The sun hung low over the horizon, casting long shadows across the obsidian gates of the capital. Gold filigree shimmered in the fading light, but the grandeur felt hollow—like a crown worn by a thief.
Lucan sat astride his black warhorse, cloaked in ash and silence.
Behind him, his convoy stretched like a stormfront: soldiers in dark armor, the wounded Saintess guarded in a covered carriage, and Duke Rensic's riders flanking both sides. No banners flew. No horns sounded. This was not a parade.
This was a reckoning.
The city guards at the gate stiffened as they recognized the man at the front. One dropped his spear. Another fell to his knees.
Lucan's gaze swept the walls, the towers, the very stones of the capital that had dared to forget him.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
The silence around him was louder than any proclamation.
As his convoy passed through the city's guard, he expected quiet.
He expected fear.
Instead, he heard music.
Laughter.
Cheers.
The streets pulsed with celebration. Banners fluttered from balconies and towers—not his crest, but the sigil of Lord Halric. Crimson and silver, stitched with serpents and swords, waved like victory flags. Children tossed petals into the air, their hands stained with dye. Nobles leaned from their carriages, raising goblets of spiced wine. Merchants clapped. Courtiers danced.
The city was rejoicing.
Rejoicing his absence.
Rejoicing his death.
Lucan's jaw tightened as his horse clopped over cobblestone, the sound swallowed by revelry. His soldiers rode behind him, silent and grim, their armor dulled by ash and blood.
But as the convoy approached the central square, the mood began to shift.
One by one, the musicians faltered.
Flutes dropped from lips.
Drums fell silent.
Goblets lowered.
Petals froze midair.
Gasps rippled through the crowd as eyes turned toward the riders.
Toward the man leading them.
It was the king.
Lucan.
Alive.
Blood-streaked, cloaked in soot and fury, his presence shattered the illusion of victory. The cheers died in throats. The nobles who had toasted his downfall now stood pale and silent, their smiles curdling into dread.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
His return was a declaration.
And the capital, once eager to forget him, remembered exactly why they feared him.
Lucan stopped his horse at the edge of the central square.
The music had died. The petals had stopped falling. The crowd stood frozen, staring at the man they thought was buried beneath rebellion and prophecy.
He scanned their faces.
Nobles in silk, their rings glinting like stolen crowns.
Merchants with wine-stained lips, clutching ledgers fattened by betrayal.
Children holding banners that weren't his—banners they'd been told to wave.
They had celebrated his death.
And now, they would witness his wrath.
Lucan raised a hand.
Rensic's men halted behind him, armor clinking in the sudden silence.
"Seize them," he said, voice cold and clear. "Every man who toasted my grave. Every lord who raised Halric's banner. Every whisper that cheered my fall."
The soldiers moved.
Screams erupted.
Nobles scrambled to flee—some tripping over their own robes, others begging for mercy. One lord collapsed to his knees, clutching Lucan's boot, sobbing apologies. Another tried to bribe a guard with a ruby-studded ring, only to be dragged away by the collar.
A woman in a crimson gown shrieked as her carriage was overturned, revealing crates of Halric's propaganda. Her servants scattered, leaving her behind.
Children cried, confused, their petals crushed beneath boots.
Merchants slammed their shutters, locking doors as if wood could stop judgment.
The square fractured.
Loyalty unraveled like thread.
Lucan watched, unmoved.
He didn't call for slaughter.
Not yet.
He wanted them alive.
He wanted them to stand trial.
To kneel.
To confess.
To bleed in the light of the throne they tried to steal.
And as the sun dipped behind the palace spires, casting long shadows across the cobblestones, the capital remembered its king.
Not the one they toasted.
Not the one they crowned in whispers.
But the one who had returned.
Alive.
Unforgiving.
And ready to reclaim everything they tried to bury.
The palace gates groaned open like a beast stirred from slumber.
Lucan rode through them, a storm made flesh—his cloak stiff with dried blood, his armor dulled by ash and vengeance. The guards at the entrance bowed stiffly, unsure whether to salute or flee. Their hands trembled on their spears. Their eyes refused to meet his.
He didn't acknowledge them.
He didn't need to.
The courtyard beyond was a garden of arrogance—nobles dressed in silks and jewels, laughter spilling from their lips like wine. They were mid-toast, mid-lie, mid-celebration.
Then they saw him.
Gasps rippled like a wave.
Fans dropped.
Goblets shattered.
Wine spilled across marble like blood.
Lucan dismounted without a word. Behind him, Rensic's men followed in tight formation, their armor battered, their eyes sharp. They looked like soldiers who had crawled through fire—and survived.
Sir Alden Greaves approached, flanked by his own loyal knights. He bowed low, his voice steady despite the tension in his jaw.
"Your Majesty," he said. "We've been awaiting your return. Lord Halric and his allies are inside—celebrating. Duke Rensic is in position, awaiting your command."
Lucan's gaze flicked toward the palace doors.
"Seal the exits," he said. "Kill everyone inside who raised a glass to my death."
Sir Alden nodded and turned, issuing orders with sharp precision. The courtyard shifted. Guards moved. Doors slammed. The celebration curdled into dread.
Lucan strode forward, his boots striking marble like war drums. The palace, once dressed for revelry, now braced for judgment.
Inside the grand hall, laughter still echoed.
Lord Halric stood at the center, goblet raised, surrounded by nobles fat with comfort and ambition. Crimson and silver banners fluttered above him—his colors, his claim, his delusion.
The great double doors creaked open.
Halric turned at the sound of approaching footsteps—and froze.
Lucan entered the grand hall flanked by royal guards and Duke Rensic's men. They fanned out swiftly, surrounding the chamber, sealing every exit. The nobles barely had time to react before they realized—they were trapped.
The music stopped mid-note.
The air thickened, heavy with the weight of truth.
Halric's smile faltered. "Y-Your Majesty?"
Lucan didn't blink.
He walked past them.
Straight to the throne.
And sat.
The room fell into a suffocating silence.
He leaned forward, resting his hands—still stained with Elira's blood—on the armrests. His gaze swept the hall, slow and merciless.
Their faces looked like mice caught mid-theft.
He smiled.
Not kindly.
Not warmly.
But wickedly.
Dangerously.
"Woah," Lucan said, his voice deceptively casual. "I miss this chair."
Then his expression shifted—his gaze darkened, sharp as a blade drawn in moonlight.
"You thought I was dead," he said, voice low and lethal. "What a wonderful celebration. What a plan. I caught you."
His words echoed through the marble like thunder in a crypt.
"And now," he continued, "I want to know which of you thought my death was worth a toast."
A scream rang out from beyond the hall.
The nobles flinched.
Goblets slipped from trembling hands.
They knew.
The reckoning had begun.
"I seized the throne," Lucan said, his voice a verdict carved in stone. "Kill everyone who defies me—even my own blood. I thought I left only the loyal. But clearly… I made a mistake."
The nobles collapsed to their knees.
Silks rustled.
Crowns bowed.
The once-proud council now grovelled on the polished floor, begging for forgiveness, their voices trembling, their hands clasped in desperation.
"My king—mercy!"
"We were misled!"
"We never raised a toast, I swear!"
Lucan didn't blink.
He watched them squirm.
Then his gaze shifted.
Lord Halric remained standing.
His goblet was gone.
His smile, too.
What replaced it was something colder—calculating, unmasked.
"So," Lucan said, voice low. "You finally show your true face."
Halric stepped forward, no longer pretending.
"I never wanted your death, Your Majesty," he said, tone smooth as oil. "Only your absence. The kingdom needs stability. You were… unpredictable."
Lucan rose from the throne.
The room held its breath.
"Unpredictable?" he repeated. "You mean uncontrollable."
Halric didn't deny it.
"You rule with fear," he said. "I offered them hope."
Lucan descended the steps, each footfall deliberate.
"You offered them delusion," he said. "And now, you'll offer them your blood."
Halric's hand twitched near his belt—where a dagger waited.
Lucan saw it.
And smiled.
"Try it," he whispered.
Then he turned, circling the crowd like a predator among prey.
"Can you imagine," he said, voice rising, "you told me to find the Saintess as soon as possible. And that—that—was your trap."
He stopped behind Halric.
"But look at you now. I turned the table."
Halric hesitated.
Lucan leaned in, his voice a hiss.
"Did you think that setup could kill me?"
He stepped into view, arms wide.
"Look at me. I'm in perfect condition. I even captured the Saintess mentioned in the prophecy."
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Shock. Fear. Realization.
"No one can kill me," Lucan said, voice cold as steel. "Not a prophecy. Not a god."
Then the doors burst open.
Sir Alden entered, sword drawn, blood dripping from its edge.
"The exits are sealed," he announced. "The traitors are being taken."
Lucan turned back to Halric.
The storm had arrived.
"You wanted a kingdom without me," Lucan said, his voice like thunder before the strike. "Now you'll see what it looks like when I reclaim it."
Halric lunged.
Lucan moved faster.
Steel flashed.
Blood spilled.
And the throne room—once filled with music, laughter, and false celebration—became a tomb for ambition.
Lucan's blade dripped with judgment.
Lord Halric lay bleeding on the marble floor, his dagger clattering uselessly beside him. Nobles around him trembled, some weeping, others frozen in place, unsure whether to kneel or flee.
Then the throne room doors opened again.
Duke Rensic stepped inside.
His armor was polished but battle-worn, his cloak bearing the sigil of the North. Behind him marched his personal guard—silent, disciplined, and utterly loyal.
He surveyed the room with sharp eyes, taking in the blood, the silence, and the king who looked like a god returned.
Rensic bowed low.
"Your Majesty," he said, voice calm and unwavering. "The traitors outside have been seized. Those who toasted your death are now in chains."
Lucan nodded once. "Good. Let them rot until I decide how loud their apologies should be."
On the floor, Halric stirred weakly, blood pooling beneath him. He tried to lift his head, his voice a rasp between gritted teeth.
"Y-you… You fooled me…"
Rensic stepped forward, his gaze landing on Halric's crumpled form.
"I warned him," he said quietly, ignoring the dying man's words. "Ambition makes fools of men who mistake your silence for weakness."
"You insolence!" Halric growled, blood bubbling from his mouth.
Lucan's eyes didn't leave the nobles.
"And yet they all followed him."
Rensic's lips curled faintly. "They follow whoever feeds their greed. Today it was Halric. Tomorrow, it could be anyone."
Lucan stepped forward and grabbed Halric's head by the hair.
The room flinched.
So did Halric.
"Let today be a reminder," Lucan said, voice cold and final. "I am not a king who dies quietly. I am the storm they tried to bury. And no one—no prophecy, no god—can kill me."
Without hesitation, he drew his blade and slashed Halric's throat in one clean motion.
Halric's family cried silently, their grief swallowed by fear.
The body crumpled.
Lucan hurled the severed head onto the marble floor. It rolled to a stop at the feet of the nearest noble, blood trailing behind it like a signature.
"Hang his head in the center of the capital," Lucan commanded, his voice ringing through the hall. "Let it remind them who rules this kingdom."
Duke Rensic stepped beside him, shoulder to shoulder, his expression unreadable.
"What are your orders?" he asked.
Lucan looked out over the court—bloodied, broken, trembling.
"Purge the council," he said. "Rebuild it with men who fear me more than they desire power. And those nobles who conspired with him—take them down. Their families too. No mercy."
No one spoke.
No one moved.
The king had returned.
And mercy was not part of his reign.
Rensic nodded. "It will be done."
And as Lucan turned to leave the throne room, the nobles collapsed to their knees—not in loyalty, but in terror.
The king had returned.
And beside him stood the Warden of the North.
Tiana stood at the edge of the hall, her gown untouched by blood, her posture carved from steel.
She had watched it all.
Halric's lunge.
Lucan's blade.
The silence that followed.
And now, the severed head of the man who had once whispered threats into her ear lay at the feet of the nobles who had praised him.
Her fingers curled around the stem of her goblet, but she did not drink.
She did not flinch.
She did not mourn.
Her eyes met Lucan's as he turned from the throne, his crownless head held high, his expression unreadable.
He was no longer the man she had watched fall.
He was something else now.
Something forged in betrayal and fire.
Their gazes locked across the hall—king and lady, storm and silence.
She stepped forward.
Not rushed.
Not hesitant.
Each footfall echoed like a drumbeat of defiance.
The nobles parted for her, as if instinctively sensing that she did not belong among the groveling.
She stopped a few paces from the throne, her voice calm, clear, and cutting.
"You came back," she said.
Lucan's eyes narrowed. "Did you doubt I would?"
Tiana shook her head. "No. I doubted how much of you would survive."
Lucan studied her, blood still drying on his gloves, his breath steady.
"I survived enough," he said.
Tiana's gaze flicked to Halric's body, then back to Lucan.
"Then let's make sure it wasn't for nothing."
Lucan stepped down from the throne, closer now.
"Are you with me?" he asked.
Tiana didn't smile.
She didn't bow.
She simply said, "I never left."
And in that moment, the court saw something they hadn't expected.
Not just a king reborn.
But a queen unshaken.