The Dagger
The first thing Kaelen noticed wasn't the pain—it was how quiet betrayal sounded.
The dagger slid between his ribs with barely a whisper, Alric's breath warm against his ear as the steel turned. No grand speech. No final words. Just three whispered syllables that unraveled a lifetime:
"Father's orders."
Blood filled Kaelen's mouth as he collapsed against the Lion Throne, his fingers scrambling at the carvings they'd made as boys—A.R. + K.V.—now slick with his life. Around them, the court continued dancing, their laughter rising above the minstrels' tune. No one noticed the bastard prince dying in the shadows.
Alric knelt to catch him, his ceremonial armor gleaming. Up close, Kaelen saw the truth: his brother's hands shook. The crown prince's perfect mask had cracked.
"Why now?" Kaelen choked out. "After all these years?"
A muscle jumped in Alric's jaw. "The southern lords demanded proof of loyalty." His gaze flicked to the high balcony where King Orric watched, goblet raised in silent toast. "Your head or mine."
The world dimmed.
Then—
Fire.
The Return
Kaelen woke drowning in lavender sheets.
Sunlight streamed through the attic window he'd once kicked out to sneak to the stables. His body—younger, smaller—thrashed against phantom pain. The scent of Sera's rosewater soap clung to the linens.
Fourteen again.
He scrambled for the mirror. The boy staring back had wild silver-black hair and too-large eyes that glowed violet in the dawn light. The Throneblood mark on his collarbone pulsed like a living thing.
A knock.
"My lord?" Jory's voice, still sweet with youth. "Your astronomy lesson—"
"Cancel it."
When the footsteps faded, Kaelen pressed his palm to the wall. The hidden compartment clicked open—his childhood stash of stolen sweets now replaced with something darker. The merchant's ledger. The one that had first revealed Alric's treason.
Got you.
The Alchemy of Vengeance
The abandoned tower stank of sulfur and dead dreams.
Kaelen's stolen key turned with satisfying precision. Moonlight through broken stained glass painted the workbench in fractured colors. His fingers traced ingredients like old lovers:
Wolfsbane (blue glass vials that hummed when touched)
Shadowroot (black powder that slithered toward warm skin)
King's Mercy (the thick red poison that had killed Duke Veren)
The mortar glowed as he worked, Throneblood magic guiding his hands through recipes he shouldn't know for decades. Three counterclockwise stirs. Two clockwise. The mixture spat violet sparks that burned his forearm—
—and the numerals on his wrist moved:
XVI → XV
First payment made.
The First Strike
Dawn painted the training yard in bloodlight.
Kaelen watched from the armory shadows as Alric donned his favorite gloves—the ones he'd lined with wolfsbane powder. Across the yard, Lord Commander Dain inspected the new recruits, oblivious to the prince's trembling fingers.
"Begin!"
Steel flashed. Alric's signature Lion's Pounce became a stumbling lurch as his sword clattered to the sand. His right hand spasmed violently, fingers curling like a dying spider.
"Again!" Dain barked.
By the fifth bout, sweat darkened Alric's golden curls. The watching nobles' whispers grew teeth:
"Firstborn weakness..."
"Perhaps the king should reconsider..."
Their eyes met across the yard. For the first time, Kaelen saw it—not anger in his brother's gaze, but raw, undiluted fear.
Welcome to my world.
The Crypt's Secret
The gate shrieked like a tortured soul.
Kaelen's torchlight revealed what no historian recorded: seven skeletons in princely robes, each with a dagger through the heart. Their fingers clutched scrolls that crumbled at his touch—except one.
"Day 217: Father's hunger grows. Today he took cousin Lyr's eyes. The Throneblood demands more than I can give."
The walls whispered:
"The third prince lasted twelve years."
His mark flared. Hidden carvings ignited—a mural of King Orric the First feasting on his sons' still-beating hearts. The Forgotten Prince's face had been scratched away, but his final words remained:
"The Throne always wins."
Ice-cold fingers grabbed his wrist. The numerals spun wildly:
XIV → XI → IX
He wrenched free. The torch died. In the sudden dark, fresh blood dripped down the wall, forming words:
"YOUR TURN"
The Reckoning Begins
Kaelen emerged at dawn, the numerals now reading X.
Six years burned in one night.
Beyond the gates, the city stirred. Somewhere, Alric would be waking to his crippled hand. Somewhere, the king planned his next purge. Somewhere, the masked woman watched.
He flexed his hand—violet energy dancing between his fingers.
The game had begun.