The smoke that had stained the horizon now loomed before them in full, curling into the dusk sky like the breath of some slumbering giant. The closer they drew, the stronger the stench became—burnt flesh, boiled stew, iron, and sweat mingling into a reek that made the prince's nose twitch in disgust.
He paused at the ridge, Lira lingering at his side. Below them, sprawled across the broken earth, was a camp of tents and makeshift walls, ringed with crude spikes on which skulls and bones had been mounted as trophies. A banner fluttered from a jagged pike in the center: a black wolf's head smeared in crimson paint, its eyes nothing but dripping red slashes.
An exile warlord's mark.
The prince's jaw tightened. This was no mere gathering of wanderers—it was a throne of ash carved by a tyrant.
The Codex whispered, oily and eager:
> "Essence density… moderate. Command structure identified. One dominant core… ripe for devouring."
He clenched his fist. It was right—the essence radiating from the center of camp was heavy, potent, far more refined than the rabble scattered around it. That would be the warlord.
Beside him, Lira shifted uneasily. "We should avoid it," she whispered. "Places like that… they'll smell your weakness the moment you step inside. They'll tear you apart."
A bitter smile tugged at his lips. "Let them try."
The truth was, weakness had always been his cloak—mockery his shadow. He knew how to bend it, how to make others blind. If the warlord saw only a cripple, then he would not see the knife hidden behind the guise.
He pulled his ragged cloak tighter over his shoulders, concealing the faint glow of his horns beneath his hood. The Codex pulsed within, restless, but he pressed it down. Tonight was not about frenzy. Tonight was about patience.
They entered at twilight.
The guards at the outer camp barely looked twice at them. Hunger had dulled their senses; the promise of cruelty had sharpened their teeth in other directions. One spat on the ground as they passed, sneering at Lira's worn dress, but made no move to stop them. A cripple and his ragged companion—what threat were they in a place built on blood?
The camp within was chaos. Fires blazed in circles, with exiles drinking and jeering around them. Children with hollow eyes sat beside cages that rattled with half-starved beasts. Men sharpened blades against stones slick with dried blood. Laughter and screams blended, indistinguishable in the night air.
The prince walked through it all with lowered head and slow steps, the image of a wanderer beaten too often to resist. His body screamed at every sound, instincts urging him to strike, to devour, to burn this place into cinders. But he endured, each step an act of iron control.
Lira followed close, her gaze darting from shadow to shadow. More than once, hands reached out toward her, leering faces sizing her up. Each time, the prince shifted—just slightly, just enough that his clawed fingertips glinted in the firelight beneath his cloak. The hands withdrew. None of them could say why the cripple unsettled them. They simply felt it: a taste of predator hidden beneath rags.
They found the warlord at the heart of the camp.
He was a massive figure seated upon a crude throne of bones lashed together with sinew. His hair was a tangled mane streaked with gray, his shoulders bare, revealing scars that gleamed like brands in the firelight. His arms bulged with veins, and his eyes burned with the savage pride of one who had clawed his way up from nothing.
Around him, lieutenants lounged with stolen finery, drinking from golden cups looted long ago. Slaves scurried at their feet.
The warlord's gaze fixed on the newcomers as they approached. He grinned, revealing teeth sharpened into points. "Another cripple crawls to my fire. And a girl with him, too. Have you come to beg scraps, or to sell her for a place among the dogs?"
Laughter rippled through the circle.
The prince did not answer immediately. He let the silence stretch, let the mockery curdle into impatience. Then, with deliberate slowness, he lifted his head, meeting the warlord's eyes without flinching.
"I came," he said softly, voice rough with controlled fire, "to see what passes for strength in this wasteland."
The jeers stilled. The warlord's grin widened, amused by the audacity. "Strength? You think you'll find it here, cripple?"
The Codex stirred violently inside him, whispering:
> "This one commands. This one feeds on fear. Devour him, and the camp is yours."
The prince's pulse thundered. His claws ached beneath his cloak. But he smiled thinly, bowing his head just enough to let the warlord think him harmless.
"Perhaps," he murmured, "I've already found it."
The warlord leaned forward, eyes narrowing. The circle erupted again in cruel laughter, but he silenced them with a raised hand. He studied the ragged prince, sensing something he could not name.
Finally, he barked, "We'll see if you're worth the dirt on your boots. Tomorrow, cripple—you'll stand before me. If you survive, perhaps I'll give you a place at my table."
The Codex purred like a serpent, hungry and pleased.
The prince lowered his gaze, concealing the faint glow of his crimson eyes. Inwardly, he thought: Tomorrow, tyrant. Tomorrow I will show you what true strength costs.
That night, as he lay in the shadows of the camp with Lira at his side, the Codex whispered again:
> "Devour the tyrant… and claim his throne."
The drums of the camp echoed through the dark, each beat a promise of blood.
And the forsaken prince smiled.
Night in the exile camp was a theater of cruelty.
The fires never dimmed, nor did the voices—they rose and fell in a ceaseless rhythm of drunken laughter, screams from the slave pits, and the guttural barks of beasts gnawing on discarded bones. Above it all, the drums throbbed, deep and hollow, like the heartbeat of some monstrous god watching from the dark.
The prince lay awake in a corner of shadow, his ragged cloak pulled tight, Lira pressed close beside him. Around them, the rabble sprawled in drunken stupor, others sharpening blades or whispering of raids to come. Sleep had no place here—only vigilance.
The Codex hummed within him, low and insistent.
> "This camp is a carcass. Tear the heart from its chest, and the rest will rot into obedience."
He closed his eyes, steadying his breath. Not yet. His power was still raw, his control fragile. To rise here, he could not simply rely on claws and flame. He needed the right moment. He needed eyes turned toward him, voices whispering his name, fear rooting deeper than laughter.
Lira shifted slightly, whispering so low only he could hear. "They'll kill you tomorrow. You saw their faces. None of them want you here."
He opened his eyes, gazing at the firelight flickering across the ragged camp. "That is why I must stay. If I flee now, I am prey forever. If I stand, I change the game."
Her lips parted, ready to argue, but something in his tone silenced her. He was not the stammering shadow of a forgotten court anymore. His words carried an edge—quiet, deliberate, the weight of someone who had already chosen.
The Codex whispered again, serpentine.
> "She fears for you. She does not yet understand—you are no longer one who can be killed like a man. You are more. Prove it, and she will kneel as the rest must."
He ignored the goading, though a part of him thrilled at it. He let his gaze drift toward the warlord's bonfire, where the tyrant himself drank with his lieutenants. They roared with laughter, meat grease dripping from their chins, blades glinting as they passed them from hand to hand like toys.
The warlord lifted a skull-shaped cup and bellowed to the night: "Tomorrow, the cripple dances for my fire!" His men roared approval, banging their weapons against the ground in savage rhythm.
The prince's jaw tightened. His humiliation was fuel; he let it burn slowly, feeding the forge inside him.
Dawn came blood-red.
The camp stirred like a beast roused from slumber, drawn toward the center where the bone throne stood. The warlord lounged upon it, swollen with confidence, a predator sure of the kill to come. His lieutenants ringed him, and beyond them, the exiles pressed close, hungry for spectacle.
The prince walked forward through the circle, each step deliberate. He looked every inch the cripple they mocked: shoulders hunched, gait uneven, cloak tattered. The crowd jeered, spitting curses and laughter, some throwing scraps at his feet.
But his eyes—hidden beneath his hood—burned with quiet fire.
The Codex's voice slithered inside his skull.
> "Here it is. The stage. Strike, and they are yours. Bleed, and you are carrion."
The warlord stood, towering, his body a fortress of scars and muscle. He drew a jagged blade, its edge notched from countless kills, and pointed it at the prince. "Kneel before me, cripple, and I'll let you live as a dog. Refuse… and you'll feed the earth."
The circle howled with laughter.
The prince lifted his head, and for the first time, let the hood fall back. His pale skin gleamed in the morning light, black veins faintly glowing, eyes fractured with the shifting sigil of the Codex. Gasps cut through the jeers; some spat in disgust, others recoiled instinctively.
He spoke, voice calm, steady:
"I kneel to no tyrant. If you want me as your dog… then you'll have to break me yourself."
The laughter froze, replaced by a sharp, collective hiss of excitement. The warlord grinned wide, baring his sharpened teeth.
"So be it."
He leapt forward, blade whistling through the air, heavy and merciless. The crowd roared as the fight began.
The first clash was thunder.
The prince barely sidestepped, the blade tearing sparks as it struck stone where he had stood. His body screamed with weakness, but the Codex surged, flooding his limbs with predatory instinct. He felt the wolf's senses sharpen, the berserker's strength flicker beneath his skin, the nether flame seething just beyond his fingertips.
But he held it back. Not yet.
The warlord lunged again, a storm of muscle and steel. Each blow could crush bone, each strike designed to maim and terrify. The prince staggered, cloak whipping, his claws hidden. To the crowd, it looked as though the cripple danced on the edge of death.
Whispers spread. Some mocked, others murmured—why was he still standing?
Lira's hands clenched in the shadows, her breath ragged.
The Codex urged louder, impatient:
> "End him. Tear his essence. Show them the beast you are."
The prince's thoughts burned. No. Not yet. They must see more than a beast. They must see will.
The warlord, frustrated, snarled and swung with both hands, a killing blow meant to split him in two. The prince dropped low, cloak tearing, and for an instant his claws flashed—black flame sparking as he raked across the warlord's side. Flesh split, blood spraying.
The crowd screamed in shock.
The warlord staggered, eyes wide, then roared with rage. His blood boiled on the ground, sizzling where it touched the faint sparks of nether fire.
The prince rose, chest heaving, eyes burning like coals.
"I am no cripple," he said coldly, voice carrying across the stunned circle. "I am the forsaken prince. And tonight, I take your throne."
The camp erupted, chaos and awe crashing together.
The Codex pulsed, triumphant.
> "Yes… yes. Devour the tyrant. Claim your dominion."
The warlord charged, maddened, his blade a blur of steel. And the forsaken prince moved to meet him, no longer prey, no longer hidden—every step a declaration that the age of survival was over.
He was here to rule.
Cliffhanger: The battle begins in full—the crippled prince against the warlord tyrant, the fate of the exile camp trembling in the balance.