Heroes and messiahs are always dreamed of. One day, someone will come to bless all mankind with unending freedom and everlasting peace. Every storybook, every religion, every cult depicts that one supreme being will rise—to change and revolutionize all things, freeing humanity from its chains.
Chains they forged themselves.
Chains they maintain themselves.
Chains they curse themselves.
Oh, the misery of life.
Oh, the despair.
Yet in the end, the Chosen One will come. They will save humanity from the slavery it imposed upon itself—even though the key to those chains was in their hands all along. Still, they crave the Messiah to sever their bonds with a mighty sword.
"...oh the hypocrisy," he muttered under his breath, staring up at the cracked ceiling above him. His mind wandered again to the same thought that haunted him daily.
The tea was bitter, but Henry drank it anyway. It burned its way down his throat like an old memory he couldn't shake—sharp, lingering, and tinged with regret. Each sip felt heavier than the last, as if the liquid carried not just caffeine but centuries of guilt compressed into every drop. Outside his window, the capital city buzzed with life—markets alive with haggling voices, guilds bustling with adventurers trading tales of conquest, and the river flowing steadily, indifferent to human folly. But inside these walls? Silence. Thick, suffocating silence that pressed against his chest like a vice.
He leaned back on his bed, wincing slightly at the ache in his bones. Every breath came slower now, shallower. He knew this body wouldn't hold much longer. The doctors had whispered their diagnoses behind closed doors, their faces pale masks of pity. "Days," they'd said. Days. As if time itself were mocking him, ticking away relentlessly while he lay here, helpless.
His gaze shifted toward the door where Sansa had stood earlier, her neck marked by bruises he recognized too well. She wasn't shaking anymore when she served him today. Her movements weren't hesitant or timid—they were deliberate, almost defiant. She'd grown into something fierce, something unyielding. And for the first time in years, Henry allowed himself a flicker of pride.
"...she did it," he murmured, raising the teacup to his lips once more. Another sip, another fleeting moment of warmth before the cold settled back in. "It's done then. Just need Lara to arrive."
Outside the castle, the world thrummed with energy. Merchants shouted over each other, trying to sell everything from enchanted daggers to fresh-baked bread. Children darted between stalls, giggling as they dodged disapproving glares from adults. Somewhere nearby, a bard strummed his lute, crooning about heroes and battles long past. But beneath the chaos, there was order—a strange harmony born from necessity. Drains snaked through cobblestone streets, carrying rainwater away efficiently. The massive river split the city cleanly in two, boats ferrying goods and people across its shimmering expanse.
In one corner of the market square, a group of adventurers gathered around a table littered with maps, empty mugs, and the remnants of a hearty meal. One man—a bald brute with arms thicker than tree trunks—slammed his fist triumphantly onto the wood, rattling tankards and scattering coins.
"The book was right!" he bellowed, holding aloft a pair of twisted antlar horns stained with dried blood. His grin stretched wide enough to split his face, revealing teeth yellowed from years of bad habits. "No shit. And you were doubting me till the end, eh? You're already late to the party. I hit my silver quota in a single day!"
His companion—a wiry warrior nursing a tankard of ale—snorted derisively, tipping the mug back until it emptied completely. Foam clung to his scruffy beard as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yeah, yeah, big shot. Don't get cocky. Tomorrow'll be harder."
A hooded figure approached silently, blending seamlessly into the crowd until she stopped within earshot. Her presence went unnoticed by most, save for the faint rustle of fabric as she adjusted her stance. Beneath the shadow of her hood, sharp eyes scanned the scene, absorbing every detail. From the entrance gates to this very spot, whispers of one name echoed everywhere she went:
"The Mad Prince."
Curiosity gnawed at her, relentless and insistent. She stepped closer, clearing her throat softly to catch their attention. Both men turned to look at her, eyebrows raised in question.
"Is that book written by the Mad Prince as well?" she asked, nodding toward the battered copy resting on the table between them.
"Hell yeah!" the drinking warrior replied enthusiastically, grabbing the book and tossing it to her without hesitation. She caught it mid-air, fingers brushing briefly against the worn leather cover. Flipping it open, she skimmed the pages quickly, her expression shifting from skepticism to outright astonishment.
"...interesting," she murmured under her breath, closing the book with a soft snap. "What have you been up to, brother?"
.
.
Silence draped the palace like a shroud, heavy and suffocating. Neither the prince nor the queen graced its halls at this moment—a rare reprieve from their usual theatrics. Henry sat alone in his chamber, his thoughts tangled in knots of regret and ambition. His fingers drummed idly against the armrest of his throne-like chair, each tap echoing faintly in the cavernous room. Outside, the city thrummed with life—markets bustling, guilds trading whispers about Atlas's published book—but here, inside these walls, there was only stillness.
"My son and daughter..." Henry muttered under his breath, his voice thick with anguish. He closed his eyes briefly, as if trying to conjure their faces before him. Lara—the prodigy everyone whispered about in reverent tones. Atlas—the forgotten prince overshadowed by her brilliance but growing into something unexpected lately. Two halves of a fractured legacy he had built, torn apart by circumstance and his own failures.
And then, cold steel kissed his neck.
'Assassination? No. Something Worse.'
Henry froze, his heart pounding erratically in his chest. For a fleeting second, fear gripped him—not the kind that made you scream or run, but the silent, suffocating terror that crept up your spine like frost spreading across glass. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head, expecting to see an assassin's shadow looming over him. Instead, his gaze landed on a hooded figure, sky-blue hair spilling out from beneath the fabric like moonlight breaking through storm clouds.
".....oh it's just you, Lara," he breathed, relief washing over him like cool water after fire. "For God's sake..."
She didn't lower her blade. Her sword gleamed wickedly in the dim light, sharp enough to draw blood without effort. She stepped closer, her movements fluid yet predatory, every step deliberate. Beneath her hood, her eyes burned with intensity—a truth-seer's gaze piercing straight through flesh and bone to the secrets buried within.
"Where is brother?" she demanded, her voice colder than winter's first frost. "People say you sent him somewhere."
Henry scoffed, waving her off dismissively. "...so how was your adventure? Did you defeat the dragon?"
Her response came not in words but in action. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed a long, razor-sharp tooth onto his lap. It glinted menacingly under the candlelight—a trophy too massive, too fresh to belong to anything ordinary. The Valley Dragon's fang. A gatekeeper of the Dark Continent, feared even among monsters.
"...you actually did it," Henry murmured, genuine surprise coloring his tone. "Here I was thinking you'd come back failed..."
His sentence died abruptly when she pressed the tip of her sword perilously close to his throat. The metal bit into his skin ever so slightly, drawing a single bead of blood that rolled down his neck like a tear.
"Where. Is. He?" she repeated, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper. Each word hit him harder than any physical blow could have.
"...don't worry," he replied quickly, raising his hands in surrender. "I just sent him on a mission—as a guide to the Dark Continent, with guests from the Empire."
Her grip loosened marginally, though her posture remained tense. After a heartbeat, she lowered her weapon, stepping back slightly. But instead of leaving, she lingered, her piercing gaze fixed on him.
"....while you were gone, something interesting happened," Henry continued, leaning forward conspiratorially. His lips curled into a smirk that grated against her nerves. "Atlas has become a man now! A proper man with a proper Lady!"
Her steps faltered near the door, boots scuffing softly against the marble floor. Without turning around, she asked quietly, almost mechanically:
"...who is the bitch that seduced MY brother??"
Henry blinked, caught off guard by her sudden aggression. Before he could answer, she spun around, pulling back her hood to reveal blazing golden eyes. They weren't simply angry—they radiated raw power, a killing intent so potent it made the air hum with tension. Her system scanned him rapidly, dissecting every detail until her gaze zeroed in on his hand—or rather, the absence of something significant.
"...where is your ring?" she thought aloud, realization dawning slowly. "Wait... Concubine... insignia ring... to the Dark Continent." Her fists clenched tightly, knuckles white as bone. When she spoke again, her voice trembled with barely contained fury.
"...you... you piece of shit," she snarled, stalking toward him. "Why? Why?! WHYYYY??! Do you always!!??" She slammed both palms onto the arms of his chair, trapping him in place. "Isn't he your fucking son as well? You knew the ring was forged from the Demon King's heart. And yet you sent him off to the Dark Continent... for what? To DIE?!"
Each accusation struck him like a hammer blow, cracking open old wounds he'd tried desperately to ignore. Guilt flickered across his face, brief but undeniable. Still, he forced himself to meet her glare head-on, refusing to flinch.
".....yes," he admitted finally, his voice hoarse with emotion. "Yes, yes! I only did it for the Realm—for its peace. For 'you' to take the Throne."
Before he finished speaking, her sword pierced his side with a sickening squelch. Blood bloomed across his robes, dark and viscous, but Henry showed no sign of pain. Not fear, not shock—just resignation etched deeply into his features. His eyes remained steady, boring into hers as if searching for absolution.
'...such raw genius and talent,' he thought bitterly, marveling at the sheer force of will emanating from her. This wasn't just anger; it was devastation layered upon betrayal upon despair—all wrapped in a single soul capable of obliterating kingdoms.
"...all I want is for you to take the crown," he rasped, clutching weakly at the wound. ". Kill me if you must...You are the chosen one, you know it, I know it and Atlas's know it so, do what you know is right! and break this filthy love between you two."