The morning air was thick with smoke and anticipation.
The exile camp had gathered in a ragged circle, their faces lit by the orange glow of bonfires stoked high, as though fire itself hungered for blood. Men and women pressed close, their eyes glinting with hunger—not for food, but for spectacle. The weak clung to the fringes, eager to see who would fall, while the strong sharpened their blades, grinning in cruel expectation.
At the center of it all, the warlord stood.
Bare-chested, muscles ridged and swollen, he carried a jagged cleaver as long as a man's arm. Scars crisscrossed his skin like trophies carved into flesh, each one a story of survival, a declaration of power. He looked less like a man and more like a beast who had learned to walk upright. His laughter boomed across the circle.
"Bring the cripple!"
The jeers that followed stabbed into the air like spears. The forsaken prince stepped forward slowly, his cloak trailing dust. His stride was steady, but every eye saw only weakness, only the slight tremor in his steps, the faint rasp of breath. Lira followed at a distance, her hands clenched against her chest, face pale with dread.
He ignored the stares. He ignored the laughter.
His gaze was fixed only on the throne of bones behind the warlord. That seat—mocking, grotesque, drenched in the essence of fear—was not simply a chair. It was proof of dominion. And tonight, it would be his.
The Codex pulsed within him like a second heartbeat.
> "The moment has come. Tear the tyrant apart. Feed on him, and the camp will bow."
He lowered his hood, letting the pale light strike his face. Murmurs rippled as the crowd saw the faint black veins across his skin, the strange glow pulsing in his fractured eyes. Some recoiled; others spat in disgust.
The warlord sneered, raising his cleaver.
"You think to challenge me, runt? You couldn't even lift this blade, let alone survive its kiss."
The prince's voice was calm, almost soft.
"Try me."
The circle howled with delight.
The duel began with a roar.
The warlord lunged, cleaver whistling through the air with bone-crushing force. The ground split where it struck, dust exploding upward. The prince twisted aside, cloak whipping around him. His heart pounded, but his movements were fluid, guided by the wolf's bloodline fused within him—every twitch of muscle, every shift in air a warning.
The crowd jeered. "Run, cripple! Run!"
The warlord snarled, swinging again. His blows were storms, each one shaking the earth, but none found their mark. The prince slipped and sidestepped, eyes sharp, mind cold.
Not yet. Not yet.
He could feel the nether flame boiling in his veins, begging to erupt. He could feel the berserker's brute strength humming in the Codex, waiting to be unleashed. But he did not give in—not until the warlord's arrogance peaked, not until the crowd's laughter turned to unease.
Then, at last, he struck.
A flick of claws, black sparks arcing through the air. The warlord hissed as lines of blood welled across his chest, smoke rising faintly from the wound where nether fire had kissed him.
Silence rippled through the circle.
The prince straightened, eyes burning. "I am no cripple."
Gasps broke from the crowd. Some took a step back. Others whispered. The warlord's grin faltered, then twisted into fury.
"Tricks," he spat. "You think fire and claws make you my equal? I'll crush your skull and feed your ashes to the dogs!"
With a bellow, he surged forward, every muscle bulging as he swung his cleaver in a killing arc. This time, the prince did not dodge. His claws flashed upward, catching the steel with a shriek of sparks. For an instant, the two forces locked—the raw, savage strength of the warlord against the burning, unnatural power of the Codex.
Pain ripped through the prince's arms, but beneath it was something else—something deeper, darker. His eyes flared, and the nether flame erupted, crawling along the cleaver's edge. The warlord's grin broke into shock as fire raced up the blade toward his hands.
He recoiled, roaring in pain, his palms blistered and smoking. The crowd erupted into chaos—half jeering, half awestruck.
The prince's chest heaved. He could feel the Codex whispering, insistent:
> "Now. Break him. Devour him. Show them what you are."
The warlord, maddened, hurled himself forward again. But this time, the prince did not evade. He met him head-on, black fire spilling from his claws, the wolf's speed carrying him forward in a blur.
Their clash was thunder and flame.
The warlord's cleaver slammed down, but the prince twisted beneath it, driving his claws into the tyrant's side. Nether flame flared, and the stench of burning flesh filled the air. The warlord staggered, eyes wide with disbelief.
The prince leaned close, voice low, words meant only for the dying man.
"You ruled through fear. I will rule through fire."
With a final, brutal strike, he drove his claws through the warlord's chest. The Codex surged, hungry, and essence poured into him—raw, molten power flooding every vein. His muscles tightened, his vision sharpened, and deep within him, something new stirred: a berserker's fury, wild and unrelenting.
The warlord crumpled to the earth, his body already withering, husk-like, as the Codex devoured his strength.
The crowd froze.
Silence pressed down, heavy and absolute. Then, one by one, the exiles dropped to their knees. First the weak, trembling in awe. Then the hardened, lowering their heads in grudging submission. Even the lieutenants bowed, faces pale with shock.
Only the prince stood, chest heaving, black fire still dancing faintly across his hands. His gaze swept the camp, cold and unyielding.
"I am no cripple. I am no exile. I am the forsaken prince."
The Codex purred in his veins, triumphant.
> "They kneel. They are yours. Rule them… or devour them."
The prince raised his head, eyes burning like shattered suns.
"From this day," he declared, his voice carrying across the silence, "you will serve me—or you will be devoured."
The camp roared its answer, voices crashing like a storm.
And the forsaken prince stood alone at the center of it, no longer a hunted shadow, but a sovereign carved in fire.
The exiles kneel, and in the shadows, whispers spread. One survivor, face pale, runs from the camp with news that will reach the Empire: The Forsaken Prince lives.
The camp was fire and silence.
The warlord's corpse still smoldered, black smoke curling from the hole in his chest. His cleaver lay half-buried in the dirt, useless now, a monument to broken strength. The smell of blood and charred flesh thickened the air until every breath tasted of iron.
The forsaken prince stood above it all, chest heaving, claws still dripping. His horns throbbed with a dull ache, each pulse echoing the hunger of the Codex.
The exiles stared. Some bowed, some trembled, but all waited—for a command, for a verdict, for the first word of their new master.
Inside him, the Codex purred like a beast licking its fangs.
> "You feel it, don't you? Their fear. Their surrender. With a single word, you could bind them—or break them. Say it, little prince. Claim them as cattle."
His claws twitched. The temptation was there, sharp as a knife pressed against his own throat. One order, and the Codex would drink deep: men and women collapsing like husks, their strength flowing into him. His body yearned for it. His blood whispered for it.
But then he saw her.
Lira, pressed against the edge of the circle, her face pale, her eyes bright—not with fear of him, but with something harder. Expectation. Faith.
She had held him through the fire, whispered him back when the beast nearly devoured his mind. And now she waited to see which part of him had survived: the prince, or the hunger.
The warlord's throne of bones loomed behind him, casting its jagged shadow across the firelight. It seemed to beckon, daring him to sit.
The prince's voice cut through the camp, cold but steady.
"You lived under chains. Under his shadow." He kicked the warlord's husk, sending it sprawling into the dust. "From this day—your chains are broken. You will fight beside me. You will rise with me. Or…"
His claws flared with black flame, burning against the night.
"…you will feed me."
The crowd roared. Some shouted his name—others simply howled, drunk on fear and awe. And in that moment, the camp was his.
The Codex chuckled low in his bones.
> "Mercy. Hah. Call it mercy if you like. But they will betray you. They always do. And when they do… remember how sweet their essence will taste."
He clenched his fist. He would not argue with it now. Not with the eyes of so many fixed on him.
The lieutenants of the warlord stepped forward—scarred, brutal men, but their weapons lowered. One knelt, then another, until even the most defiant dropped their gaze.
"Lord," one rasped, bowing his head. "The camp… is yours."
The prince let the words settle like ash on his skin. For the first time since his exile, he was not running, not hiding. For the first time, others called him lord.
But in the shadows beyond the firelight, a different movement stirred. A single exile, face pale with terror, slipped away from the circle. No one noticed—except him.
The prince's eyes narrowed, crimson light flickering. He watched the man flee into the night, breath sharp, feet pounding toward the wilds.
And he knew.
The Empire would hear of this. Of him.
Of the forsaken prince who lived, who killed, who ruled.
The Codex pulsed, hungry for the war to come.
> "Good. Let them know. Let them fear. An empire of blood begins with whispers."
The prince turned away from the corpse of the warlord and set his gaze on the throne of bones. Slowly, he walked to it, each step dragging the weight of new destiny.
When he sat, the firelight caught his horns, his eyes, the faint shimmer of black veins.
And in that moment, every exile bowed.
Not to a warlord. Not to a tyrant.
But to something far more dangerous.
Cliffhanger:
Far from the borderlands, deep in the Demon Empire's capital, a messenger would soon kneel before the Crown Prince and speak the forbidden words:
"The Forsaken lives."