In the throne room, Lucan sat upon the high seat, his armor still streaked with dried blood. The steel caught the morning light in cold glimmers, a grim testament to the purge that had swept through the palace. His hand rested against his brow, fingers curled as if holding back a storm of thought.
Before him, the servants and stewards of the court knelt in silence, heads bowed low, the air thick with dread.
Lucan's voice broke through the hush—low, sharp, and cold.
"Who among you has forgotten who the true ruler is?"
No one moved.
No one dared.
His gaze swept across the chamber, lingering on each bowed head. The silence was suffocating, and Lucan let it stretch, let it press down like a blade against their necks.
"I returned from the edge of death," he continued, rising slowly from his throne. "I bled for this crown. I burned for it. And I will not tolerate whispers in the dark."
A steward trembled, clutching the hem of his robe.
Lucan stepped down from the dais, the sound of his boots echoing like thunder across the marble floor.
"You serve me," he said. "Not your fears. Not your forgotten loyalties. Me."
He stopped before the steward, who dared not lift his head.
Lucan leaned in, voice a whisper now.
"Tell me—do you kneel because you believe… or because you fear?"
The steward swallowed hard. "Because I believe, Your Majesty."
Lucan straightened, his expression unreadable.
"Then prove it."
He turned back toward the throne, his voice rising like a drawn blade.
"I know who sided with Lord Halric. I know who served him while I was gone. I know who smiled in my halls and plotted in the shadows."
He raised his hand.
"Sir Greaves."
The knight stepped forward, armor gleaming, face grim.
"Take them."
The command was simple.
The effect was immediate.
Screams erupted in the throne room—sharp, desperate, pleading. Servants clutched at each other, begging for mercy, swearing innocence. But Lucan, known now as the Tyrant King, did not blink. He did not flinch.
Royal soldiers surged forward, dragging out the marked ones—those whose names had been whispered, whose loyalty had faltered. They clawed at the marble, wept into the stone, cried out for their children, their families.
Lucan watched.
Unmoved.
Unforgiving.
The doors slammed shut behind the last of them, sealing their fate in the dungeons below.
He turned to the remaining servants, their faces pale, their bodies trembling.
"Now," he said, voice like ice, "serve me with loyalty—not just with fear. Because I hold the power to take your lives… and the lives of your families."
He stepped back onto the dais, each movement deliberate, each breath a warning.
"You will not speak of prophecy. You will not speak of rebellion. You will not speak of mercy."
He sat once more, the throne creaking beneath him.
"You will speak only of obedience."
The chamber was silent.
Not a single breath dared defy him.
Lucan leaned back, eyes scanning the room.
"Now go," he said. "Prepare the hall. Do the work assigned to you. Let the kingdom see what obedience truly looks like."
The remaining servants scattered, silent and swift.
He had cleansed the court.
He had silenced the whispers.
But he knew the storm was not over.
Lucan raised his hand once more.
"Sir Greaves."
The knight stepped forward again, his posture rigid.
"Call for Duke Rensic," Lucan said. "Tell him there is something I need to discuss with both of you."
Sir Greaves bowed low. "As you wish, Your Majesty."
He took three measured steps backward, never turning his back to the throne, then pivoted sharply and strode out of the hall.
Lucan remained seated, eyes fixed on the empty chamber.
Waiting.
Planning.
******
The fire in the study burned low, casting long shadows across the war maps and tomes that lined the walls. Rain tapped softly against the windows, a quiet rhythm that underscored the tension in the room.
Lucan stood by the hearth, his cloak damp from the night air, his expression unreadable.
He had returned to the palace.
Seized the traitors.
Tomorrow, the trial would begin.
But tonight—the purge would start.
A soft knock broke the silence.
"Your Majesty," came the voice from beyond the door. "Duke Rensic and Sir Greaves are here."
Lucan turned his eyes toward the door.
"Enter," he said.
The door creaked open.
"I greet Your Majesty, the King," Duke Rensic said, bowing low. Sir Greaves followed suit, his armor clinking softly.
Lucan moved to his study table and sat, his voice low and steady.
"Come closer. I summoned you because there's something I haven't told you."
Rensic stepped forward. "What is it?"
Lucan's gaze sharpened, his eyes dark beneath the flickering firelight. He crossed his arms over his chest.
"On our way back to the capital… we were ambushed."
"What?" Sir Greaves said, startled. "By whom, Your Majesty? Was it Halric's men?"
Lucan shook his head. "I thought so at first. But I was wrong. Not mercenaries either. Something else. A group cloaked in silence and shadow. They moved like ghosts. No banners. No names."
Rensic's brow furrowed. "Assassins?"
Lucan nodded. "Trained. Precise. And they weren't after my men. They were after me."
He turned his gaze to the fire.
"I didn't survive because of steel. I survived because of what's inside me. If I were ordinary, I wouldn't be standing here."
Rensic's voice dropped. "You mean your power?"
Lucan nodded slowly. "They couldn't touch me. My wounds closed on their own within the hour—just like before. But six men fell. And the Saintess…"
He paused.
"She was barely breathing when it ended. Rensic, how is she?"
Rensic exhaled. "According to the healer tending her, she's stable. But still unconscious."
Sir Greaves furrowed his brow. "Pardon me, Your Majesty… you brought the Saintess with you? I thought you were going to kill her the moment you found her."
Lucan and Rensic fell silent.
Then Lucan spoke.
"It's not confirmed whether she is the Saintess. She bears no mark behind her ear."
Greaves hesitated, unconvinced, but chose silence.
Rensic shifted the conversation. "This was no random strike. Halric may be gone, but someone else is moving against you. Quietly. Strategically. If they hired assassins of that caliber, they're not just dangerous—they're organized. They want the throne."
Lucan nodded. "And they failed."
"But they'll try again," Greaves said grimly.
Lucan turned to face them fully.
"That's why I need you both. I want to know who's behind this. Who dares to move against me in the shadows."
He walked to the window, rain streaking down the glass like blood on steel.
"In the dungeon," he said, "I have one of the assassins. He survived. Barely. We'll interrogate him tonight. He will speak."
Rensic stepped forward. "And if he doesn't?"
Lucan's voice was ice.
"Then he'll scream."
He turned back to them.
"Tell the soldiers assigned to the dungeon to prepare the prisoner. I want no interruptions. No mercy. Tonight, we find the name behind the blade."
Greaves bowed. "It will be done."
Lucan watched him leave, the fire casting flickers across his face, shadows dancing like ghosts on the stone walls.
The room fell silent again, until Rensic spoke.
"You need to secure the throne, Your Majesty," he said, voice steady. "Fear is a powerful tool—but it fades. What you need now is permanence. Stability. A future."
Lucan furrowed his brows. "What are you trying to imply?"
Rensic met his gaze without flinching. "You need a successor."
Lucan's jaw tightened. "Successor?"
He scoffed, rising from his chair. "You're suggesting I marry?"
"You must," Rensic said. "And soon. A queen beside you will silence doubt. An heir will silence rebellion. I'm not questioning your strength—I'm preserving your legacy."
Lucan turned away, pacing toward the window.
"I've just reclaimed the throne," he said. "And you want me to crown a wife? Am I that weak in your eyes? A king who needs a womb to hold his power?"
Rensic stepped forward. "No, Your Majesty. But even a storm must leave something behind. You've built your reign on fire and blood. Now you must build something that endures."
Lucan's voice dropped, cold and bitter. "I have no will to become a father."
Rensic didn't speak for a moment.
Then, quietly: "Then your enemies will wait. Not for your fall—but for your death. And when it comes, they will tear this kingdom apart."
Lucan turned sharply. "I am not dying."
"No," Rensic said. "But you are mortal. And mortals must plan for what comes after."
Lucan stared at him, the firelight catching the edge of his eyes.
"I don't need a child," he said. "I need loyalty."
"And loyalty," Rensic replied, "is strongest when it has something to protect."
Lucan didn't respond.
He walked back to the hearth, staring into the flames.
Outside, the rain fell harder.
*******
The dungeon beneath the palace was a place forgotten by light.
Cold seeped from the stone walls like breath from a corpse. The air was thick with mildew, rot, and the iron tang of old blood. Water dripped from the ceiling in slow, rhythmic taps, echoing through the corridors like a death march. Torches flickered in their sconces, casting jagged shadows that danced like specters across the damp floor.
Lucan descended the steps slowly, Duke Rensic and Sir Greaves flanking him. His cloak trailed behind him like a shadow of war, and the scent of blood still clung to his armor—unwashed, deliberate.
They reached the cell.
Inside, the assassin sat chained to the wall, wrists bound above his head, ankles shackled to the floor. His face was bruised, his clothes torn, his breath shallow. One eye was swollen shut. His lips were cracked. But he was alive.
Barely.
Lucan stepped forward, his voice calm, cold, and merciless.
"You failed."
The assassin didn't respond.
Lucan crouched before him, eyes level.
"You were sent to kill me. You killed six of my men. You nearly killed the Saintess. And yet here you are—breathing. That means you're useful."
The assassin coughed, blood flecking his lips.
"I won't talk," he rasped.
Lucan smiled faintly. "You will."
He stood and nodded to Sir Greaves.
Greaves stepped forward and drove a fist into the assassin's ribs. The man gasped, slumping against the chains, his body convulsing with pain.
Rensic watched silently, arms crossed, eyes calculating.
Lucan paced slowly, the torchlight catching the edge of his armor.
"You moved like a ghost. No insignia. No name. But you left something behind."
He held up the token—an emblem carved with a flame pierced by a blade.
"Who do you serve?"
The assassin spat blood onto the floor.
Lucan didn't flinch.
He turned to Greaves. "Strip him of comfort. No food. No water. No light. Let him sit in silence until his mind breaks."
Greaves nodded and stepped out, barking orders to the guards.
Lucan leaned in again, voice low.
"You think you've seen monsters," he said. "But you haven't seen me."
He turned and walked away, his voice echoing down the corridor.
"By dawn, I want a name."
—
Hours passed.
The cell was plunged into darkness.
The assassin hung in silence, his breath shallow, his body aching. Rats scurried across the floor. The cold gnawed at his bones.
Then the door creaked open.
Lucan returned.
No cloak. No armor.
Just a blade.
He stepped into the cell, followed by Greaves and Rensic.
Lucan crouched again, holding the blade between his fingers.
"I don't need you whole," he said. "I just need your voice."
He pressed the blade against the assassin's shoulder—slow, deliberate.
The man gritted his teeth, refusing to scream.
Lucan nodded to Greaves.
Greaves struck again—this time with a rod of iron, cracking against the assassin's knee.
Still no scream.
Lucan stood.
"You were trained well," he said. "But pain is a language. And I speak it fluently."
He turned to Rensic. "Bring the branding iron."
Rensic hesitated. "Your Majesty…"
Lucan's eyes flashed. "Now."
Rensic obeyed.
Minutes later, the iron was glowing red.
Lucan took it himself.
He pressed it against the assassin's chest.
This time, the man screamed.
Lucan didn't blink.
He waited until the scream faded into sobs.
Then he crouched again.
"Who do you serve?"
The assassin's lips trembled.
Lucan leaned closer.
"I will burn your name into history," he whispered. "Or into your flesh. Either way, it will be remembered."
The assassin's voice cracked.
"A name…" he gasped.
Lucan's eyes narrowed.
"Say it."
The assassin coughed, blood spilling from his mouth.
"Vael… the Order of Vael…"
"who is that?"
"I... don't know... Someone just sent us a letter... ordering us to assassinate you... and in letter the name wrote in it..."
Lucan stood slowly.
Rensic's face darkened.
Greaves stepped back.
"You've bought yourself a few more hours of breath."
Then he walked out.
The dungeon door slammed shut behind him.
And the storm continued.