The warlord's corpse had long since cooled, but the fire it left in the camp did not die.
The exiles whispered in the shadows, voices sharp with awe and suspicion. They had seen him devour a tyrant. They had seen the impossible flame. But fear alone does not make loyalty. Fear breeds plots. Fear breeds knives in the dark.
The forsaken prince knew this. He had lived in the shadows of stronger siblings long enough to recognize the look in a viper's eyes. And tonight, every face around him was a viper's face.
He sat upon the throne of bones, the warlord's cleaver leaning against its side like a relic of conquest. The jagged horns jutting from his skull ached, still raw from his last fusion. His veins hummed with borrowed rage, the berserker's strength lingering inside him like a second soul thrashing to be free.
The Codex pulsed.
> "You have tasted command. Now seal it. Rule with the only law outcasts understand: fear sharpened into obedience. Kill one, and a hundred will kneel."
He closed his eyes for a moment. His mother's general had spoken of legacy, of destiny—but this? A throne of bones in the dirt? Men and women who had lost everything, snarling dogs in chains? Was this the foundation of his return, or the pit that would bury him?
"Prince…"
Lira's voice was soft, but steady. She stood at his side, refusing to cower as the rest did. Her presence was a blade of calm amid the storm of whispers. "They're watching. They'll tear themselves apart if you don't give them direction."
Her words were true. Already, a handful of men argued at the edges of the circle—who should claim spoils, who should lead patrols. The warlord's death had cracked the spine of their hierarchy, and chaos threatened to pour through the fractures.
He rose from the throne. The murmurs fell silent. Every eye followed as he stepped down into the firelight.
"I am not your warlord," he said, his voice cutting clean through the stillness. "I am not the beast who fed on your fear."
A murmur of confusion.
"I am your sovereign. And under me, there is only one law."
He raised his clawed hand. Black flame coiled around it, writhing like living shadow. The air itself seemed to flinch.
"Loyalty is rewarded. Betrayal…" His claws snapped shut, and the fire hissed out. "Betrayal is devoured."
The Codex purred approval.
> "Yes. They understand this tongue. Speak it into their bones."
A grizzled exile stepped forward, scar carved deep across his cheek. His eyes glinted with defiance. "And if we refuse, prince? If we bow to no master?"
The crowd stirred, watching, waiting.
The forsaken prince did not answer with words. He struck.
In the space of a breath, he blurred forward, wolf-blood speed carrying him. His claws ripped across the man's chest, black fire flaring as flesh turned to ash. The exile crumpled, essence flooding into the Codex with a shuddering sigh.
The crowd froze. Some gagged at the stench. Others could not tear their eyes away.
The prince wiped his clawed hand on the dirt, voice cold. "This is your choice. Serve me, and you live. Defy me, and you are nothing but fuel for my strength."
One by one, the exiles bent their knees. Some did it quickly, eager to survive. Others delayed, pride trembling in their throats—but in the end, all bowed.
All but one.
A younger man, thin, ragged, eyes wild. He spat into the dirt. "You're just another monster. No better than the tyrant you killed."
The Codex's hunger flared, urging him to strike, to devour. But he held back. Slowly, he stepped closer until the young man trembled beneath his shadow.
"No," the prince said, voice like steel drawn slow. "I am worse. For I do not lie about what I am."
His claws snapped forward. Ash scattered on the wind.
Silence held. Then, without a word, the rest pressed their foreheads to the dirt. Submission.
The Codex pulsed like a second heart, deeper, stronger.
> "Yes. Your essence pool swells. Each kneeling soul feeds the web of your dominion. You are not merely their lord—you are their root, their center. Break one, and the rest will wither."
The prince's head bowed for a moment beneath the weight of that truth. Was he still himself, or was the Codex already twining him into something darker?
Lira touched his arm, grounding him. "You've given them order," she whispered. "That's more than they had before."
Order. Or chains made of fire. He did not answer her.
The night deepened, filled with the sounds of the camp shifting under new command. Fires rekindled. Guards set. For the first time, the forsaken prince ruled.
Yet even as he sat once more upon the throne, unease gnawed at him. The horns ached sharper. The Codex whispered louder.
And in the corner of the camp, an exile leaned close, his voice low as he whispered to another:
"The assassins are coming. Marching this way, even now."
The prince's eyes snapped open, crimson gleam cutting through the dark. Assassins. His siblings had not forgotten him. And this time, he was no longer prey.
The whisper spread like wildfire through the camp. The assassins are coming.
At first, it was no more than a hushed word passed between firelight shadows, but soon it climbed into the air like smoke, choking the night. The exiles shifted uneasily, their gazes flicking between the throne of bones and the dark horizon. Some tightened their grips on rusted weapons. Others already thought of fleeing.
The forsaken prince felt it before they even said the word. His blood burned. The Codex pulsed in warning, a ripple of ancient malice rolling through his veins.
> "Do you feel it? The scent of blades forged to end you. The hand of your siblings reaching across the borderlands. They could not kill you in shadows, so they come in daylight. Good. Let them."
His claws curled against the armrest of the throne. Assassins again. It was not enough that they had cast him out, branded him as waste, buried him in exile—they would not rest until even his ashes were scattered.
He rose, slow, deliberate. The murmurs died instantly.
"You hear the same whispers I do," he said, voice carrying across the circle. "You fear them. You should. My siblings' assassins are not men who miss their mark."
The crowd stirred. A few exiles cursed under their breath. One spat into the dirt.
"But," the prince continued, his voice hardening, "they made one mistake."
He stepped forward into the firelight, horns casting jagged shadows across the dirt. The black flame rose around him like a shroud, painting his face in hellish glow.
"They think I am still prey."
The Codex shivered with approval, and the crowd flinched as if it too heard the whisper between his words.
Lira's eyes never left him. Calm, steady, though he could see the fear trembling beneath her calm. She knew as well as he did—this was no longer just a fight for survival. This was the test of whether he could hold what he had claimed.
"Prince…" she said softly, but enough for all to hear. "If they come for you, they come for all of us. The camp will burn if you fall."
The exiles looked at her, then at him. Fear clashed with something else—resentment, pride, the gnawing question of why they should die for him.
He saw it in their eyes, and before doubt could spread, he struck it down.
"You want freedom?" he demanded, his voice a whip. "Then fight for it. These assassins are not only mine. If they find this camp, they will slaughter you as dogs. They will chain your wives, burn your sons, and laugh while you choke on your own blood. That is what the empire does to the forgotten."
Silence gripped the camp. His words hung heavy in the firelight.
"Stand with me, and you will not be forgotten. Stand with me, and you will be feared."
The Codex surged in his chest, the voice curling like smoke around his heart.
> "Yes. Bind them. Not with chains, but with fire. Their fear is your leash. Their loyalty is your weapon. And when they die for you… their essence will still be yours."
He raised his clawed hand, and black fire flared again. "Choose, outcasts! Bend your heads and cower—or rise, and carve your names in blood beside mine!"
The silence cracked. A scarred man pounded his fist against his chest. Then another. Then a dozen more. Voices rose, ragged, desperate, but fierce. The sound of men and women who had nothing left to lose but their chains.
The prince lowered his hand. His heart thundered, but his face was cold stone. For the first time, he saw it—an army. Crude, battered, untested, but his.
In the distance, faint on the night wind, came the steady drum of marching feet.
The assassins were close.
The forsaken prince turned his gaze to the horizon, the crimson glow of his eyes cutting through the dark.
"Then let them come."
The Codex whispered, almost laughing.
> "Good. Now, let the world see what becomes of hunters… when the prey learns to devour."
Cliffhanger: The fires of the exile camp blaze higher, shadows stretching like banners of war. And from the black horizon, the assassins march nearer—this time not as executioners, but as the first test of a prince rising from the ashes.