The head rode into the empire before dawn.
Wrapped in black cloth, its weight swayed with each step of the weary exile who carried it, until at last he dropped it where the empire's border patrols would surely find it. By noon, the captain's severed head—still bearing traces of nether flame—rolled across the polished floors of the Imperial Hall.
A hush blanketed the chamber. Courtiers and nobles pressed back, faces paling at the sight. Assassins were whispers in the dark, shadows that returned with blood-stained blades but never with their own corpses. To see one of their captains dead—and sent back like a discarded offering—was unthinkable.
Atop the obsidian dais, the Crown Prince rose slowly from his throne. His eyes were like cold garnets, smoldering but controlled.
"Who dares deliver this insult?" he asked softly.
The messenger knelt, forehead pressed to marble. "The Forsaken Prince lives, my lord. He slew the captain in the borderlands. His army of outcasts grows. He—he sent this as proof."
The Crown Prince bent, lifting the severed head by its hair. For a moment, silence reigned. Then—he laughed. Not loud, but sharp and cutting, like steel dragged across stone.
"My brother crawls from the grave." His lips curved into a thin smile. "Good. I had begun to fear the succession would be too dull."
Gasps rippled through the hall. Some of the emperor's children smirked, others bristled. Jealous eyes turned to one another, silently calculating what this meant. The Forsaken Prince was no longer a forgotten failure. He was a name that could not be erased.
"Shall we send the armies, Highness?" one noble asked nervously. "End him before his shadow spreads."
The Crown Prince's gaze cut to the man, and the noble fell silent.
"No," the prince said calmly. "Armies are for wars. This is not yet war. Let him play king among rats. Let him choke on the scraps of exile. When the time comes, I will end him myself."
His words dripped with venomous certainty. "And when I do, the empire will see what happens when carrion dares call itself a wolf."
The head dropped to the floor with a dull thud, its lifeless eyes staring upward as though mocking the court.
Far from the glittering halls of power, the wasteland burned with whispers. News of the Forsaken Prince's survival spread like wildfire. Border raiders spoke of a horned lord who devoured souls. Wandering caravans carried rumors of a camp that had defied imperial assassins. And in the dark corners of taverns, exiles spoke his name with a mixture of awe and dread.
Back in his camp, the prince sat alone before the embers of the night's fire. His claws drummed against the arm of his chair, his gaze distant. He had sent his message. He had declared himself. Now he waited for the empire's answer.
Lira approached cautiously. She had cleaned her wounds, though her arm was bound in rough cloth. Her eyes searched his face, reading the storm behind his calm.
"They know now," she said softly. "The empire cannot ignore you."
"They will come," he replied. His voice was low, deliberate. "More assassins. Perhaps even legions. My siblings will not forgive humiliation."
The Codex stirred, whispering through his mind like a tide of black fire:
> "Good. Let them come. Every blade they send is more strength for you to devour. Every enemy slain is fuel for your ascension. Do not fear their hatred, vessel—embrace it. Hatred is the soil from which dominion grows."
He closed his eyes briefly, hearing its insidious rhythm. He knew the Codex hungered, forever urging him to consume, to dominate. But deep within, a different fire smoldered—not only vengeance, but the memory of chains, of mockery, of being less than nothing.
He would not stop. He could not.
When his eyes opened again, they burned crimson in the dark.
"I will tear them down," he said. "One by one. Every sibling who laughed. Every lord who scorned me. Every hand that pushed me into the dirt. I will carve my place in the marrow of the empire."
His words did not roar. They did not thunder. They fell like quiet steel, sharp enough to cut flesh by the whisper of their edge.
Lira shivered but did not look away. "Then I will walk beside you. Even into the abyss."
The Codex pulsed with approval, its runes glowing faintly across his skin.
> "Your oath is forged, vessel. Hatred burns bright, but oaths… oaths bind the soul."
The camp, though scarred and bloodied, pulsed with new energy. Exiles trained under the broken banners of their past lives, sharpening blades, mending armor. Where once there had been despair, now there was hunger—a reflection of their prince.
That night, as the wastelands slept uneasily, the Codex stirred once more. Its voice slithered into the silence:
> "You have taken your first step beyond forsakenness. Now the Codex reveals further truth. A new page turns. A deeper hunger awakens."
The air grew heavy. Shadows rippled along his arms, his chest, searing pain crawling like molten iron beneath his skin. He gritted his teeth, but did not scream. The Codex was rewriting him. Unlocking something more.
The fire crackled once, then flared black before settling back into red. His breath came ragged, but his eyes glowed brighter.
A new page had opened.
And with it—the promise of power that could rival gods.
As the Codex's runes pulsed with eerie light, the prince whispered, "Come, then. Test me. I will not break."
Far away, the Crown Prince sharpened his blades, a cold smile curling his lips. Both knew the game had begun.
The Imperial Palace was never silent, yet that night it felt hollow. Even as servants rushed across marble floors and guards marched their endless circles, the corridors carried an unease that would not fade. Every whisper, every glance, carried the same name:
The Forsaken Prince.
For years, he had been nothing but a footnote in drunken conversations, a cautionary tale to frighten noble children: Fail the trials, and you too will end as nothing, like the forgotten one. Now, his name carried weight again, heavy enough to bend the air.
---
In the Imperial Hall
The head of the slain captain remained where it had been discarded, a grisly reminder staining the pristine obsidian floor. Few dared approach it. Even fewer dared speak.
One of the younger princesses, her crimson silks glittering like fire, broke the silence at last.
"So the weakling still breathes." She arched a delicate brow. "Perhaps the gods enjoy cruel jokes."
Her words dripped with disdain, yet her fingers clenched tightly around the arm of her chair. The sight of that head troubled her, though she would never admit it.
Another sibling, the Fourth Prince, smirked lazily. "Alive, yes. But a rat dressed in a wolf's pelt is still a rat. He will choke on his arrogance before the year ends."
But in the shadows near the throne, the Second Princess said nothing. She only watched. Her eyes, sharper than blades, gleamed with calculation. If the Forsaken Prince had truly returned from death, then he was no longer irrelevant. He was a piece on the board—dangerous, but also usable.
The Crown Prince saw their shifting expressions. He let them speak, let them sneer, let them whisper. And when the chamber grew restless, his voice cut through like a sword.
"Mock him, if it comforts you," he said. "But do not underestimate him. A rat that survives the pit learns to bite. And one that eats assassins…" His lips curved faintly. "…may one day learn to feast on lions."
His words silenced the hall. He had no need to shout. His calm was more frightening than fury.
The head still stared up from the floor, its blackened eyes accusing.
In the Wasteland Camp
Far away, the prince sat among his outcasts. A hundred fires flickered across the barren ground, their smoke curling into the starless sky. The camp was alive with restless energy—sharpening blades, binding wounds, arguing in harsh voices that carried across the wind.
They were no longer just survivors. They were becoming soldiers. His soldiers.
He rose, and the murmur of the camp faltered. Eyes turned toward him—broken men, scarred women, children with hollow cheeks—all of them bound by desperation, all of them watching the figure who had defied the empire's hunters.
"You've all heard the whispers," he began. His voice was not loud, but the crackling Codex beneath his skin made every syllable hum with weight. "They call me forsaken. They call you rats, thieves, exiles. To the empire, we are nothing."
He paused, letting the silence sharpen the air.
"But nothing has teeth." His gaze swept across them, crimson burning in his eyes. "And when nothing bites, even kings bleed."
A ripple passed through the crowd. Murmurs turned to growls, growls to cheers. Some struck their weapons against the earth in rhythm, a drumbeat of defiance.
Lira stepped forward, her arm still bandaged. "We followed you because you survived what none of us could. But now…" Her voice trembled, not from fear but from conviction. "…now we will fight because you are the proof that the empire can bleed."
The Codex pulsed at his side, glowing faintly like molten veins across his arm.
> "Yes," it whispered, sweet and terrible. "They begin to see you not as exile, but as lord. Feed them your fire, vessel, and they will march into the abyss with you."
He ignored the hunger in its voice, though his chest tightened. The power it offered was intoxicating—too intoxicating.
He raised his clawed hand, the nether flame dancing faintly at his fingertips. "Then let us carve our names into the marrow of this land. From tonight, we are not forsaken. We are not forgotten. We are the fire that will devour the empire's shadow."
The exiles roared. The sound carried across the barren plains like a storm breaking free of its chains.
---
Back in the Palace
The Crown Prince stood at his balcony, overlooking the sprawling lights of the capital. His hand rested idly on the hilt of his blade, its edge glinting under the moonlight.
"He thinks himself reborn," he murmured, half to himself, half to the night. "Let him."
His smile was thin, cruel, but unshakably calm. "Every step he climbs only makes his fall sweeter."
Behind him, the Second Princess's voice drifted through the shadows.
"And if he climbs too high for you to reach, brother?"
The Crown Prince did not turn. His laughter was quiet, but sharp enough to cut.
"Then I will tear down the mountain itself."
Cliffhanger
In the wasteland, the Codex's runes flared again, burning across the prince's chest. Pain seared his veins, but he endured, teeth bared in silence.
Another page unfurled within his soul. Another hunger awakened.
His whisper carried into the dark like a vow etched in steel:
"Come, then. Test me. I will not break."
And far across the empire, the Crown Prince tightened his grip on his blade, whispering the same words.
The game had begun.