Thalric’s palm came down like a warhammer. The oaken table didn’t creak, didn’t groan—it broke. A hard, splintering crack ran through the center seam and the whole slab collapsed into two toothy halves. Pewter goblets jumped and rolled, wine arcing into the air before slapping across the stones. He was already moving. Fingers hooked the nearest chair, muscles bunching along his forearms, and he swung it into the wall. The smash echoed through the chamber. Timber burst into jagged ribs that showered him and the circle of Knights. Splinters peppered the plates of their gorgets and caught in the chain at their throats. No one reached for him. Their eyes flicked to one another, a silent passing of responsibility that no one took. The blaze inside him wanted more. The blaze demanded it. He turned to the tall window and drove his shoulder through the air into the glass. The pane coughed a deep, straining sound and spiderwebs of stress sprang into being, a dozen Thalrics staring back at him from cracked facets—each one showing the same bared teeth. He punched. Knuckles kissed cold glass. Cracks leapt. He punched again. Skin split. Blood slicked across his fingers and the floor began to freckle red. He didn’t slow. Pain was distant; nothing had touched the real wound. He just wanted someone to bleed, bleed till they don't move. A Knight finally broke ranks, boots scuffing the floor as he lunged. “Your Highness, please calm yourself! Drink the health potion. If something happened to you—” Thalric’s hand caught cloth and mail in the same grip. He yanked the man off his feet and flung him, shoulder first, into the wall. Stone thudded. A plume of dust sifted down. Metal rang when the Knight slid and hit the floor, breath knocked as flat as hammered tin. “Calm down?” Thalric snarled through his hoarse throat. The words scratched their way out. “Do you bloody think I can calm down?” He swept a gaze over the others. Pale, hands hovering near sword hilts they did not dare draw. “Do you know what happened? Do you know what my father has done?” His lips peeled back from his teeth. “You are just Knights. Born to serve. Born to kneel.” His fist struck his own chest with a hollow thud. “I was born to rule. And my right to rule has been stripped from me while I stood there, hands empty.” He turned and drove another punch into the glass. The window burst outward in a glittering exhalation. Shards rained both inside and out, chiming on stone, catching sunlight as if the sky had shattered and let its pieces fall. A thin wind slid through the open wound in the wall and licked the blood at his knuckles cold. He didn’t look at the cuts. The ache in his hands was a distant drum he had no ear for. The beat that owned him now was older, deeper, something like a heart inside the heart, a forge inside the chest that only knew how to burn. He took a step into the draft from the ruined window, drawing air like a man who had been drowning and finally broke the surface. The city lay beyond: roofs and banners and the thin silver thread of waterbodies. All of it under the castle his father ruled. His father didn't care for anything until recently. Images jammed behind his eyes and then spilled, a reel of memory he could not stop— The Assembly Hall. His father sat in the highest seat. The nobles in their bright plumage looking around. And his father’s voice, mild as milk. Do you have anything to say? Thalric’s jaw flexed until it hurt. He could smell the hall again—cold stone, candle grease, perfume. He could hear the judgment spoken. He could feel the moment his own future was lifted from the table and whisked away like a cup by a servant—gone, and he hadn’t been strong enough to stop it. His hands curled. Glass tinkled under his boots as he paced. He had lost in the truest sense. Not only had he failed to stop that bastard Arzan from getting a good verdict, the man had dared to do something that he hadn’t imagined in his worst nightmares. Perhaps, no one saw it coming—that much was clear by the shock that rang out in the Assembly as soon as he’d said it. But if he had to guess, only his brother Eldric and Queen Regina had any idea that this was going to happen. Was that why they were so against him? If he had known. Gods witness him, if he had—Arzan would have been a memory with a shallow grave and a nameless stone. But how could he? He was never interested in that man before and had no interest in keeping track of the history of the kingdom. Tutors had chirped of charters and precedents while Thalric had always been outside in the yard. Paper had seemed like a coward's shield. He had built himself where men bled—learning weapons and battle tactics instead of learning how his father had given a medallion to Arzan's mother years back. Now the past unfurled like a writ. The Assembly took quite the turn. All of it felt like bloody stupid nonsense to him but everyone had acted like it was true. That it actually happened. He stood there and watched it. He could do nothing—nothing but smash everything down. The table felt like a broken jaw, the window a mouth full of glass-teeth. Wind licked the blood from his knuckles. He ground a shard into his palm until the sting narrowed the world to one bright filament. Splinters were still nested in his sleeves. The Knights watched with their hands hovering near hilts, the way men stand at the edge of a cliff and test the gravel. If it had been some trembling lord, some peacock with perfume in his powder, he might have laughed and gone hunting. But Arzan was different. He was the strongest Mage in the kingdom. Eldric’s cunning webs. Aldrin’s mages. Two millstones already grinded at his shoulders. His answer had always been the same: put on a helm and wade through. Now a third weight dropped, and the rope bit. How was that fair? He could still see his father’s gaze when it slid past his sons to Arzan and how he had looked at him, with warmth in his eyes. He curled his fist, glass groaning under his skin. Blood gathered and fell in slow, thick drops that pattered against the stone. If nothing changed, the crown would slip from his grasp. His father’s gaze had made that much clear—Arzan would have it. And Thalric? He would have nothing. Nothing but a shallow grave. That was how it went. Every child knew it; every heir had been raised on the tale. Succession was not a passing of the torch—it was the snuffing of every other flame. His late mother had whispered it often enough: When the time comes, only one lives to inherit. The rest feed the crows. He could already see it. A stake, a jeering crowd, his head held aloft as a warning to others who had dreamed too high. His vision of a continent forged into an Empire gone like mist in the morning sun. No. He would not die a dog’s death. His mind spun, knives flashing through shadow. Assassination. Poison. Fire in the barracks. Every thought that came was extreme, dripping in blood, and yet… none repulsed him. The only thing that clawed at him was indecision—which one first? Around him, the Knights had begun to ease, shoulders lowering, hands drifting away from their hilts. They thought the storm had passed, that their Prince had broken his fit of madness. Fools. He had not quieted; he had sharpened. If he walked the paths now forming in his mind, destruction would follow—tenfold what he had just wrought on table and glass. Hundreds might die. Thousands, perhaps. But what was that to him? The lives of peasants, of nameless men-at-arms, of nobles fattened on inheritance—they were tinder. If they burned, and in burning fueled his rise, then their ash would be his Empire’s foundation. Would they not rejoice, even in death, if the realm they birthed was greater than anything before? The answer writhed inside him: yes. Every other voice in his mind—his mother’s, his tutors’, even the echo of his father—hissed the same conclusion. There is no other choice. Thalric drew in a slow breath, letting it cool the fire in his chest until it condensed into something solid. His gaze raked across the ring of Knights. One finally stepped forward after gathering courage to speak up. “Your Highness… are you well?” Thalric’s lip curled. A humorless sound clawed its way from his throat, not quite a laugh. “You don’t have to worry about me. Get the horses ready. We ride for Fort Kaelgrim.” The Knights blinked. One shifted, as though to ask. “I want every noble under me summoned there,” Thalric cut in. “Those who ride with me will be rewarded. Those who hesitate…” He let the pause hang. “I don’t want questions. I want obedience. Do it.” Aldrin felt like vomiting. The chair beneath him might as well have been a gallows seat. His reflection in the small mirror on his desk confirmed what his stomach already knew—his skin had leached of every trace of blood. A chalk mask stared back at him, sunken eyes and lips cracked pale. He looked like a corpse awaiting burial. Perhaps he already was. Every plan he had nurtured, every careful step, every whispered promise—It had all died in that Assembly chamber. Snuffed out like candles in a storm. He had thought Arzan would be an ally. Not a friend, perhaps, but a man he could lean on, if not push. Together they might have steered the future, one throne supporting two ambitions. But Arzan had not just turned the board, he had flipped it outright, scattering every piece Aldrin had so carefully placed. Aldrin pressed a trembling hand against his temple, forcing the throbbing inside to still. The more he replayed the Assembly, the more certain he became. His father’s hand was in this. Not openly—never openly—but woven in the seams. The words that should have been dismissed as folly had instead landed like scripture. It was no accident. It was designed. He had walked into a trap he hadn’t even known existed. His gut turned, as though his body itself recoiled from the answer. Every instinct he had screamed the same truth: war was coming. Civil war. His brothers would never sit idle while Arzan was elevated. Thalric was already a powder keg in armor; he would tear walls down with his bare hands before yielding. And Eldric no, Aldrin shuddered, his eldest brother would not rage. He would scheme. He would poison. He would drown cities in whispers before ever drawing a blade. Neither would let Arzan’s rise stand. And Queen Regina—Aldrin swallowed hard—he had seen the fire in her eyes, the way her hand gripped her armrest as though it were the throat of an enemy. She had looked ready to start the war in the Assembly itself. The storm was already breaking. But what was he to do when it came? He had no army like Thalric, no Mages like Eldric. His strength had never been steel or spell, but words and smiles. Influence. Carefully built ties with the commons, slow currents meant to swell into a tide of support. But now, with Arzan’s verdict, that plan has collapsed. The people would look to the outsider with awe, not him. All he had left were his hands across the border. The kingdoms he had visited, the nobles whose ears he had charmed on long, grueling diplomatic roads. Alparca, most of all—he still had family there, or at least those who enjoyed his wine and his wit. Perhaps enough to call in favors, perhaps enough to build something greater. It would mean inviting outsiders into his father’s realm. It would mean staking the entire kingdom on foreign alliances. It would mean being branded a traitor if he lost. This update ıs available on 𝓷𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓵•𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑒•𝙣𝙚𝙩 Aldrin dragged his gaze back to the mirror. His reflection stared at him with corpse-white skin and hollow eyes, but beneath the pallor a thought flickered, thin and sharp. Better a living traitor than a dead prince. He clenched his jaw until the ache steadied his thoughts. Yes. If he could not match his brothers’ armies, he would borrow one. His hand hovered over a stack of blank parchment, the weight of ink suddenly heavier than any blade. Somewhere in the palace, bells tolled the hour. Each peal felt like a countdown. Aldrin dipped the quill. Could he really sit back? Let the storm break and sweep him away while others clawed at the throne? No. He wasn’t built for idleness. Aldrin was no fool like Thalric and Eldric. He was more sane than either of them, more aware of what he was and what he wasn’t. But ambition gnawed at him all the same. And more than ambition, there was distrust. None of them—his brothers, least of all Arzan—would hold the kingdom steady. He could see their futures as if painted before him. Each path led only to fractures. Collapse. Fuck, every thing would fall into pieces. He could not allow that. Not from the capital. Not from here. By the end of the Assembly, the city Hermil had turned into a noose. The air itself seemed thick with sparks, the kind that awaited only the smallest strike to blaze. If war was to start, it would start here. He could almost hear the screams already, echoing through its streets. Staying would be nothing short of suicide. The door to his chamber opened, hinges groaning. Count Blackbough entered, his dark cloak trailing behind him, and with him came two other nobles whose faces carried the same tightness that had locked Aldrin’s stomach since the Assembly. Their eyes found him, pale and drawn behind his desk, but none asked the question aloud. They all knew. Aldrin straightened, voice steady despite the tremor inside him. “We need to prepare to leave.” “Leave?” Blackbough’s brow furrowed. “Leave where?” “The edge of the kingdom,” Aldrin said. His hands curled into fists atop the desk. “To Alparca. I will speak with their court, call on the ties I’ve built, and make them see me as the rightful heir. With their backing, pressure will bleed in from every border. My father will feel the noose tighten from hands he cannot cut.” He tilted his head. “If he lives to see the end of these weeks, that is.” The room stilled at the mention of the King’s death, but Blackbough did not so much as blink. The Count inclined his head, though hesitation lingered in his voice. “Do we need to leave now?” “If we don’t,” Aldrin said, leaning forward, “then the city will swallow us whole. The capital will burn first—make no mistake. And when it does, there will be no escape. The only path to victory is not at the center but the edges. I will take the borders, bind them to me, and when the capital is surrounded, no army nor Mage nor would-be usurper will be able to unseat me. That is how we win the kingdom. Not by defending a crumbling throne, but by building a new one from every corner of the realm inward.” The nobles glanced at one another, silent, then nodded. Aldrin pushed away from the desk, his chair screeching across the stone. “Gather what you can. We ride before the capital devours us. We ride to claim what is mine. Let them choke on their civil war—we will be the ones who emerge when the ashes settle.” He strode toward the door, the others falling into step behind him. “Now,” Aldrin said again, low and certain. “Let’s go.” Not from cold, but from the shrieks clawing their way out of his mother’s chambers. The sound carried down the stone corridor like a banshee’s wail. Screams. Crashes. The sound of a woman who had always believed herself untouchable finally being denied something. Each ragged cry sent a tremor down his spine, and still, he stayed rooted there. Listening. A part of him savored it. Regina, Queen of Poise and Poison, who had trampled over courtiers and nobles alike, who had carved her way through the capital with charm and venom in equal measure reduced to a voice raw with fury. The woman who believed herself flawless, flawless enough to twist the Assembly, flawless enough to sneer at nobles and sons alike, now shrieking like any other wretch denied her will. Would she finally see her faults? Eldric’s lips twitched. No. Of course not. His mother would claw the very stones apart before admitting weakness. But still, to hear her rage fill the halls like thunder—it was a performance. A spectacle worth the price of admission. He would remember this day. All of it. History would remember it too—though the tone of the tale, whether it sang of triumph or tragedy, would be written not today but in the months ahead. Eldric was certain of that. The Assembly’s verdict had not ended the game; it had only reset the board. Another crash rattled the door to Regina’s chamber. A hoarse scream followed, muffled by thick wood. Eldric’s satisfaction was quiet, private. Enough. He turned from the sound, the smile fading from his lips, and let his boots whisper across the corridor stones. The castle was chaos—servants scurrying like mice, guards barking orders that no one heeded, the frenzy of a hive split open at the seams. Eldric had slipped from the Assembly at the peak of its madness, when all eyes were turned on Arzan and his father who were in the middle of a storm of shouts and accusations. No Knights trailed him now. No watchful eyes tracked his movements. He was a ghost in his own house, and he intended to make use of it. For a moment, he considered seeking his brothers. Thalric would be breaking anything he could lay hands on, roaring like a caged bull. Aldrin would be pale, pacing, trying to stitch plans back together from tatters. It might have been amusing to see them flail. To drink in their frustration. His hand slipped into his pocket, fingers brushing the cool curve of glass. A faint clink sounded as the vial knocked against the fabric of his trousers. He had plucked it away almost absently before the Assembly, some whisper inside him already knowing he would want it before the day was done. He didn’t pull it free. Not yet. Instead, Eldric mounted the staircase, one deliberate step at a time. Servants passed in hurried flurries, their eyes flicking to him, then away just as quickly. They knew better than to meet his gaze. He ignored them all, his focus narrowing to the slow rhythm of ascent, the weight of glass at his thigh, and the silence growing with every step away from the noise of his mother’s shrieking. One stair at a time. Upward. Always upward. And finally, he reached it, the very top. The rooftop opened before him. The air was sharp, clean, carrying the scents of smoke, stone, and the faint tang of the river that cut through the heart of Hermil. Eldric stood still, hands clasped behind him, and let his gaze sweep outward. Below sprawled the capital—the buildings packed tight as teeth, the walls a pale ring holding back the world, the streets teeming with ants that called themselves people. And beyond those walls, far past the reach of banners and bells, stretched the rest of the kingdom. His kingdom. As a child, he had come here often, eyes wide with awe, pretending each roof and courtyard belonged to him. But that wonder had died as he grew older, smothered by lessons, politics, and the shadow of a father who didn't care and a mother who cared too much. He had not stood here in years. Today, though—today he had to. He needed to look down at it all, to remind himself what was at stake. The walls. The people. The endless horizon. He wasn’t blind. He knew what was coming. The kingdom would tear itself apart; civil war was not a possibility but an inevitability. His father had made sure of that when he handed Arzan legitimacy, when he spat on the blood of his sons. But to Eldric, this wasn't a disaster. It was the door he had been waiting for, creaking open at last. Even his father couldn’t be surprised—not after what he’d done. Eldric pulled the vial from his pocket. The fragile glass felt cool against his fingers. He uncorked it and raised it to his lips, tilting his head back slowly. The liquid slid across his tongue, bitter enough to sting, sharp enough to make his throat tighten. He drank in steady pulls, savoring each burn as it seeped into him. Addictive. Dangerous. Changing him. He knew it. He could feel it. The substance was no mere comfort. It was reshaping him from within, stretching something long dormant, feeding the part of him that had always hungered but never been fed. Power. Raw. Unforgiving. Exactly what he wanted. A tremor of fear lingered in his chest—fear of what he was becoming, of what it might demand of him. But each swallow pressed that fear further down until it was nothing but dust beneath the boots of his ambition. By the time the vial ran dry, all that remained in his gaze was hunger. Hunger for a throne. Hunger for dominion. He smashed the empty glass against the parapet. Shards scattered over the stones, tumbling into the sky. Eldric’s eyes followed them only for a heartbeat before lifting back to the city. The rooftops. The walls. The people. The horizon beyond. A war was coming, and when the dust settled, everything his eyes touched would bear his mark. Even his mother would be forced to watch. A/N - You can read 30 chapters (15 Magus Reborn and 15 Dao of money) on my . Annual subscription is now on too. Read 15 chapters ahead HERE. Join the discord server HERE. Book 2 is officially launched! If you’re on Kindle Unlimited, you can read it for free—and even if you’re not buying, a quick rating helps more than you think. Also, it's free to rate and please download the book if you have Kindle unlimited. It helps with algorithm.