The man came to consciousness with a groggy groan, eyelids heavy and vision swimming in blurs.
As the shapes sharpened, the first thing he saw was a figure sitting before him—calm, collected, and quietly cleaning a revolver. A cloth dragged slow across polished metal. His face was hidden behind a plain, bone-white mask.
The masked man tilted his head, registering the movement.
"Very light sleeper," he muttered, voice low and dry.
"W…what do you want?" the man rasped, trying to shift—but his arms wouldn't budge.
His panic sharpened. He looked around.
A basement. Cold concrete. Pipes. No windows. Next to him, another man slumped over in a chair—unconscious. The one who had given him the parcel.
"Where am I?" he demanded.
"Safest place on the planet," the masked man replied, still polishing.
The man's eyes locked on the revolver in the figure's hands. "What are you trying to do?"
The masked man paused, then slowly raised the gun.
"This?"
The tied man jerked instinctively, the chair creaking under him.
The sound was enough to stir the unconscious one. He woke with a sharp intake of breath—and a panicked scream.
"Sh, sh, sh…" the masked man whispered, bringing a finger to his mask. "Not a sound."
Both men swallowed hard.
One broke the silence. "You want money? I can get you some—"
The masked man cut him off.
"Who are you working for?"
"We're just fruit sellers!" the other protested.
The masked man opened the revolver's chamber, slowly loading bullets—one by one—his silence daring them to speak.
"You can check the bag," the second man insisted, desperate. "It's just kiwis. Real, fresh kiwis, I swear!"
He clicked the chamber shut, letting it spin slightly as he rotated the gun down his own forearm in one fluid motion. The friction made the bullets shift—a sound like an omen.
Then—he pointed the gun at the first man's head.
Click.
Empty.
The man whimpered, shaking uncontrollably. His fear cracked something open.
He mumbled a name—barely audible, soaked in terror. The masked man stilled, head tilting slightly, as if the word confirmed everything.
Across the street, a crow perched on the curved arm of a rusted streetlight outside the abandoned house. Still. Watching.
Then—
Bang.
The crow didn't flinch.
Another shot.
Bang.
The crow cawed and took flight, wings cutting through the dead night air.
Back at the Stovia Cadet Accommodation, Building 16-A, Freya jerked awake.
The nightmare again.
She was getting used to it—almost numb to the images—but her body still reacted, heart racing, sweat clinging to her skin. Her eyes drifted to the wall clock across the dim room.
04:15.
Her team was to meet at 05:00.
Freya slid out of bed, quiet and cold-footed, and dressed quickly in her cadet-issued gear. The fabric still felt stiff, like it didn't belong to her. The black polo neck clung to her uncertainty. Cargo pants. Drop-leg bag. Weight of a weapon she barely knew how to use.
The mess hall wasn't open at this hour. The corridors were eerily still, lit only by the pale overhead lights—flickering like a scene in a horror film. Even her own footsteps sounded like an intrusion.
She stepped outside the dormitory.
The sky was dark and swollen with clouds. No sunrise yet. Only a heavy gloom hanging over the Stovia Cadet Corps, as if the land itself held its breath.
The door shut behind her with a solid click.
And for a brief moment, Freya stood still, wondering if she'd ever walk back through it.
She wasn't ready. She wasn't trained. She had never fought. Never held a gun before yesterday. And yet—Edmund had put her name down for a mission. It wasn't hard to imagine why.
Maybe he wanted her dead.
Maybe doing it himself would just ruin his reputation.
That thought sat bitter on her tongue as she walked toward the gates.
Waiting there already were Daisy and Alice, both in full gear. Daisy carried an extra shoulder bag for supplies. The glow from a lamppost behind them gave their silhouettes a haunting edge, but their presence still brought warmth.
"Good morning, soldier," Daisy said with a knowing smile.
She could see right through Freya—see the way her steps lacked conviction, see the flicker of fear in her eyes.
Why wouldn't she? In Mevelior, women didn't fight. They weren't taught to hold guns, let alone swords. Her father, Robert, never encouraged it. Not that she hadn't wanted to learn—she had. She had dreamt of it. But dreams and field missions were two different beasts.
Freya tried to smile in return.
Daisy opened her bag and pulled out three sandwiches wrapped in cloth. "Fuel up," she said, handing one to Alice and one to Freya.
Alice's eyes lit up like a child on a festival day. She hugged Daisy tightly. "You are the best."
Daisy let out a small wheeze. "You're gonna break my bones."
Alice shrugged with a grin "You can heal yourself."
Freya laughed—softly, unexpectedly. These two had a way of making her forget, even if only for a second, that they were walking into something dangerous.
Still, worry clung to her. Daisy was too soft-hearted. Alice, too unhealthy for strenuous combat. And Freya herself—she didn't know how to fight at all.
But they were going.
All three of them.
And there was no turning back.
They started their journey, climbing into the back of a rickety cart. Daisy stepped forward and said to the driver, "Near District One, please."
The man nodded, giving the reins a flick.
As the cart began to roll forward, the sky behind them turned from grey to gold. The sun had risen.
Far from them, sunlight slipped through the cracks in the curtains of Edmund's room, spilling directly over his face.
It hit his icy blue eyes.
He stirred and sat up groggily, only to freeze.
The pillow beneath him—stained with blood.
His nose again.
"Shit," he muttered, snatching the pillow and quickly wrapping it inside the bedsheet. He shoved it into the small bin under his desk, pushing it down, trying to hide the red marks. If anyone saw it, questions would follow—and that was something he couldn't afford.
He changed quickly, throwing on his running tracks, hesitating only for a second as he looked at himself in the mirror. The nosebleeds were getting worse.
"Doesn't matter," he whispered to his reflection. "A soldier can't be weak."
He wasn't like James. He didn't have aether. No natural gift. No elemental weapon flowing through his blood.
So his body had to be strong enough to compensate.
He jogged across the training grounds and vanished into the early jungle mist, finding his usual secluded place deep in the woods. There, surrounded by the breath of the forest, he pulled off his top. Muscles tight and corded, his torso bore both ink and injury—tattoos of creatures and symbols on one side, scars layered like stories on the other.
The trees around him stood silent, many of them already bearing the marks of his fury. Bark split and peeled, dented from years of quiet violence.
He pulled his wraps from his pocket and started binding his knuckles.
First punch.
Then another.
And another.
It built quickly.
Each strike came faster, heavier, angrier.
He saw flashes behind his eyes—James laughing. James locking the door and setting his room on fire. James breaking his nose. Poisoning his food. Smiling while Edmund vomited for hours. Edmund forgiving him, again and again. Hoping. Trusting. And every time he did, he got punished for it.
Emma Smith's voice echoed in his head, shrill and cruel, crying wolf when Edmund had finally fought back. He'd been beaten for it. Locked up. Burned. The whip—he still remembered the iron-hot sting of it curling across his back.
The memory felt alive. His hands moved on their own.
The anger spilled through him, flooding out with every punch, until bark cracked and blood soaked the cloth around his fists.
He lost sense of the present.
Then—he stopped.
Panting.
The wraps around his knuckles were soaked through.
He looked down, muttered under his breath, "I hate blood."
He'd seen too much of it in his half-life already.
Edmund exhaled sharply, rolled his shoulders, and threw his jacket back on. Without another word, he turned and made his way back through the trees.
Back to the place where strength was survival, and weakness was death.
As he passed the eastern wing of the training ground, Fredrick leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, a cup of tea in hand, eyes trailing Edmund silently.
"You keep going like this," Fredrick said casually, "there'll be nothing left of those trees. Or your hands."
Edmund didn't stop walking. "That's the idea."
Fredrick fell in step beside him. "You're not even gonna ask how the girls' departure went?"
"I already know," Edmund replied. "They're not dead yet."
Fredrick raised an eyebrow. "That's cold. Even for you."
Edmund glanced his way, just once. "If they survive this, they'll be ready for anything."
"And if they don't?"
Edmund didn't answer. He just kept walking.
The morning sun rose higher over Stovia, golden light slipping between the tower walls, painting the courtyard in warmth.
But for some, warmth had always been out of reach.
The Blackwood mansion, once off-limits to all but the royal bloodline, now stood divided. The king—locked behind his chamber doors, unseen for weeks—was all but forgotten. The rest of the estate belonged to the Smiths now. It wasn't in law, but it was in action.
Someone had to lead.
The country couldn't wait.
If Darren Smith didn't return soon to publicly name a successor, the kingdom would collapse under its own confusion. And if not from the inside—from the people, or worse, the army—then from the hungry eyes of other nations.
The sun filtered through high stained-glass windows as the grand court chamber filled. Officials, guards, and civilians stood pressed to the sides, murmuring prayers, clutching documents, stealing glances at the ornate twin chairs set on either side of the empty royal throne.
Then the great doors opened.
James entered with measured grace, each footstep echoing along the polished marble. His white suit glinted faintly with threads of gold sewn into the cuffs, while a crimson cape—the mark of royal blood or those poised to inherit it—flowed behind him like a banner.
Behind him followed four bodyguards in black, keeping perfect formation, but none drew attention like James himself. The people bowed low as he passed, voices dying to silence.
He reached the dais and paused at the foot of the steps, casting a sweeping glance across the hall. His voice, when it rang out, was calm but commanding:
"Raise your heads, ladies and gentlemen."
The crowd obeyed. He ascended the steps, bypassing the true throne and seating himself in the ornate chair to the right.
To the left, Edmund was already seated.
Draped in a sharp grey suit and a pristine white cape, Edmund sat stiffly, back straight, eyes forward. His expression betrayed nothing, unreadable as stone.
He did not bow.
He never did.
James gave him a single glance—controlled, distant—before facing forward. The court crier stepped into place.
"We'll begin today's proceedings."
An elderly woman hobbled forward, hunched and trembling. She bowed low.
"Honor to the Smiths, strength to the crown."
Her voice was frail. "The water near our homes is black, Your Grace. The children are coughing. We have no healers left in our ward."
James didn't speak at first. He turned his head slowly.
"Thought your unit was managing the river district?"
Edmund responded without blinking. "They are."
"And yet the river is poisoned?"
"It was an independent merchant ship. Dumped waste upstream. Not an internal failure."
James's voice thinned with irony. "So you're saying it's not your fault. Convenient."
Edmund leaned forward, his tone sharp but level. "I'm saying if I had full jurisdiction—rather than splitting the oversight between four councils—this wouldn't be happening."
The tension pulsed like a held breath.
James broke it cleanly. "A healer will be dispatched to your ward today. And we'll summon the merchant captains by nightfall."
The woman bowed again, eyes wet.
"Thank you, Your Grace. Honor to the Smiths, strength to the crown."
Next came a man in patched robes. He bowed deeply.
"Honor to the Smiths, strength to the crown."
He looked up, eyes red with grief. "My daughter was shot last week near the West Gate. She was twelve. The man wore military colors—he claimed to be on patrol. I want justice."
James's face hardened. "Did you see his face?"
"No, Your Grace. But witnesses in the ward said he wore the Stovia crest."
James glanced at Edmund.
Edmund spoke evenly. "We had troops posted there. Their orders were to protect the public, not harm them. If someone acted outside that—I'll see him court-martialed myself."
James nodded and gestured to a clerk. "Record the witnesses. We'll verify their reports. You'll receive word within the week."
The man bowed once more, voice unsteady.
"Thank you, Your Grace. Honor to the Smiths, strength to the crown."
Two middle-aged men approached next, both broad-shouldered and rigid with tension. They bowed in unison.
"Honor to the Smiths, strength to the crown."
The elder brother stepped forward. "Our father passed last season. His land was promised to me—his firstborn. But my brother refuses to leave the southern fields."
"They were willed to both of us," the younger interjected. "And my crops have already taken root."
James raised a hand, silencing them both. "Produce the will."
They handed over two separate documents. James took them without expression, glancing over the contents before handing them to a clerk.
"We'll verify both against the royal archives. A decision will be made within the week. Until then, neither of you is to make any changes to the land."
The brothers bowed again.
"Thank you, Your Grace. Honor to the Smiths, strength to the crown."
The court adjourned with a reverent murmur. Nobles and citizens alike bowed once more before making their exit, the air still heavy with proclamations and judgments. As the great doors opened to let the sunlight spill into the marble hall, James D. Smith stepped out first.
His crimson cape rippled in the breeze, gold embroidery glinting as he descended the steps with measured grace. A cigarette was placed in his mouth by one of the black-suited guards trailing him. Another guard followed with a silver lighter.
Click.
Nothing.
Click-click.
Still nothing.
James didn't speak at first. He simply looked at the man with a slow, disappointed glance—the kind that weighed more than any reprimand. Silas, the bodyguard fumbling with the lighter, froze under that stare.
Without breaking stride, James muttered under his breath, voice low and calm.
"Next time I will fire you, Silas."
Silas's eyes went wide.
"Literally," James added, just as a small flame flickered to life at the tip of his index finger—his own aether igniting with effortless precision. He lit the cigarette himself and took a drag, the smoke curling from his lips like a quiet exhale.
Silas gulped. "Sorry, sir. You can have my head for this."
James smirked, his expression shifting as he moved with that same unshakable grace down the palace steps.
"Oh come on, Silas. It was a joke."
Silas didn't move, still bowed halfway in a panic, until the two guards flanking James stepped forward to clear the path. James walked on, the crimson of his royal cape sweeping behind him like the edge of a flame—regal, untouchable, and just sharp enough to burn.
The walkway cleared at once. Near the bottom of the steps, a sleek, black vehicle waited. Beside it stood a woman with a sharp bob-cut and an unreadable face. She opened the rear door the moment James approached, offered a nod, and closed it smoothly behind him once he'd entered. She circled the hood and slipped into the driver's seat. The car rolled forward. Moments later, four more identical vehicles followed in procession, forming a quiet but unmistakable convoy through the cobbled streets.
On the court steps, Edmund remained behind.
He stood beneath the shade of a towering stone pillar, hands folded behind his back, his white cape catching the sunlight just so. His sharp blue suit had not a wrinkle out of place. His expression was calm. Composed. But distant.
Beside him, lounging with one shoulder against the column, Fredrick Ross observed the entire scene unfold with a lopsided grin.
"Was that a cigarette or a coronation ceremony?" he muttered, glancing sideways at Edmund.
Edmund didn't respond at first. His gaze remained locked on the departing vehicles.
"He likes his theatrics," he finally said, voice quiet.
Fredrick snorted. "Right, right. And that fire trick? Very regal. Nothing says 'fit to rule a kingdom' like a man too impatient for a lighter."
"He's always had trouble waiting."
Fredrick shifted, mock-thoughtful. "And yet the entire country's waiting on your father. Ironic, don't you think? Everyone pretending there's a king while all we've got is a red cape and unresolved daddy issues."
"Careful, Fred," Edmund said sharply, eyes narrowing just slightly.
Fredrick raised his hands in surrender, still grinning. "Hey, I'm just here for the court drama and overpriced coffee. You're the one with the cursed bloodline and a front-row seat."
Edmund's voice turned cold. "And you forget how dangerous that seat is."
"That's why I sit just off to the side," Fredrick said cheerfully. "Easier to duck when the knives come out."
They both waited at the base of the court steps, the air thick with unsaid things as the last of James's convoy melted into the city's winding roads. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the stone, its heat clinging to their coats like a second skin. Overhead, clouds were beginning to gather—white at the edges but darkening slowly, a quiet promise of rain later.
At last, their car glided to the front.
Fredrick stepped forward with theatrical flair, sweeping the back door open and offering an exaggerated bow. "Perhaps my liege would care to spare his royal legs?"
Edmund leveled him with a stare so dry it could crack stone. A beat passed. Then, a slow, deliberate smile that was anything but amused.
"Perhaps not."
He gave Fredrick a light swat to the shoulder—a wordless command to cut the act.
Fredrick laughed, busted mid-performance, and shut the door with a grin. "Had to try."
Edmund turned to the front. "Give me the driving seat, Prince."
Their driver—an old man with silvered hair slicked back and a crisp black vest that hadn't seen a wrinkle in years—looked up, confused. "But, my lord—"
"Back seat," Edmund said flatly. "Now."
Edmund opened the door himself and the old man scrambled out with barely a nod, lips pressed into a line.
Fredrick blinked. "You're serious?"
Edmund didn't answer. He slid into the driver's seat like he owned the road, hands already on the wheel.
Fredrick, still half-laughing, jogged around and slipped into the passenger seat. "Alright then. Ride of royalty, driven by doom."
The engine hummed to life beneath them. Edmund didn't respond. He pulled away from the curb without a word.
As the car merged into the city's arteries, the court building shrank behind them, and the dark clouds ahead began to swell. Fredrick leaned back with a grin, boots propped casually on the dash.
"You know," he said, glancing sideways, "for a guy with the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders, you drive like a man itching to break the speed laws."
Edmund's eyes stayed on the road, steady and storm-grey. "Maybe I am."
And the city swallowed them whole.