It was the next day.
After Aiden's cold, clinical orders for the army to head south and execute the strategy exactly as he'd dictated, this had arrived—three days later.
A message.
The war room was thick with tension, nearly suffocating in its silence. Maps were strewn across the long central table, markers shifting ever southward to show the Southern Empire's advances. Red arrows stabbed into parchment like open wounds.
And then—this.
The message had arrived at dawn. Not in the form of a letter. Not with a banner or fanfare. It had arrived like a curse.
Instead of backing down, the Southern Empire had chosen escalation.
At the head of the table stood Aiden. Imposing. Still. His posture was composed, perfectly controlled. But his eyes—his eyes were alight with fury. Cold, unflinching, imperial rage.
In the center of the table sat a small black velvet box. Plain. Unadorned. Ominous.
After the regiment Aiden had sent to the border had been ambushed, a brutal confrontation followed. Casualties on both sides had been heavy—but in the dead of night, this box had been left at the border, no flag, no herald, no escort.
Just a note, written in rough, hasty scrawl:
"Only to be opened by Prince Aiden Lancaster."
No one had dared touch it. If it was addressed to Aiden, it would be opened by Aiden.
"Let's see what our dear neighbors have sent us, shall we?" Aiden said, voice calm and smooth, though it rang with something far more dangerous. A terrible, deliberate smile played across his lips.
He didn't move to reach for the box.
Instead, he unsheathed his sword with a slow, almost lazy grace—and half the room inhaled sharply at the sound.
With the tip of the blade, he pried the lid off. As it tipped open, the sides of the box fell away.
What lay inside silenced the entire room.
Gasps broke out like cracks in ice.
A head.
The severed head of Sergeant Dain, one of their own—captured days ago in the skirmish. His eyes were still open, glazed in pain and horror, lips parted slightly in eternal silence.
"They took one of ours," Aiden said, voice low, almost too quiet. "Beheaded him."
No one spoke.
Even the generals, men hardened by years of battle, looked uneasy.
The Grand Admiral took a step forward, his face grim. "There's... a message too, Your Highness. In the mouth."
Aiden's eyes flicked to the head. He hadn't noticed it before—tucked inside the parted lips, something small. Another note.
With clinical precision, Aiden reached in and plucked it free, unfurling it slowly, deliberately, as if drawing out the moment was a ritual in itself.
The note was short. But its venom was undeniable.
He read it aloud—voice soft, yet it rang like a thunderclap in the silence.
"To the bastard prince and the foolish emperor—your threats mean nothing. Come and take your empire back. If you can."
A silence followed, heavy and suffocating.
No one dared react. They watched Aiden closely, anticipating fury, an explosion, something.
What came instead was laughter.
Pure. Sharp. Unrestrained.
He laughed—unhinged and unbothered, and somehow that was far more terrifying than a scream.
"Well," he said between chuckles, voice still light. "This simplifies things."
He didn't need to raise his voice. He never did. Every word carried the authority of a death sentence.
"Burn their forward camps."
A beat.
"Every last one. Leave no survivors."
General Rykard shifted uneasily. He cleared his throat. "Your Highness, if we escalate—"
"Escalate?" Aiden cut in, smiling with teeth. Cold. Ferocious. "You misunderstand me, General. Escalation was what they did. When they poisoned the emperor. When they butchered one of ours and left him like a gift. This—" he gestured to the decapitated head "—this is not escalation."
He tossed the note onto the table, letting it flutter beside the box like something foul.
"This is annihilation."
And then the orders came. Rapid-fire. Sharp as blades. Each one crueler than the last.
"Double patrols at the Vale Valleys. Any Southern soldier found within ten miles of our border is to be skinned alive and returned in pieces."
A wave of muted gasps rippled through the ministers and courtiers. Even the hardened ones paled slightly. Still, no one dared speak out.
Aiden went on, merciless and unwavering.
"Their supply routes—cut them. Intercept everything. Every wagon, every caravan bearing their colors. Let them starve. If they're about to forcibly occupy a region of ours? Burn the granaries. Poison the rivers. Salt the earth if you have to. I want the land they covet to rot in their hands."
That made the room freeze.
The Vale Valleys were among the most fertile regions in the empire. Salting them was akin to treason against the land itself. One courtier, braver—or more foolish—than the rest, dared to speak.
"But Your Highness... the Vale Valleys are—"
Aiden raised a hand.
It was not a request. It was a command.
"I am aware," he said sharply. "I have made this decision with full consideration of the consequences."
Then, his tone turned colder still.
"I would rather own barren land than surrender fertile soil to our enemies. I am not Elliott. I will not fold. I will not plead for peace by offering up our own people as bargaining chips. If our lands are not ours to benefit from, then they will be no one's."
Silence followed again.
But this time, there was no shock. No protest. Just the dawning realization that the regent standing before them was not the idealistic boy they once whispered about behind closed doors.
This was a man of war.
A ruler shaped by fire.
And though Aiden might cherish Elliott—too much, many would say—he was not Elliott.
Nor would he try to be.
The days of soft diplomacy and half-bowed heads were gone.
Let the Southern Empire make their move. Let them crawl forward like vermin. Let them think they could outwit him.
If they wanted a battle, Aiden would give them war.
He would drown the world in blood before letting another threat near his emperor.
And if Elliott hated him for it?
So be it.
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