one. Shackled, bruised, broken.
Grace and Anna followed.
Chains were fitted around their necks.
The crowd murmured, drawn by blood and spectacle. Some came out of curiosity. Others with hatred.
The cries from the prison still echoed loudly. But now—
The king stood.
A hush fell over the square.
Aerion stepped forward, raising the royal amplifier, his voice projected across the courtyard.
---
"These prisoners," Aerion began, "stand condemned of high treason. They defied the lawful decree of the crown, concealed state property, and undermined royal authority."
He paced slowly along the platform, his voice cold.
"In doing so, they jeopardized the stability of our kingdom. The throne cannot, and will not, tolerate insubordination."
He turned to the crowd.
"Understand this well: mercy cannot be the reward for defiance. We are a kingdom, not a house of excuses. And the price for rebellion… is death."
He raised a gloved hand.
"No more leniency. No more excuses. Let this serve as a lesson: the law of the crown is final. Disobey it—"
He pointed to the gallows.
"—and this is what awaits you."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Some in approval. Others, with quiet unease.
---
Twenty minutes had passed since Valerius began his agony.
Still, his roars echoed.
Some spectators turned their heads. "What is that sound?" one man whispered.
Another said, "Is no one going to stop it?"
Mathen, standing beside Aerion, lifted a hand dismissively. "It is being handled. Spare yourself the worry."
The executioner stepped forward. He raised his hand.
The ropes tightened.
Grace closed her eyes.
Anna leaned close and whispered, "Whatever happens… no that I love you."
Tears slid down their cheeks.
The crowd fell silent.
BOOM.
A deep, shuddering impact.
The sound of stone splitting.
And then—
Silence.
Valerius's voice was no more.
The monstrous roars that had shaken the very bones of Weston had vanished, cut off mid-echo—like a storm suddenly swallowed by stillness.
And the silence that followed was deafening.
Grace stood on the scaffold, her breath caught in her throat. Beside her, Anna gripped her daughter's hand with white knuckles.
In the crowd, heads turned toward the prison tower. No movement. No sound.
Even the executioner paused, his hand hovering in the air, uncertain.
King Aerion did not speak.
Mathen's eyes narrowed.
Gavurn shifted his weight, frowning.
The ropes around the prisoners' necks swayed gently in the breeze. Creaking.
It was too quiet.
Not peaceful.
Not calm.
But wrong.
A silence steeped in something deeper than dread.
A silence that watched.
A silence that waited.
Whispers began to ripple through the crowd.
"Is it over?"
"What was that thing?"
"Why has it stopped?"
No answer came.
But the unease thickened—like the moment before an earthquake. Like a breath held too long.
And then—
Grace whispered, her voice barely audible over the hush:
"Lerius."
BOOM.
In a flash—
The world exploded.
A shockwave tore through the execution grounds like a divine hammer. The earth convulsed. Stone shattered. Dust swallowed the air.
Villagers, guards, nobles—all were flung back like leaves in a storm.
Grace and her mother were hurled into the crowd, chains snapping as they hit the ground. Screams rang out—some in fear, others in awe.
At the very center of the crater, amid smoke and silence and awe—
He stood.
Gavurn.
Legs braced. Arms crossed before him in a defensive X, gauntlets glowing from the impact. His cloak fluttered behind him in tatters, boots anchored in fractured ground.
Behind him—barely shielded—stood Mathen, eyes wide with disbelief. Aerion, pale and breathless, stumbled backward.
In front of Gavurn—
Suspended in mid-air—
Valerius.
His body arched from the force of the strike, one leg extended in a brutal flying kick, the heel of his boot pressed squarely against Gavurn's crossed arms.
Their eyes locked.
For a heartbeat, time stopped.
Gavurn's arms trembled.
Valerius's face burned with fury.
Their power clashed in raw stillness.
Then Gavurn grunted, skidding back half a step, boots grinding against the stone.
Valerius dropped to the ground, landing in a crouch, breathing hard, his eyes never leaving Gavurn's.
The crowd stared, frozen.
No one could comprehend what had just happened.
Not the nobles.
Not the soldiers.
Not even the mages.
One second, there was silence.
The next—a boy had descended like a thunderbolt.
Gavurn's voice rumbled.
"…That kick wasn't meant for me."
Valerius rose slowly, eyes shifting past him—to Mathen.
Mathen's smile vanished.
Valerius spoke, voice like iron.
"No more begging. No more cages. No more executions."
He cracked his neck.
"You guy...are done."
---
To Be Continued...