The King
The royal court was suffocating in its own splendor. Thick carpets muffled every step, chandeliers burned with soft gold light, and walls of marble glimmered with murals of saints and old kings who had died pretending to be divine. The smell of incense and wine lingered in the air like rot disguised as perfume.
The king sat upon his throne, fingers tapping against the armrest, each click sharp enough to draw glances from his ministers. The council had been arguing since dawn, voices rising and falling like waves in a storm, but the king had said nothing. His eyes were locked on the doors at the far end of the hall, waiting.
They opened at last.
A courier stumbled in, cloak torn, boots splattered with ash. He fell to one knee before the throne and held out a sealed document, his hand trembling. "A message from the southern front, Your Majesty. From Commander Equito."
The room went silent. The king rose slowly, descended the steps, and took the parchment himself. He broke the seal, scanned the first few lines, and then stopped. His lips curled, not into a smile, not quite into a frown. It was the face of a man reading something he had already expected.
"The southern ridge was ambushed," he said quietly. "Casualties are significant."
A murmur rippled through the council.
"By who?" the chancellor asked.
"The Rhaegis," the king replied. "Their mages struck at dawn. But they failed."
"Failed?" another minister repeated, disbelief heavy in his tone.
The king's gaze sharpened. "Kael led the counter."
The words hung heavy in the air. Every noble present shifted in discomfort. The air seemed colder now.
"He slaughtered them all," the king continued, reading aloud. "The entire vanguard survived. The ridge was secured by noon. Enemy losses… complete."
He lowered the parchment, staring into the void beyond the hall's great windows where the sun was just beginning to rise. "He walked through fire," he said quietly, almost to himself. "Through their spellfire."
One of the older nobles coughed. "Your Majesty, forgive me, but how much of this can we trust? The boy is… not natural."
"Natural," the king repeated softly, almost with amusement. He returned to his throne and sat, eyes distant. "No. Not natural. But necessary."
A silence settled that no one dared break.
The chancellor stepped forward. "With respect, Your Majesty, every time that creature is unleashed, more of our men return terrified than triumphant. They follow him because they must, not because they believe. Fear does not build loyalty."
"Fear," the king said, "is loyalty perfected."
The room fell quiet again.
He waved a hand. "Send word to the western garrisons. Tell them the Rhaegis have drawn first blood. They will answer it. And summon the high magister. I want every mage in the capital preparing containment rites. Just in case."
The ministers bowed and began to disperse, whispering among themselves.
When the hall finally emptied, the king sat alone. The parchment lay open on his knee. Near the end of Equito's report was a single line written in her own hand, separate from the rest.
He does not fight for you. He fights because something within him demands it. Whatever it is, it is not loyal.
The king read the line twice, then folded the parchment and tucked it into his cloak.
He turned his gaze toward the stained glass windows depicting the gods of old. Their eyes were painted bright and kind, but in the light they seemed almost mocking.
The king raised his cup of wine, the red liquid catching the morning sun. "Then let the gods watch," he whispered. "Let them see what happens when men make their own monsters."
He drank, slowly, and the sound of distant bells carried through the open window. Somewhere beyond the capital, Kael's shadow was already moving again.