Umm, so, are we just gonna stand here forever? I'm getting kinda hungry," Gereva drawled,
leaning lazily against her slanted staff. The polished wood bore her weight but didn't touch the
beautifully adorned walls of the white throne room—it never dared.
The silence hung heavy, sharper than the sunlight cutting across the red and gold-lined carpet
that stretched from the throne to the towering statue of King Barth at the arching entrance. It
wasn't just quiet—it was the kind of silence that pressed on your chest, a reminder that they
were no longer family, but rivals. Or enemies.
The rest of the king's children ignored Gereva, their eyes fixed on the throne as though it might
speak the decree that had summoned them all here. They had been isolated in their kingdoms
for years, cut off from one another, their father's will written in silence long before it was written
in words.
Damien shuffled back as the sunlight crept closer, his shadow retreating with him. Kraven's
hand landed on his shoulder—firm, deliberate. A gesture that looked casual but carried the
weight of command.
"Forward," Kraven said, his voice low. "Let's make it even."
Damien's red eye gleamed to the left as he shrugged off his brother's hand, "Don't touch me
with your filthy hands, carnivore. Breathing your air is quite a lot already" he growled as he
stepped back deeper into the darkness.
Kraven smiled whilst shaking his head slowly, slightly tilting the know behind his blind fold
Gereva's eyebrow arched.
"Wait, what? I thought you guys were both carnivores?"
Damien sneered.
"Can you be any more dense? Maybe you're actually a dwarf—in both brain and brawn."
Gereva scoffed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Really? I asked one innocent question and you're already spewing lies to feel important. You
must be exhausting at parties."
Kraven chuckled, raising one hand like a white flag.
"Alright, alright—that's enough. We're siblings, not enemies. Let's be accommodating...
especially since it's been so long."Gereva leaned back with both hands raised.
"Woah, hold it. That's an Aerolim-sized lie—a fat one at that. Even _I'm not that naive."_
A sharp voice sliced through the room like a thrown blade.
_"Can you idiots just shut up already? Why in the Shallows haven't we started yet?! Superior
races, my ass—you can't even show up on time!"
"Where's Alicia, huh? And that damned Kiara? We're not here to display fancy armour "
All heads turned to Lance—the only human in their midst.
His gold-lined steel armor gleamed under the high lights of the throne room, polished to near
perfection. It spoke of wealth, but not heritage. Every piece was earned—not inherited.
Silence fell. Not respectful silence—confused silence.
Lance felt it crawl over his skin. With a subtle tremble in his fingers, he tightened his grip on the
hilt of his sword.
Gereva tilted her head, index finger resting on her lip.
"Sooo... who are you again?"
Lance scowled.
"The insignia on my chest should tell you all you need to know, dwarf."
Gereva snorted, then bit her lip—failing to hold back a laugh.
"When did slaves start getting so bold?"
(more laughter)
"Humans never cease to amuse me. I assume Lance sent you to stand in for him. No need to
keep pretending, little human."
"Don't bother. He's not coming. I killed him."
Gereva's face darkened. Instantly.
Her laughter died. Her fingers curled tighter around her staff. Then the runes on her hands
gleamed dark orange
"That's not a funny joke," she said, voice low.
"Take. That. Back. Now."
CRACK.
The marble tile beneath her staff splintered.The speaker grinned, ear to ear.
"Why else would I be here? You knew the truth the moment I walked in—so don't act
surprised."
Before he could savor Gereva's anguish, a long rectangular shadow swallowed him.
Kraven and Damien promptly stepped back in unison
He looked up—
Her staff had stretched to the size of a towering pillar, poised above his head like the
sword of judgment.
Gereva's voice was ice. Deadly calm.
"W-wait!" he stammered, sweat dripping as he sheathed his blade.
"I—I am Caster of Thaloria! I won the right to be candidate by combat—fair and square! Any
harm to me will disqualify you!"
Gereva stepped forward, her eyes flat. Her staff lowered slightly, just enough to cast his
whole body in shadow.
_"Disqualify?"
She smiled. It didn't reach her tear-glossed eyes.
"You speak as if I cared."
"You could've let me say goodbye to Lancy. But no—you needed to prove you were strong."
"Tell him... I came."
Caster gritted his teeth as he braced for impact, sword raised like a twig against a falling
star.
BOOM.
Dust and debris blasted through the hall, swallowing the entrance in smoke and stone.
Then—silence.
And the air grew dreadfully cold.
Damien dusted his dark cloak with a little frustration. "All this just to kill a weakling, and i'm the
carnivore? "
Kraven on the other hand was on guard, he whispered "That wasn't Gereva"
"Don't be dumb. I would've seen that. You're the one walking around blindfolded."
"The dust came from outside, Damien. And I can't smell anything right now."Damien paused.
"Wait... how does _you not smelling anything help us here?"_
Kraven's voice dropped, quiet and tense.
"It means the air is frozen."
He looked toward the entrance.
"She's here."
A deafening crunch shook the marble floor.
A shockwave of cold blasted from the entrance, ripping down the hall like a silent scream.
In its wake, a white silhouette emerged—standing atop a dead white dragon.
The beast's maw was shattered and frozen mid-roar, its blood suspended in jagged crimson
arcs of ice.
The room fell still.
Even the frost dared not creak as every eye turned toward her.
Kiara Steelborne.
The firstborn.
She wore armor laced with white and frost—forged in the old way, regal and cruel.
Her hair was pale as snowfall, her brows the same.
And her eyes—
two dead moons.
Watching. Waiting. Unblinking.
Suddenly, an ice staircase formed before her—stretching upward toward the throne like a
silent invitation.
Her gaze swept across her gathered siblings—impassive. Unreadable.
Not a word.
Not a glance of grief for the beast behind her.
Not a flicker of concern for the frozen blood still pooling at its feet.
Then, without permission, without ceremony—
she walked toward the throne.
Each step echoed louder than the last, like a ritual already in motion.Kraven's daggers floated, unsure whether to defend or cut.
Damien's eyes flared blood-red, his fangs twitching beneath a silent snarl.
Gereva's staff twitched, rune-lines glowing faint orange.
Caster gripped the hilt of his sword, jaw clenched.
But no one stopped her.
No one could.
Kiara Steelborne ascended the dais—slowly, silently—and sat.
She didn't slouch. She didn't posture.
She simply belonged there.
The room fell silent again.
Caster began to quiver and shiver, more from frost than fear—his armor clearly not built for
this kind of cold.
Kraven, however, stepped forward—visibly disturbed.
"Lady Kiara... It seems you've once again mistaken birth order for hierarchy."
"I'd advise you at least attend the opening ceremony before making any assumptions."
Kiara said nothing. She simply stared—frost-eyed and unblinking.
Kraven growled.
"Lady Kiara—!"
CRACK.
His legs froze solid up to the knees.
Kraven grunted in sharp pain, desperately trying to keep is balance
"Silence, vermin," she said, voice low and absolute.
"Lower your voice when you speak to me.
There is no need for a King's Game...
if I can simply kill you all."
Damien crouched beside Kraven and touched the frozen leg.
With a faint hiss of heat, the ice began to melt, steam curling into the cold air.
He stood slowly, brushing off his hands.
"You really think you can take all of us?"
A smirk curved his lips.
"Maybe it's time the _younger ones showed you what's changed."_Kiara's expression didn't change.
Her voice was calm—almost bored.
"I see."
Then—
with a sudden hiss,
spikes of ice burst from the ground, circling each sibling like teeth rising from the earth.
"Come then. Show me what the rest of you have learned... in my absence."
In a flash, they were about to move.
Kraven's daggers flared.
Gereva's arms lit up.
Even Damien's cloak rippled with blood red heat.
All were ready to strike—
Except Caster, who bolted in the opposite direction, before planting his face on the floor
as he slipped
But just as the clash was about to explode—
A voice ripped through the air.
"Get off that blasted throne, you bastard!"
It was a dark silhouette, wrapped in bloodied, tattered armor.
The side of his face was streaked with dried blood, crusted like rust across his cheekbone.
He stepped into the light.
"You deaf, abi?"
His voice was raw, laced with fury.
"I said—get. Off. That. Throne... bastard."
Gasps rose. Even the frost paused.
Kiara turned her head, slowly, as if the sound were beneath her.
Tunde didn't care.
He pointed up at the throne with blood on his finger.
"I don't care how many dragons you kill, how many siblings bow, or how cold your soul is—"
"—That seat's not yours.""It's will be hers."
He jabbed toward the doorway behind him.
"Alicia's. That's the deal. That's the reason I'm still bleeding."
"So move—before I stop being polite about it."
Kiara's gaze didn't flinch. She looked Tunde over—slowly, surgically.
"A blood-soaked beggar... barking at a queen."
She adjusted her posture on the throne, brushing a fleck of dust from her glove.
"You mistake survival for significance."
A pause.
"You bleed for her?"
A faint, mocking smile touched her lips.
"Then perhaps you can die for her too."
In one subtle motion, Tunde shifted his sword from his right to his left hand.
He didn't answer.
He just waited.
Without warning—
A spike of ice exploded from the floor, aimed straight at his heart.
Fast. Precise. Final.
And then—
CLANG.
It missed.
Midair.
Deflected—by Tunde?
The room froze.
Damien blinked.
Kraven's eyes narrowed.
Gereva mouthed, "What the shallows…"
Tunde's left arm dropped slightly. It shimmered—encased entirely in jagged, white ice.
Steam curled off the surface where blood still tried to run warm.But he was still standing.
Still breathing.
Sword in hand.
"Okay," he muttered, flexing frost-stiff fingers.
"That hurt like hell."
Fear gripped his chest—tighter than it ever had.
Because this time, he wasn't just fighting the strongest candidate in the King's Game.
He was fighting his own instinct to run.
"I know I can't win..."
"But I won't run anymore."
"Not this time."
"This time—I'll save her."
He winced, blood still trickling down his temple, but raised his head and met her gaze.
Unblinking.
"I've got a little something for you too."
Tunde raised his unfrozen hand—and flicked his thumb toward her.
"KNEEL."
The word wasn't shouted.
It echoed, like a divine verdict written into the bones of the earth.
Kiara's eyes flared—then her body betrayed her.
Her knees slammed into the marble.
The ice throne behind her cracked, then crumbled to shards.
Gasps tore through the throne room.
Kiara's breath hitched. Her hands trembled.
She stared at the floor beneath her, then at her palms—
as if they had turned traitor.
It was the first time she had knelt since childhood.
The first time she had ever been made to.
Then she noticed it—A stone. Spinning beside her.
Perfectly round. Smooth.
Floating just an inch above the marble—spinning endlessly, without friction.
It wasn't hers.
It came from him.
Gereva's voice broke the silence—low, hesitant.
"Wait… if he made her kneel on the throne, doesn't that mean—"
Kiara's head snapped toward her like a whip.
Gereva flinched, jerking her gaze away, suddenly fascinated by the ceiling as she
scratched the back of her head.
Something inside Kiara cracked.
A surge of fury erupted outward—
Her hair lifted as if caught in a frozen storm, strands stiffening into threads of frost.
Her fingernails lengthened into crystalline claws, dripping with raw, icy magic.
Ice bloomed across her arms, her breath turning jagged and white.
"No. No—no!"
"I can't be beaten by some... insignificant slave!"
She screamed, voice high with rage.
"I'll CRUSH you!"
Damien (flat): "This... is going to be a biggggg problem."
Kiara's eyes flared—then she moved.
Not like a warrior. Not like royalty.
Like a storm let loose.
Ice cracked beneath her, frost slashed the air, and in a heartbeat she was already closing in—
cold, furious, and faster than any of them remembered.
Anticipating this Tunde threw more stones in her general direction
They didn't aim to strike—
Only to spin.
As she lunged her balance faltered
Her once perfect dash became haphazard like a lose kite caught in shifting wind, suddenly it feltlike she was now caught in the storm of her own doing
She crashed down hard, then skidded sideways across the marble.
For a moment, she was still—
hands splayed on the cold floor.
They trembled.
With rage.
With fear.
With shame.
She stared at her hands—on the ground.
Again.
Something snapped.
She screamed—then launched forward, not with form, but with fury.
All elegance forgotten, Kiara became something else entirely—
a force of nature, all teeth and frost and wrath.
Despite crashing again and again, Kiara clawed her way toward him—
feral, relentless, frozen fury in motion.
Tunde stood there, trembling in his boots.
He didn't lift his sword.
Didn't breathe.
He just hoped.
Prayed.
That she'd stop.
That she'd give up.
So he wouldn't have to run.
"Don't run, don't run, don't run…"
"I have to honor the contract or the antidote won't work. Dammit—"
"Damn this shit!"
"Uck—!"
Tunde gagged as ice crept down his throat, the air burning cold inside his lungs.
Kiara had caught him.She was nearly entombed—frozen up to her neck, jagged frost crawling across her armor.
But still—her claws pierced into his neck, and with terrifying strength, she lifted him off the
ground.
The sound of crackling ice filled the silence—
sharp and steady, like glass fracturing beneath weight.
Her breaths came in ragged bursts, each one fogging the air around her face.
She looked like death—and breathed like something trying not to die.
"You even dared to stay?"
"You—this insignificant, powerless slave."
Ice crept higher across Tunde's chest, wrapping around his ribs like a vice.
The chill pressed against his heart.
Each beat grew slower.
Kiara's claws tightened. Her voice cracked—not with weakness, but with fury.
"Before I crush you...
Tell me."
"Who are you?"
"And who sent you?"
Tunde coughed—
a harsh, wet sound, sharp as shattering glass.
Blood spilled from the corner of his mouth, trailing down his chin—
then down her ice-cold fingers, where she still held him by the throat.
He looked her in the eye.
"Who sent me?"
A dry, cracked laugh rattled his chest.
"No one."
"But you'll remember me..."
"As the man who made you kneel—on the throne you thought was yours."
CRACK
THE END
This is the story of how I, Tunde Adebowale, ended the world with a single slash.And why I still don't regret it.