CHAPTER EIGHT — SIX MONTHS OF SHADOWS
Six months.
Half a year since betrayal.
Half a year since resurrection.
Half a year since a Primordial woke up inside a prince.
Half a year was nothing to Arcturus.
But to the world?
It was enough time for it to start changing shape around him.
From the highest terrace of the royal palace, Arcturus looked out over Valtarus as dawn bled slowly into the sky. The city below pulsed with life — more disciplined now, more fortified, more alive.
He didn't have to close his eyes to see beyond the capital.
His shadows were already there.
In every kingdom.
Every city.
Every guild.
Every port.
Every forge.
His clones, each as strong as him, had sunk their roots deep.
He exhaled slowly.
"…Report."
The word left his lips as a whisper.
The world answered.
THE NORTH — THE BLACK PINE LEGIONSnow fell in slow, heavy flakes over the pine-thick passes of the Frost Kingdom. Wind howled between jagged cliffs. Ice clung to exposed rock like glass teeth.
And cutting through that frozen waste… was a camp.
Not a ragged bandit den anymore.
A fortified encampment.
Palisade walls made of reinforced timber and stone. Watchtowers carved into cliff faces. Hidden spikes and traps along the paths. Fires spaced correctly to avoid smoke plumes in daylight. Supply caches buried under false snow mounds.
The Black Pine Brigade had become something else.
They'd become an army.
Inside the largest tent, a map lay spread across a heavy table.
Around it stood men and women scarred by the cold — some former bandits, some deserter soldiers, some freed slaves, some hunters from remote tribes.
And at the head of the table sat an Arcturus clone.
He looked like an unassuming commander if one didn't stare too long. But nobody in that tent made that mistake anymore.
Opposite him stood their current field leader — a former bandit named Darek, now armored in scavenged plate and fur, tattoos marking his promotions across his arms.
He pointed to the map.
"Last six months," Darek said, voice low, "we've struck forty-three caravans."
"Targets?" the clone asked.
"Forty were Church tithes or noble tribute wagons," Darek replied. "Three were supply trains to Church garrisons." He spat. "We left the merchant caravans alone, like you ordered."
"Good."
Darek continued.
"Total coin acquired: three hundred and forty thousand gold crowns."
"Total artifacts: eighty-seven, including six high-tier relics."
"Captured documents: routes, tithing schedules, internal letters, a few coded messages."
The clone nodded approvingly.
"Losses?" he asked.
Darek grimaced.
"Seventeen dead. Thirty-two wounded. We've patched who we can."
A young woman with a scar over one eye smirked.
"We train better than any "official" army now," she said. "And feed better. Your rations taste like cheating."
The clone gave a faint half-smile.
"I told you," he said, "if you fight smart, you live longer."
Darek frowned and tapped a red-marked region on the map.
"The Frost King's patience is gone," he said. "We're not ghosts anymore. We've hit too much, too clean, too consistently. They're scared."
He looked up at the clone.
"They're calling us the Black Pine Legion now. Not bandits. A rebel army."
The clone's lips twitched.
"A promotion."
Darek didn't smile back.
"The kingdom is gathering troops," he said. "They're mustering a winter expedition. The Seers want us destroyed. They're bringing knights, mages, and their own Church-backed 'holy regiment.'"
He spat the last two words like poison.
"We've become a big enough threat that they're marching a proper army," one of the captains said. "Most bandit forces die long before that."
"That's your fault," another smirked at the clone. "You taught us too well."
The clone leaned back.
"Good," he said. "If they march an army…"
He glanced at the map again.
"…we bleed them like we bleed the Church."
He began laying out a strategy in calm, lethal tones:
Hit their supply lines.
Collapse narrow passes.
Lure scouts into prepared kill-zones.
Bury traps beneath the snow.
Let them advance deep.
Freeze them.
Starve them.
Break morale with constant night raids.
"We're not here to topple their kingdom," the clone said finally. "Not yet. We're here to make it too expensive for them to side with the Church again."
Darek exhaled slowly.
"And if they reach us?"
The clone smiled.
"Then I come in person."
Everyone in the tent went quiet.
They remembered the night he took over their ragged little band.
They'd seen his power.
They knew:
If he came in person… the snow would run red.
The clone turned to Darek.
"Keep a detailed ledger," he said. "Every Church loss. Every wagon. Every casualty. Send it to the main body in Valtarus."
Darek nodded.
"We're thieves," the clone said. "But we're thieves with purpose."
He placed a token bearing the wolf of Valtarus on the map.
"And you are mine."
They didn't argue.
They'd chosen this.
And nothing the northern kingdom could throw at them scared them more than the calm man with crimson eyes they'd once seen tear a caravan apart with his bare hands.
THE BLAZING SUN — THE MERCHANT THRONEFar to the south, the Sun Dynasty blazed beneath a golden sky.
Its capital streets spilled over with color: flowing robes, spices, silks painted like sunsets, gemstone-studded masks, banners in crimson and amber tones.
But deeper in the city, behind walls of polished marble and gold-inlaid gates, stood the headquarters of the Azure Sun Merchant Guild — the richest guild across six kingdoms.
Six months ago, they were wealthy.
Now, they were untouchable.
Trade caravans moved like veins across the desert, their routes optimized by Arcturus's strategic mind. Ports at oasis cities had expanded. Warehouses had doubled in number. Markets were filled with goods bought low and sold high in places the Church's influence once dictated.
And at the heart of it all:
A private office on the top floor.
The clone sat behind a desk of black wood, casually flipping through ledgers that represented more wealth than most kingdoms saw in a lifetime.
A young clerk — Liang, the one who'd first spoken up months ago — stood beside him, now far more sharply dressed, with three silver rank-rings on his belt.
"The numbers, Chairman," Liang said, almost reverent, "are absurd."
The clone motioned with two fingers.
"Explain."
Liang swallowed in excitement.
"Trade flow through our guild has increased by 270%," he said. "Three neighboring kingdoms now rely primarily on our caravans for luxury imports and arcane goods."
He pointed to a chart.
"By cutting off the Church-controlled routes, we forced merchants to reroute through us. At first they grumbled. Now, they profit."
The clone nodded.
"And the Church's hold?"
"Shrinking," Liang said. "Their "charity routes" are failing. Their tithe collection is… disorganized. Some nobles now pay temple dues through us instead of directly." A smirk. "We take a quiet cut, of course."
"And our profits?" the clone asked.
Liang tried not to grin too wide.
"Exploding."
He continued:
"We buy cheap in one kingdom where the Church restricted flow… and sell dear in another where the Church hoarded supply. We control bottlenecks. We undercut Church-blessed traders. We offer better security. Our routes are rarely attacked now."
"Why?" the clone asked.
Liang's smirk sharpened.
"They're afraid."
Arcturus's pirates preyed on Church ships.
His bandits preyed on Church caravans.
His dwarves crafted weapons superior to Church-run smithies.
His Nightborn assassins had removed several of the Church's best-connected trade agents.
All those actions funneled power into the Azure Sun Guild.
The clone steepled his fingers.
"And politically?"
Liang licked his lips, excited.
"We've become indispensable," he said. "Sun Dynasty nobles drink our wine, dress in our silk, eat food we deliver, wield weapons we smuggle past tariffs… we 'accidentally' bail out failing noble houses with quiet loans. We 'gift' artifacts to military commanders."
"And in return?" the clone asked.
"Favors," Liang said. "Signatures. Access. Licenses. And…" he swallowed, a little awed even now, "…the ear of the Emperor's advisors."
The clone's eyes glowed faintly.
Not with surprise.
With satisfaction.
He hadn't built a merchant guild.
He'd built a lever.
And the Sun Dynasty was starting to feel the weight of that lever resting under its throne.
"Continue," he said. "Slow. Controlled. Stable. Wealth means nothing if it topples the board too quickly."
Liang nodded sharply. "Yes, Chairman."
"And continue siphoning off Church coffers," the clone added. "Every artifact taken, every relic stolen, every coin redirected is another wound."
Liang bowed.
"As you command."
The clone smiled faintly to himself as Liang left.
"Good," he murmured.
"The more gold I take from them… the less they can spend hunting us."
THE WESTERN ISLES — THE BLACK TIDE ARMADAStorm clouds roiled over the Western Isles.
Waves crashed against jagged rocks. Sea spray flew like shattered glass. The scent of salt and gunpowder filled the air around a fleet that shouldn't exist.
Six months ago, the Black Tide Brigade was three ships.
Now?
It was an armada.
Ten warships.
Twenty wolf-fast raiders.
Dozens of smaller support craft.
Every hull reinforced with dwarven metal.
Every sail etched with windrunic enhancements.
Every mast carrying shadow-marked flags.
A Black Tide flagship cut through the waves at terrifying speed.
On its deck stood another Arcturus clone, coat snapping in the wind, hair whipped back by the gale. Around him, crew members ran, shouted, loaded cannons, adjusted ropes.
Off the starboard side, a Church hunter fleet attempted to flee.
"Range?" the clone asked.
"Nearly in cannon range, captain!" a sailor yelled.
"Wind?"
"In our favor!"
"Status of their escort?"
"Two ships crippled, one maneuvering to ram!"
The clone smirked.
"Bold."
He extended a hand.
"Cripple it."
The sea responded.
Water surged upward like a hand, smashing into the approaching hunter ship's side. Wood cracked. The vessel twisted and flipped, keel to sky, before vanishing in froth and screaming men.
The crew of the Black Tide cheered.
"Captain! Their flagship is turning to flee!" a lookout shouted from the crow's nest.
The clone's eyes gleamed.
"Good. I like a chase."
He turned to the helmsman.
"Run them down."
The helmsman grinned viciously.
"With pleasure."
The Black Tide armada was not content to wait for targets. They hunted.
Church fleets.
Sanctioned slavers.
Pirate bands that refused to switch sides.
They struck fast, silent, and surgically.
Ports dedicated to Church worship woke up to find their docks in flames and their warships broken.
Town magistrates who tithed too heavily to the Church died quietly in their beds after a strange shadow crossed their window.
Over six months:
Dozens of Church fleets were sunk or captured.
Slave routes were obliterated.
Pirate lords were executed or absorbed.
Independent merchants began praising "ghost escorts" that appeared and vanished to keep trade safe.
The Church called them "demonic raiders born from the sea."
The western sailors called them something else:
"Judgment."
THE DWARVEN UNION — KING OF THE FORGEIf the surface world had begun whispering of a Demon Prince…
The dwarves had started shouting about something else entirely.
Deep beneath the mountains, in one of the largest forge-cities of the Ironpeak Union—Grimdural—firelight painted walls of stone with molten gold. Rivers of magma flowed through channeled trenches. Smiths hammered steel in symphonic rhythm.
Grimdural had once been neutral ground between several dwarf clans.
Now, it had a king.
And he wasn't a dwarf.
In the central forge hall, hundreds of dwarves gathered, their beards braided in ceremonial knots, their eyes fever-bright with pride.
At the center, above a platform of black stone, stood an Arcturus clone.
He hadn't asked for this.
They'd thrust it upon him.
"IRON-BREAKER!" a dwarf roared from the crowd. "SHOW US THE NEW PATTERN!"
"Iron-Breaker!" another echoed. "King o' the Forge!"
The clone exhaled.
"Don't call me that."
They ignored him.
In dwarf culture, titles were earned. Not bought. Not demanded. Only proven through deeds.
And Arcturus had done what no smith in living memory had achieved.
He had:
Forged alloy blades that never dulled.
Created armor that resisted both magic and steel.
Combined runes thought incompatible.
Taught them techniques they had no name for.
He'd taken their proudest work and made it look like child's play.
At first, they'd been furious.
Then awed.
Then devout.
Now, they'd begun inscribing his sigil beside their own on masterwork weapons.
His banner—a hammer smashing chains—hung in the hall.
"Ye led us tae break the Church contracts!" one elder shouted now. "Ye stopped the sale o' our finest work tae Holy Dogs!"
"Aye!" another bellowed. "Ye told us: 'Forge for yerselves. Not for those who chain ye.'"
"And ye gave us work worthy o' our ancestors!" another added.
The clone sighed inwardly.
He hadn't meant to become a symbol.
He just hated waste.
Hated seeing brilliance chained by contracts and gold.
"Your work belongs to you," he had told them once. "Not to men who never held a hammer."
The words had spread.
Now?
He was "King of the Forge."
Not because he ruled them.
But because they had crowned him in the only way they knew how — by swearing their best blades to his cause.
Thus, when the Church sent representatives to renegotiate arms deals…
They left Grimdural empty-handed.
If they left at all.
THE NIGHTBORN — CHILDREN OF KNIVES AND QUIETBack in Valtarus, far from dwarven forges and southern bazaars, a quiet transformation had taken root.
The Nightborn.
In repurposed noble manors, underground facilities, hidden training compounds disguised as warehouses or orphanages — Arcturus's chosen children were growing.
And they were sharp.
In a dim training hall lit by mana-lamps, a line of youths stood panting, wooden blades in hand. Sweat dripped from their chins. Their eyes burned with something hard and unyielding.
A clone paced in front of them.
Their ages ranged from ten to eighteen.
Former beggars.
Street rats.
Slaves.
Orphans.
Runaways.
Now?
Students.
"You will speak," the clone said, "when you have something worth saying."
He stopped in front of a girl of about thirteen, raven hair tied back, dark eyes sharp as flint.
"And you," he said. "What did you learn from your last mission?"
The others glanced at her.
She had just returned from a live exercise — stealth-scouting a minor noble's estate suspected of illegal dealings with a Church agent.
"People see what they expect to see," she said calmly. "I was invisible because I looked harmless."
"And?"
"And nobles underestimate servants," she continued. "Servants underestimate children. Children underestimate beggars. I borrowed uniforms as needed."
The clone nodded.
"Good. Name."
"Lira."
"Lira," he said, "your instincts are efficient."
He turned to a boy no older than eleven, with messy hair and pale gray eyes.
"And you. What did you learn?"
The boy frowned thoughtfully.
"Sound," he said. "The way sound moves changes with walls. Footsteps echo differently depending on hall shape. You can map a room by how echo changes as people move."
Several heads turned toward him with new respect.
The clone's eyes glinted faintly.
"Impressive."
The boy shrugged.
"I… just listened."
Then there were the older ones:
A girl who could mimic voices nearly perfectly.
A boy with a natural talent for poison mixing.
A lanky youth who could scale walls like a spider.
A quiet giant of a boy whose strength rivaled adult knights.
Arcturus hadn't expected all this.
He'd expected tools.
He was starting to see something more.
Potential.
"Again," the clone ordered.
They went through knife drills, shadow-stepping patterns, evasion rolls, pressure point strikes. They practiced lying with their faces, their eyes, their very breathing.
They learned to pass unnoticed among nobles, guards, priests, merchants, sailors, and soldiers.
They learned that a soft step could kill louder than any sword.
And when they collapsed from exhaustion, the clone did not praise them gently.
"You are not children anymore," he said quietly one night as they sat in a circle, bruised and bandaged. "You chose this path."
"You can leave whenever you wish," he added.
They looked at one another.
None moved.
"I am not your savior," the clone continued. "I am not here to make you good people. I am here to make you strong people. Do you understand?"
"Yes," they said in unison.
Lira spoke again.
"If we become strong…" she said, "we can decide for ourselves what 'good' is."
The clone paused.
Then he nodded, a rare flicker of pride crossing his features.
"Exactly."
And somewhere, far from that training hall, the true Arcturus felt that memory reach him.
And he smiled faintly.
"They're learning."
THE DEMON PRINCE'S REFLECTIONBack on the palace terrace, Arcturus opened his eyes fully, the glow in them dimmer for once, more human than god.
He leaned his arms on the cold stone railing and looked out at his kingdom, his influence, his shadow empire.
The world had not yet realized what had happened in six months.
But it felt it.
Church profits had plummeted without clear reason.
Trade routes had shifted.
A mysterious maritime predator stalked the sea.
Dwarven arms deals had dried up.
A bandit army had hardened into a disciplined insurgent force.
A merchant guild had grown into an economic behemoth.
Children once invisible now quietly moved the fate of men in alleys and estates.
And all of it traced back to one place.
One kingdom.
One man.
Well… one Primordial.
Arcturus chuckled very softly.
"Six months…"
He tilted his head back, closing his eyes for a moment as the wind brushed his face.
He had clones entrenched in courts, crypts, shipyards, temples, markets, and underground networks.
He had:
An elite bandit legion in the north.
A merchant superpower in the south.
A ghost fleet in the west.
A forge-city's devotion in the mountains.
A growing assassin order in his own capital.
The world didn't yet know his name.
Not his true one.
But they knew his titles.
Demon Prince.
Shadow Captain.
Iron-Breaker.
Chairman.
King of the Forge.
Ghost Pirate.
Bandit Strategist.
He inhaled deeply.
"And I've barely started."
The wind shifted.
From somewhere distant, carried through his clone network, came news of a Church conclave. Cardinals and High Priests gathering. Seers whispering that a "dark star" had appeared in the world's weave.
They felt him.
They feared him.
Good.
Arcturus opened his eyes and looked east, toward lands he had yet to touch.
"Let them prepare," he murmured. "I want them all in one place when I start tearing their foundations apart."
His shadow stretched long behind him.
And Valtarus — bright, noisy, fragile Valtarus — slept beneath him.
Unaware that in six months… their prince had quietly become one of the most dangerous beings on the continent.
And he hadn't even left home yet.