The throne room of Astrenys was crafted to intimidate. Towering marble columns stood like judgmental gods, stretching into a high vaulted ceiling painted with celestial wars. The golden banners of House Valeris hung proudly, their sigil—a black phoenix encircled by a silver sun—fluttering from enchanted winds that carried the scent of crushed roses and something colder beneath: blood and ambition.
Every detail gleamed, every chandelier sparkled, but beneath the splendor was rot.
Kaelen Valeris stood at the center of it all, cloaked not in royal colors but in the austere black of mourning. Yet no death had been declared. He was, after all, only mourning his old self.
Noble eyes followed his every movement—some with confusion, others with poorly masked dread. They had not expected him. They had not prepared.
"Is that…?"
"He was executed—!"
"Impossible. He died ten years ago."
Kaelen's pale silver eyes—once filled with youthful fire—were now glacial mirrors that betrayed nothing. His face, chiseled by nobility and shadowed by time, gave no indication of emotion. His black gloves tightened faintly over the polished scabbard of his sword, Nadir, forged from obsidian starmetal and known as the last relic of the lost knight-god, Caetherion.
At the far end of the hall sat the usurper. Lord Therin Valeris lounged on the throne that was not his, draped in imperial crimson, adorned in sapphire-studded rings, and crowned with a lazy arrogance that belied the cunning snake beneath. Therin had orchestrated Kaelen's downfall ten years ago. Had smiled at his trial. Had turned the court against him. Had watched him hang.
Kaelen remembered it all.
Ten Years Ago – The Gallows
The rope had bitten deep.
Cold wind howled through the execution square as Kaelen stood with the noose around his neck, stripped of all rank and title. His name had been smeared with false charges—treason, sorcery, patricide. All lies. But lies told by powerful men become truth in a kingdom starved of conscience.
Crowds had watched with indifference, or worse, joy. His closest allies had been murdered or bribed. His lover had vanished. His uncle Therin had held court from a balcony above, wine goblet raised in mock toast.
He had died with hatred in his heart, shame burning deeper than the rope's bruise.
But death had not been the end.
Kaelen's final breath had dissolved into darkness, and then—screaming light. Agony. And then silence.
When he awoke, it was not to oblivion, but to the scent of frost on a familiar breeze. A reflection in polished glass showed the face of a seventeen-year-old boy. His own, before betrayal. Before ruin.
The gods had not granted him mercy.
They had given him vengeance.
Present Day – The Throne Room
"I see the rumors of necromancy are not exaggerated," Therin said at last, his voice a sharp purr that spread through the hall like oil on water. "My dear nephew returns from the grave. I must admit, it's quite the dramatic entrance. Well done."
Kaelen inclined his head, eyes still locked on Therin. "There is no necromancy. Only failure of execution. Something you're quite familiar with."
A murmur rippled through the gathered nobles. Insults this bold hadn't been spoken in court since the reign of Kaelen's father, High King Marentis, whose death had been the first domino in the young prince's collapse.
Therin chuckled, though his fingers curled against the throne's arm. "Still sharp of tongue, I see. But sharp words do not make a claim, nephew. What do you seek here? A ghost cannot claim the crown."
"I do not seek," Kaelen replied, stepping forward. His voice was calm, but it cut like glass. "I come to reclaim what was stolen."
He stopped just short of the dais where Therin sat. Every step had been measured. Every word chosen. A dozen nobles held their breath.
"You speak of theft," Therin said slowly, "yet you were condemned by the court, found guilty by trial."
"A court bought with coin," Kaelen said. "A trial twisted by lies. I have returned to restore what this kingdom lost. Not with pleas, but with proof. I will show them. I will remind them."
Later That Night – The Chamber of Ash
The guest chambers he had been granted were a test. Ornate, but distant from the inner sanctum—an insult disguised as hospitality. Kaelen didn't mind. Let them think he had returned alone.
He lit no lamps. He had always preferred the dark.
A rustle behind him. Then a voice.
"Your return is either madness or divinity, my prince."
Kaelen didn't turn. "General Voran. Still loyal to ghosts?"
The man stepped into view—a towering figure with grey-streaked hair and burn scars down one cheek. Voran had once sworn an oath to Kaelen's father, then to Kaelen himself. When the prince had been executed, Voran vanished.
"Not ghosts," Voran said. "Only kings. You have their eyes again."
Kaelen's hand opened, revealing a small, golden sigil ring—the ring of House Valeris, once worn by his father. One of a kind. Its return was impossible unless Kaelen was who he claimed to be.
"You were with the resistance," Kaelen said.
Voran nodded. "We watched. Waited. Hoped. Some of us still remembered the real prince. The one who wouldn't bend the knee to Therin's 'reforms.' You were just a boy then. You're something else now."
"I've returned for more than revenge," Kaelen said, his voice steel in velvet. "I will shatter the system that let him rise. And I need you."
The old general knelt. "Then command me."
Three Days Later – Council of Flames
In a lesser throne room—reserved for military briefings—Kaelen stood before seven nobles, each one powerful enough to command armies or incite rebellion.
He had summoned them under a lie: that Therin wanted to "test" the prince's political mind.
Instead, Kaelen presented them with truth.
"You believe this realm is stable," he began, pacing slowly across the war-map of Astrenys. "But in truth, it's fractured. Trade routes are bottlenecked by border lords. The southern marshes are on the brink of secession. The Iron Isles have refused levy tribute for three years."
One of the nobles, Lady Maerlyn, narrowed her eyes. "And you think you can fix this?"
Kaelen met her gaze. "I already have."
He swept his hand, revealing sealed scrolls—intercepted messages, forged contracts, secret treaties. His past life had taught him everything. Every betrayal. Every leak. Every weakness. Now, he was using it all.
Silence reigned.
"You've planned this," Lord Ronar said, awed and unsettled. "You've prepared for years."
Kaelen smiled slightly. "No. I prepared in another life."
The Final Scene – The Shadow Below
In the dungeons beneath the palace, Kaelen descended into the cells with only Voran and one other—Lyse, a half-elf spy who had once died protecting him. She didn't know it yet. In this life, she still lived.
She unlocked a barred door. Inside, shackled and bloodied, was Lord Vexen—Therin's chief informant.
"You were hard to find," Kaelen said, kneeling beside the man. "But in my past life, I learned you were the one who planted the false letters. The ones that damned me."
Vexen coughed, then spat blood. "You… should be dead."
"And you," Kaelen replied coldly, "should pray I still believed in mercy."
He rose, turning to Lyse. "Let him rot. Send his confession to the High Temple and the Council of Twelve. Unseal it before the Feast of Renewal."
Lyse raised a brow. "That will make the council question Therin publicly. Might cause chaos."
Kaelen met her gaze, and for a moment, the mask slipped. Beneath the calm, a storm brewed.
"That's the point."