The doors of the Council Chamber crashed open with a thunderous boom.

  Achem stepped into the vast hall, his cloak swirling behind him, his sword drawn. The Iron Wolves poured in beside him, their weapons gleaming under the golden torchlight. Among them, the King’s Shadows melted into the corners, unseen but deadly.

  Seven Council Lords sat in their gilded chairs, their faces twisting in horror as their false security shattered. Three seats remained empty. Where are the others?

  Panic seized the room. Some Lords clutched at their robes, their mouths opening and closing like fish gasping for air. Others scrambled for escape, only to find the heavy doors had already swung shut behind Achem’s warriors.

  Fourteen knights in full plate armor moved instantly, their hands gripping the hilts of their swords. The clang of steel being drawn filled the chamber. These were not ordinary guards—these were King’s Knights, elite warriors clad in enchanted armor, each one worth ten soldiers.

  Achem’s eyes flicked toward the raised dais where a frail, aging man sat upon his throne. Alistair Valen. His distant cousin. His replacement.

  Alistair looked as though he had aged a decade in mere months. The crown sat awkwardly on his thinning white hair, his sunken eyes darting wildly between Achem and the panicked Council. Fear, confusion, and something else—something deeper—swirled in his expression.

  Rogar’s memories surged within Achem. Flashes of bloodied chambers. Screams of dying men. Had he unknowingly wiped out his own kin? Had the Arcaemaguls orchestrated it all?

  One of the Lords stumbled forward, his voice shaking. “We had no choice!”

  Achem’s gaze snapped toward him. The man was bloated with wealth, sweat pooling at his collar.

  “No choice?” Achem echoed, voice low, dangerous.

  Another Lord found his voice, desperation breaking through. “The Arcaemaguls—they forced us! They gave us no alternatives. We only wanted stability, to protect the kingdom—”

  Achem scoffed. “And how did that work out for you?”

  No answer. Just silence and trembling hands.

  The sharp ring of steel filled the chamber as Achem raised his sword, pointing it directly at the Council.

  “Then tonight,” he said coldly, “you die as cowards.”

  They moved as one.

  Tavian vanished in a flicker of silver. A whisper of motion, a blade flashing in the dim torchlight—then a noble gasped, his fingers clawing at his throat as crimson spilled in violent spurts. His voice came out in a gurgling rasp, his eyes wide with disbelief before his knees buckled and he crumpled to the marble floor.

  The Elejae was already gone, a phantom in the shifting gloom. The knights stiffened, hands flying to sword hilts, but the air was thick with unseen death. A breath later, bodies collapsed where they stood, eyes frozen in shock, mouths open in silent screams.

  One noble, more cunning than the rest, lunged for the hidden passage concealed behind the great oaken throne. His trembling fingers scraped against the carved relief of a stag’s head—one press, and the stone door would groan open. But he never reached it. A dagger, black as midnight, whistled through the air and embedded itself deep into his eye socket. He barely had time to shudder before the weight of death took him, his lifeless form sliding to the ground. Tavian was already there, wrenching the blade free with a practiced twist, his expression unreadable beneath the dark hood of his cloak.

  Then came fire.

  Lysara strode forward, the air around her shimmering with heat. In her palm, flames coiled and roared to life, hungry and impatient. With a flick of her wrist, she unleashed them, tongues of fire leaping toward the banners hanging high above. The sigils of noble houses ignited in an instant, their proud colors blackening as flames consumed them. Smoke curled toward the vaulted ceiling, and the wooden beams groaned as fire licked at their edges. Shadows reeled and twisted, cast into a frenzied dance by the growing inferno.

  And then, the knights moved.

  A battle cry rang through the chamber, the scrape of steel on leather as swords were drawn. Armor clanked, boots pounded against stone. The knights surged forward, a wall of iron and fury.

  Tavian did not wait. He was already moving.

  Garnac met them head-on like a thunderclap, a force of nature wrapped in muscle and fury. His axe carved through the air, an instrument of destruction wielded with savage precision. The first knight barely had time to brace before the edge of the weapon crashed into his enchanted plate. The steel split like brittle ice, ribs shattering beneath the impact. The force sent the sundered body crumpling backward, armor screeching against stone.

  Another knight lunged, but Garnac’s momentum was relentless. His axe came down again—bone, flesh, and tempered metal all yielding in the same brutal instant. The knight staggered, a wet gasp escaping his lips as he slumped forward, lifeless before he hit the floor. Blood painted the marble beneath them, pooling in glistening ribbons around his boots.

  Amid the carnage, Achem moved like a wraith, his sword whispering through the fray. Where Garnac was fury, Achem was precision. His blade never swung wide—it sought only the softest, most vulnerable places. A knight turned to face him, and Achem was already inside his guard, his blade slipping beneath the gorget. A thrust, a twist. The knight jerked, hands scrabbling at the thin line of red blooming at his throat. A gurgling scream, then silence.

  Another enemy lunged—Achem pivoted, a flick of his wrist sending his sword plunging between the plates of the knight’s breastplate. The heart. A gasp, a shudder, and the knight collapsed, life extinguished in the span of a breath.

  Above it all, seated upon the great obsidian throne, Alistair Valen did not move.

  His fingers gripped the armrests so tightly his knuckles blanched. His breath was shallow, his chest rising and falling with the struggle of a man paralyzed by terror. The sounds of battle filled the chamber—steel clashing, screams echoing, the crackling of flames devouring the banners above—but he remained transfixed.

  His lips parted, as if to speak.

  But no words came.

  The chamber became a battlefield of steel, fire, and blood.

  And then—

  A hidden door groaned open.

  Achem turned—

  And everything changed.

  The fighting stilled.

  The air shifted. Thickened.

  A low, unnatural hum vibrated through the chamber.

  From the hidden passage, three figures emerged.

  The Arcaemaguls.

  Their leader looked frail, draped in dark, flowing robes. But his violet eyes burned like embers, unnatural and ancient. His voice came softly, yet it echoed in their skulls like a whisper from another realm.

  Lysara’s flames flickered—then died.

  Achem’s grip tightened on his sword.

  The air thickened. Heavy. Suffocating.

  Even The Elejae took a step back. Wariness flickered in her silver eyes.

  Something beyond mortal understanding had entered the battlefield.

  The Arcaemaguls smirked, unfazed by the carnage.

  One took a slow step forward. “We do not seek power,” he murmured. “We are power.”

  Another chuckled, voice smooth as oil. “And you, boy, are a ripple in a pond that was meant to be still.”

  Achem’s jaw clenched. “Why?”

  The leader’s violet eyes bored into him.

  “You were never meant to be.”

  The words slammed into Achem like a hammer.

  Rogar’s line was never meant to continue.

  Achem was an anomaly. A mistake in their perfectly balanced world.

  Alistair was chosen because he was weak. Because he would obey.

  Every war. Every rise and fall of kings—they had controlled them all.

  Achem’s rage boiled.

  But before he could strike—

  Alistair spoke.

  The room had become a battlefield of steel, fire, and sorcery.

  But as the Arcaemaguls spoke, all sound drained away, leaving behind only their voices—a weight pressing against reality itself.

  Their leader turned to Alistair Valen, the trembling man still clutching the throne as if it could shield him from the inevitable.

  “Kill Rogar.”

  The command was simple. Absolute.

  Achem stiffened. His sword remained ready, but he did not move.

  He needed to see what Alistair would do.

  For the first time since this night began, Alistair lifted his head.

  His voice shook, but his eyes burned with something new.

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  "I thought I could be a good king," he whispered. "But I was never a king at all."

  The Arcaemaguls did not look concerned.

  Their leader took a calm step forward, his voice dripping with the patience of an executioner waiting for the blade to fall.

  “Kill Rogar.”

  Alistair hesitated.

  Then—he drew his sword.

  Not against Achem.

  Against the Arcaemaguls.

  Silence.

  For the first time, a flicker of surprise crossed the Arcaemaguls' faces.

  Alistair raised his blade, his grip tightening. His body was old, frail even, but in that moment, his spirit burned young.

  "You used me," he spat. "You made me believe I was meant for this throne. But I see it now." His voice turned fierce. "You're the ones who need to die."

  Achem saw it. The desperation. The rage of a man who had been a pawn his entire life, finally deciding to break the board.

  Alistair lunged.

  And the Arcaemaguls laughed.

  A single gesture—just a flick of the wrist—

  Achem’s heart lurched.

  A pulse of raw eldritch power crackled through the chamber.

  Alistair's body arched backward, his mouth open in a silent scream.

  His flesh withered. His veins blackened.

  His eyes burned white—

  And then—

  His body collapsed into dust.

  The crown clattered to the floor, rolling in lazy spirals—

  —until it stopped at Achem’s feet.

  The chamber went still.

  Achem stared at the ashes.

  And then—

  The Iron Wolves charged.

  Their charge shaking the ground.

  Blades clashed, magic screamed through the air, and the once-gilded Council Chamber became a war zone.

  Achem lunged at the Arcaemagul leader, his sword flashing, aiming to carve through the frail-looking man whose violet eyes still burned with cold amusement.

  The moment Achem’s sword should have bitten into flesh—

  Nothing.

  The blade passed through him like smoke.

  Achem’s balance broke for half a second. Enough.

  The Arcaemagul flicked his wrist—a blast of invisible force slammed into Achem’s chest. He flew backward, colliding into a broken throne, ribs flaring with pain.

  “Pathetic.” The leader’s voice was soft, almost bored.

  Achem gritted his teeth, pushing himself up—just in time to see his warriors falling apart.

  Tavian moved like a whisper, his daggers flashing through the air.

  A black-robed Arcaemagul merely turned a palm toward him.

  Tavian froze mid-strike, his breath hitching.

  His skin paled, veins darkening as something drained the life from him.

  Achem gritted his teeth. No—

  Tavian collapsed, gasping, body twitching violently.

  Garnac roared, swinging his axe in a crushing arc.

  Another Arcaemagul did not even look at him.

  With a flick of two fingers, Garnac’s feet lifted from the ground.

  A tremor split the chamber.

  The air crushed around Garnac like a vice.

  His ribs cracked.

  Blood dribbled from his mouth.

  The invisible force hurled him across the chamber—his body slamming through a marble pillar. The ancient stone crumbled atop him.

  Lysara was already chanting.

  Her hands burned with blue-white flame, her eyes ablaze with pure rage.

  One of the Arcaemaguls raised his hand to silence her spell.

  Nothing happened.

  The mage’s violet eyes widened—

  Lysara screamed a word of power.

  A gout of fire exploded from her palms, engulfing him.

  The Arcaemagul shrieked, clawing at his robes as fire devoured him alive.

  The others turned toward Lysara.

  The temperature dropped instantly.

  Lysara staggered, her fire dimming again—the magic in the air twisting around her like a noose.

  Achem forced himself to move, ignoring the ache in his ribs, sword raised—

  And then—

  A blur of silver and shadow.

  The Elejae struck.

  The Arcaemagul leader turned, his robes billowing with the motion—just as her dagger slid between his ribs.

  Achem froze.

  The Elejae stood behind the leader, her dagger buried deep in his side, the hilt pressed flush against his flesh. She was close—so close it almost seemed like an embrace, her body molded to his, her breath warm against his neck. A lover’s closeness, yet death was the only gift she offered.

  The Arcaemagul’s violet eyes flickered.

  Not with shock. Not with pain.

  With something else.

  His lips, pale as moonlight, curved into a slow, knowing smile.

  Achem felt something cold slither down his spine.

  The Elejae did not hesitate. With a sharp, practiced twist, she ripped the blade free. The sound was wet, grotesque—black blood bubbled up from the wound, spilling in thick rivulets onto the marble. The scent of something old, something wrong, coiled into the air.

  The leader staggered. His body swayed, unsteady, like a man caught in the pull of a great unseen tide. Then, with a breathless exhale, he crumpled. His form collapsed in a boneless heap, his robes pooling around him like ink spilling across parchment.

  Dead.

  Or so it seemed.

  The rest of the Arcaemaguls barely reacted.

  They kept fighting.

  As if nothing had changed.

  Achem’s breath hitched. His pulse thundered in his ears. What—?

  He turned sharply to the Elejae.

  She was already walking away, stepping over the fallen as though they were nothing more than scattered debris. The blood-slick marble did not slow her, nor did the dying groans that still echoed through the chamber. She moved with the same effortless grace, untouched by the carnage she had helped unleash.

  Achem lunged, his fingers locking around her wrist.

  She stilled.

  The tension between them crackled like a drawn bowstring.

  “What the hell was that?” Achem hissed, his grip tightening.

  The Elejae’s silver eyes flicked to him—cold, unblinking, unfathomable. Her expression betrayed nothing. No fear. No triumph. Just an eerie, quiet certainty.

  Then, she smiled. A slow, ghosting curve of her lips.

  "This world needs a ruler, King," she murmured. Her voice was soft. Almost amused.

  "But not you."

  Achem barely had time to process the words before she was gone.

  The shadows swallowed her whole, as if she had never been there at all.

  And she left him standing in the ruin of it all—surrounded by blood, bodies, and questions he did not yet know how to answer.

  And a burning ache Achem could not place.

  With the Council dead, the Arcaemaguls shattered, and the palace walls crumbling, chaos erupted like a storm unchained.

  The fires had spread, ravenous and merciless, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, devouring wood, stone, and flesh alike. Smoke coiled through the streets, thick and suffocating, rolling over the city like the dying breath of some great, wounded beast. Ash rained from the heavens, coating the bloodstained cobblestones in a funeral shroud of gray.

  Screams cut through the night—some in anguish, some in rage, others in the panicked wails of those who did not know where to run. Soldiers fought in the streets, some still clinging to a broken cause, others turning their blades on former allies in the madness of collapse. The once-proud banners of Eldoria hung in tatters, their colors lost beneath soot and ruin.

  From the palace steps, Achem watched as the empire that had cast him aside fell to its knees. The great city, once an unbreakable symbol of power, was burning. Not by siege, not by an enemy at its gates, but by its own undoing.

  And in that moment, he realized—this was no victory.

  This was the death of an age.

  Eldoria was burning.

  The city outside was not celebrating Achem’s victory.

  They were not welcoming a king.

  They were rising for themselves.

  The reign of the Council was over.

  But now—Eldoria belonged to no one.

  Garnac limped forward, each step heavy with exhaustion, his massive frame marred by wounds that had yet to still their bleeding. Blood trailed down his temple, mixing with the grime of battle, but his grip on Achem’s shoulder was firm—solid, unyielding, like the man himself.

  “The throne is yours,” he rasped, his voice raw with pain and conviction. “Take it.”

  Achem did not move.

  The empty throne loomed before him, its gilded surface catching the flickering glow of the fires outside. The high seat of Eldoria, carved with the sigils of kings long dead, their legacies turned to dust. It had been his once—stolen by treachery, by cowardice. And now, it lay before him again, waiting, expectant.

  Free for the taking.

  His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms.

  It should have felt like triumph. Like justice. Like the end of a war long fought.

  Instead, it felt like a weight pressing down upon him, colder than steel, heavier than any blade.

  Achem stood before the throne, its towering form carved from obsidian and gold, a seat meant for kings—conquerors, rulers, gods among men. His reflection flickered in the polished metal, but he did not recognize the man staring back.

  Everything he had bled for, everything he had fought for, lay before him. And yet.

  His heart was hollow, an empty vessel where triumph should have lived. The weight of victory pressed upon his shoulders, heavier than any armor he had ever worn. Shadows of the past stirred in his mind—memories of the man he had been, the man who had once dreamed of this moment with fire in his veins. Now, all he felt was the cold.

  Achem clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening into fists at his sides. Was this what he wanted? Was this who he had become?

  Behind him, Eldoria burned. The night sky, once vast and endless, was swallowed by thick coils of smoke, blotting out the stars like a god’s hand smothering the heavens. The streets that had once echoed with the voices of merchants and children now rang with the cries of the dying. The scent of blood and ash curled in the air, a testament to the price of power.

  Achem took a slow breath, his chest rising and falling with the weight of unspoken words.

  The throne was his.

  But at what cost?

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