The ancient kingdom of Caelvaris was a realm of profound order, its vast lands seemingly held in an unbreakable grip by the Royal Bloodline (RB). For generations, their rule had been absolute, enforced by an army of unshakably loyal soldiers and an unyielding chain of command. To the common folk and even the powerful regional lords, this unwavering obedience was a mystery, often attributed to divine right or unparalleled discipline. But in truth, such loyalty wasn't achieved by mere discipline, but by a power known only to the RB: Veritus.
Veritus was a terrifyingly potent vocal command, capable of completely overriding an individual's will. Once heard and understood, a target was utterly compelled, their mind a blank slate for the wielder's directive, with no room for resistance. Its power was absolute, yet not without its costs. Only members of the Royal Bloodline, after years of rigorous, specialized training, could hope to wield it. Even then, its use was precise and limited; deploying it on more than a single individual or a very small group inflicted excruciating headaches upon the wielder. Constant use for roughly twenty years led to unbearable, agonizing pain—a sensation akin to a sword piercing the skull, accompanied by a horrifying feeling of brain decay—rendering further use impossible. To maintain the illusion of an eternally strong monarchy, the RB orchestrated a rigged "democratic" selection every two decades, ensuring a fresh, potent Veritus-wielder ascended to the throne from their own ranks. For obvious reasons, the power of Veritus was kept a profound secret from all except members of the RB; sharing this secret with an outsider was a sin punishable by death.
A sinister side effect of wielding Veritus was often a profound psychological shift in its users. It sometimes imbued them with an overwhelming sense of pride, pushing them to extreme lengths—even killing by the thousands—to protect that pride if it was ever hurt or challenged. It was as if a whole new person was acting in their place; the way they talked, carried themselves, everything about them changed. Even the RB didn't have answers for this phenomenon. All the kings who ruled with Veritus were known to be fiercely proud individuals, never holding back when their authority or honor was questioned.
Veritus also possessed unique vulnerabilities. A rare mountain poison, native to the RB's ancestral lands, could temporarily strip a wielder of their power for 24 hours. More critically, if a Veritus-wielder died without effectively passing on their power, all individuals they had compelled were instantly freed, their wills restored, and their memories of compulsion jarringly returned. Furthermore, if a Veritus victim came into direct contact with this same mountain poison, the command over them was immediately broken, restoring their consciousness.
The RB's governance, while absolute at the top, created a stark divide. The capital, Caelvaris, flourished under the direct attention and wealth funneled into it, fostering a populace that was genuinely content and loyal. Outside the city walls, however, the regions seethed with discontent. The RB, residing almost exclusively in Caelvaris, rarely visited the outlying territories as long as tributes were paid in full. These tributes were cripplingly high, draining resources and labor, leaving regional economies struggling. When threats arose or disasters struck, the distant Royals offered little aid, expecting Veritus-compelled lords to handle crises with insufficient resources. Impersonal, inflexible decrees from the capital often disrupted local customs and caused undue hardship, fostering deep resentment towards a detached central power.
From this discontent, a clandestine organization known as the Zarethi was born. It was not a unified front at first, but a collection of desperate regional cells, each fighting against local grievances. Their disparate efforts were eventually united by a pragmatic and brilliant leader known as Tharek Dhal. The son of a respected war veteran from one of the most oppressed regions, Aridorn, Tharek possessed a keen intellect and a burning desire for true liberation. He connected with the scattered cells, offering a clear vision and strategic guidance, slowly transforming local skirmishes into a cohesive rebellion. Through a series of successful, localized insurrections, he established himself as the de facto ruler of his home territory, laying the groundwork for a truly independent regional power.
The the Zarethi's efforts to understand the RB's uncanny control were met with frustration, their agents often turning against them, their wills seemingly overwritten. The first crack in the RB's impenetrable façade appeared as a puzzling shift in the regional lords' behavior. Once known for their genuine care for their lands, these lords had become strangely inert to local problems, their actions dictated by an unseen hand. The the Zarethi's Commander, Tharek, suspected something unnatural.
The definitive breakthrough came from within the Royal Bloodline itself. Prince Auren, the Second Prince of the RB, was a singular anomaly among the insulated Royals. Unlike his cloistered siblings, Auren had spent nine formative years living in one of the outlying regions. This unconventional upbringing, a subtle RB practice to expose some younger members to the kingdom's realities, had shown him the true suffering beyond Caelvaris's walls. During this time, he had also befriended the 17-year-old Lyra, youngest daughter of the Sixth Prince of the RB, who was discreetly living among commoners in another part of town, placed there by her own farsighted father. Their shared experience in the 'outside' world fostered an unspoken bond, and even a romantic affection.
Prince Auren lived, ate, played, bathed, and slept with commoners. At night, he practiced Veritus with Sir Josh, a knight sent with him for protection. Although his training was hard, he also developed a deep love for how they lived. He didn't understand why they had to live such difficult lives while the people in the capital had it easy. He wanted to make life better for them. After nine years of living with the commoners, Sir Josh informed him that the royal selection was upon them and that His Majesty had wanted him to participate. This filled the prince's heart with joy. He thought to himself that he was destined to win, "no prince lived through what I have lived through," he said, trying to hold back a smile.
The day of the selection came, and the Second Prince arrived in the capital just in time. The RB elites had already gathered in the meeting room to decide who the next king would be. The candidates were as follows: the First Prince, 25 years of age, with minor mastery of Veritus, who had lived in the capital all his life; the Second Prince (Auren), 18 years of age, with minor mastery of Veritus, who had lived among commoners half his life; and the Third Prince, 17 years of age, with minor mastery of Veritus, who had lived all his life in the capital. Usually, the prince with the most mastery of Veritus and the more life experience would get chosen, at least that is what was stated on the papers. Results came in. The Second Prince was anxious, not wanting to look. He was afraid he wouldn't get chosen and that nine years of his life would just be a waste of time. He opened his eyes slowly: 91% in favor of the Third Prince. He felt disgust. He felt betrayed. His pride was hurt. He had to do something. Something extreme. That is when he snapped.
The same day, he congratulated his brother and left the capital, ostensibly to go back to living with the commoners. At least, that is what the RB were told. Risking everything, Auren discreetly contacted the Zarethi.
The fire crackled between them, its glow dancing across the worn stone walls of the rebel hideout. Prince Auren sat opposite Tharek, the would-be liberator of the realm, the man whose cause he was about to make irrevocably worse—or better.
Tharek stared at him, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. "You came here alone. That either makes you brave… or desperate."
"I'm both," Auren replied. His voice was steady, but his stomach churned. "You want to tear them down. I can help you do that."
"Why?" Tharek leaned forward. "You're one of them. Royal Blood. Born with a command word on your tongue. You don't look like a man ready to set his house on fire."
"Maybe I'm just tired of choking on the smoke," Auren said. "They gave me a life among the commoners as a lesson. They didn't expect I'd fall in love with it."
Tharek narrowed his eyes. "So this is about justice?"
Auren hesitated—just for a second. "No. This is about revenge. I gave them nine years of my life. They gave me rejection. A child wearing a crown that should've been mine."
"And what do you want from us?"
"You help me tear down what they built," Auren said quietly. "And I'll help you rule what's left."
Tharek sat back, watching him. "You want power."
"I want meaning," Auren snapped. "Power is just how I'll make them remember me."
The room fell silent.
Tharek cracked the faintest smile—cold, pragmatic. "I'll take that gamble."
The preparations began immediately.
Auren led Tharek's most elite agents into the palace under the guise of a diplomatic visit. Hidden among their robes and scrolls were vials of the mountain poison. The plan was simple: poison the food and water of the key Veritus-wielders, disable their power, and strike before reinforcements could arrive.
When the night of the coup arrived, the palace feasted. The food was rich, the wine poured freely, and laughter filled the halls. By the time the poison took effect, it was too late. One by one, the royals clutched their throats, their commands faltering, eyes wide with confusion as the Veritus slipped from their voices. Their loyal soldiers—long bound by unseen chains—suddenly staggered, blinking, awakening from years of silence.
The Order struck fast. Doors fell. Guards turned. Screams echoed in the marble corridors as the royal legacy collapsed in on itself.
Auren stood at the edge of the throne room, watching his family fall. Some wept. Others fought. He felt nothing.
He moved through the throne room, stepping over bodies still warm. Screams echoed faintly in the distance, but the throne hall was already quiet. Blood glistened on marble. Statues of old kings watched him in judgmental silence. He didn't care.
He had done it.
It was not satisfaction that filled him, nor joy. It was a kind of hollow finality. The silence that comes not after a battle—but after betrayal.
He took his place at the foot of the throne and stared up at it. For the first time in his life, no one stood in his way. And yet, he did not ascend.
Behind him, footsteps.
A blade.
It slid through him without a word. No declaration. No warning.
He gasped, a breath escaping his lips.
He turned—barely. Saw the soldier. Not one of RB's. One of his own. Or what he thought had been his.
"Veritus built this kingdom," the man said. "And you thought breaking it made you king?"
The blade twisted.
Auren fell.
He had broken the chain. But in doing so, he had shattered the only identity he had left.
And as he lay bleeding beneath the empty throne, the world began to rewrite itself without him.
Prince Auren's own assassination, orchestrated by the Zarethi to remove a volatile loose end, ensured his secret affection for the Sixth Prince's daughter remained buried with him. It was the only mistake of the night.
With the true Voice-King dead, the compulsion over the regional lords immediately shattered. A period of stunned silence fell over them as the reality of their past servitude, and their newfound freedom, sank in. The the Zarethi, now led solely by Lord Tharek Dhal, quickly broke this silence, dispatching secret letters to the lords. In clandestine meetings, Tharek Dhal laid bare the truth of Veritus, the silent coup, and the puppet king's powerlessness. He declared his own region independent, and the other lords, galvanized by the revelation, swiftly followed suit. Public declarations of independence swept across the land. In Caelvaris, the puppet king could only shake his head in impotent agreement as his kingdom crumbled.
From the quiet outskirts of Caelvaris, the 17-year-old Lyra, youngest daughter of the Sixth Prince, witnessed this unraveling. She had been sent away by her father years before the initial coup, for the same reason Prince Auren had been—to gain experience of the kingdom's realities beyond the capital's insulated walls. Upon hearing the grim news of her bloodline's utter annihilation, she simply blended into the throngs of commoners, her royal lineage an invisible mark. Yet, the memories of her family's power, their secrets, and their ultimate downfall burned within her. In the quiet solitude of her adopted life, she meticulously poured her knowledge into a series of hidden journals—a grimoire of forgotten power, a testament to a legacy the world deliberately suppressed, eager to forget the true source of the RB's tyranny. She never told her children about their bloodline, entrusting the dangerous knowledge and the precious book only to her eldest daughter, who would one day bear a son, the inheritor of a power that refuses to stay buried.