Part I: The Duel
Five years later, the youngest prince stands tall before his mirror, excitement gleaming in his blue eyes. At Eleven years old, he's already donning his sparring clothes—leather belts secured, stance confident. Today marks his first official match against the twins, Alexander and Abigail. His first real chance to prove himself. Granted to him by Sarah forcing the twins to accept to duel him.
The transformation is remarkable. What was once a small, overlooked child has become a prodigy of combat. Spears, swords, bow and arrow—his mastery grows daily at an impossible rate. Even Sarah, the Sword Master, believes he'll surpass them all someday.
Walking through the palace corridors toward the courtyard, Nex catches the familiar whispers of servants and maids. Their mocking laughter follows him, but he pays them no mind. Only a few people truly understand his potential: his aunt Sarah, select knights from the imperial guard, and Lucy—his caring adoptive mother.
The courtyard ring awaits without viewers, filled with sand and scattered stones. But before he can prepare, Alexander's voice cuts through the morning air.
"Well, well," Alexander sneers, circling Nex like a predator. "Look what crawled out of the dungeons. Tell me, brother, did you borrow those clothes from the stable boys?"
Nex adjusts his grip on his chosen weapons—a gladius and heavy shield—but remains silent.
"And that hair!" Alexander continues, gesturing dramatically. "Black as a crow's wing. Are you sure you're not Death's child?"
Abigail stands nearby, her laughter ringing out at her brother's jests. But Nex notices something others miss—the forced quality of her amusement, how she glances at Alexander rather than truly finding humor in his cruelty.
"Your sword form is laughable," Alexander presses on. "Sarah might coddle you, but we both know you're nothing but a pretender playing at being royal."
Nex remains silent throughout the mockery, his expression unreadable. He studies Alexander's face, noting the flush of anger, the way his grip tightens on his sword. Information to be used later.
Alexander's face darkens at the lack of response. "What's wrong? Cat got your tongue, little—"
"Enough." Sarah's voice cuts across the courtyard as she approaches. The twins immediately fall silent, though Alexander's glare remains fixed on Nex.
Sarah positions herself at the ring's edge. "Remember your promise, Nex. One year left to prove you can best them both. Show me how close you've come."
Nex nods, his mind already calculating. He's played this fight countless times in his head, studying their movements, their patterns, their weaknesses.
"Begin!" Sarah calls.
The twins rush him immediately—Alexander from the right with his massive two-handed sword, Abigail from the left with her swift single blade. Their coordination is practiced but predictable.
Nex meets them head-on. His shield catches Alexander's heavy strike while his gladius deflects Abigail's quick thrust. The impact sends vibrations through his arm, but he holds firm.
"Is that all?" he taunts, spinning to face Alexander directly.
Before Alexander can recover from his blocked swing, Nex drives his shield forward, slamming it into his brother's chest. Alexander stumbles backward, shock replacing his earlier confidence.
"Lucky shot," Alexander gasps, but his movements are already becoming erratic, fueled by embarrassment rather than strategy.
Nex turns to Abigail, who circles him with predatory grace. She's faster than her brother, her blade work more precise. But Nex adapts, using his shield to deflect her strikes while scoring shallow cuts along her sides with his gladius.
"You're better than I expected," Abigail admits between exchanges, genuine respect flickering in her eyes.
Nex doesn't respond to her compliment, staying focused on his strategy. He's not here to make friends—he's here to win.
But Alexander has recovered, and his pride burns hotter than his tactical sense. His swings become wild, powerful but undisciplined. Abigail tries to coordinate with him, but his rage throws off their rhythm.
"Alex, calm down!" she calls out. "You're fighting like a barbarian!"
"Father would be disappointed," Nex says quietly, dodging another wild swing. "All that training, wasted on tantrums."
"I won't be humiliated by this cursed whelp!" Alexander roars, raising his sword for an overhead strike.
Nex sidesteps easily, then brings his gladius up in a controlled arc. The wooden blade connects with Alexander's temple—a clean, disqualifying hit.
The world tilted—not from the strike, but from the shame. Nex. Nex had beaten him. Not with brute force or chaos, but with skill. Clean. Precise. Undeniable.
Alexander's ears rang—not from pain, but from the laughter he could already hear in the palace halls.
He always takes what doesn't belong to him.
The thought came unbidden, bitter as iron.
Even her.
"I will never bow to him," he whispered, eyes burning. "Not to that cursed thing."
Alexander staggers, eliminated but not defeated. Abigail's expression torn between admiration for Nex's skill and loyalty to her brother.
"Just you and me now," she says, raising her sword.
She watched Nex closely—so focused, so determined. Part of her admired the boy's skill, the way he moved with quiet purpose. But Alexander... he would never forgive defeat. He would make Nex's life a living hell if the boy bested them fairly.
But as Nex approaches, Abigail's hand dips toward the sandy ground. In one fluid motion, she hurls dirt and pebbles into his eyes.
"Abigail!" Nex stumbles backward, blinking furiously.
"Sorry," she says with a flicker of guilt—gone as fast as it came. "But I fight to win."
Cheating wasn't just a tactic. It was mercy. A small mercy to spare Nex the full wrath of her brother.
She didn't expect Nex to understand. Maybe he never would. But for now, she had made her choice.
Half-blind, Nex raises his shield desperately as her blade seeks his defenses. He's losing ground, stumbling, when a different sound makes him freeze—the whistle of a two-handed sword cutting through air.
The blow to his skull sends him crashing to the ground. As darkness creeps in, he hears Sarah's furious voice.
"Alexander! What is wrong with you?"
"He was fighting both of us," Alexander argues, his voice defiant. "The rules said he had to beat both of us. I was still in the fight."
"You were eliminated!" Sarah's voice cracks like a whip. "That was cowardice, not strategy. Apologize to your brother immediately."
"I will never apologize to this cursed thing."
The slap echoes across the courtyard. "Get out of my sight."
When Nex's vision clears, he finds Abigail standing over him, her hand extended. Her face shows conflict—part guilt, part superiority.
"You fought well," she says quietly as he accepts her help. "But that doesn't make you my brother."
She hurries after Alexander, who's already stalking away, muttering curses.
Nex watches them go, processing what just happened. The lesson is clear: honor means nothing when pride is wounded. Rules bend when power is threatened. It's a bitter truth he'll carry with him to battlefields yet to come.
But as he retrieves his weapons, a small smile crosses his face. They had to cheat to beat him. Both of them. And he still has a full year to improve.
"Quite the performance," Sarah observes, approaching with crossed arms. "Though I notice you're not upset about losing."
Nex brushes grit from the gladius, lips curving faintly. "I didn't lose." He looks back at the courtyard. "I learned."
He gives her a meaningful look—a reminder of his promise—then walks toward the palace. Toward Lucy, who always knows exactly what to say after moments like these.
Behind him, Sarah shakes her head, equal parts impressed and concerned. The boy sees too much, understands too much. In a court full of vipers, that could prove dangerous.
But for now, she simply watches him go, wondering how someone so young could possess such skill. His limit seems to be only the sky itself. What kind of combat monster was born by the Sword Princess?
Part II: The Grand Bazaar
A week before the three-day Grand Bazaar, birds scattered from the trees at Lucy's voice echoing through the palace.
"NO NOT THIS YEAR, NEX!"
She hurried away, frantically cleaning his bedroom—a task she'd already assigned him multiple times. Her movements were sharp and agitated, unlike her usual gentle demeanor.
"But why?" Nex followed, frustration clear in his voice. "It wasn't allowed last year or the year before. When am I finally going to the Grand Bazaar you promised me four years ago?"
He caught himself before saying "mother." "Lucy, you promised me. I can't wait any longer. Maybe next year, after I defeat the twins and crown prince, I'll be selected for knighthood. I'll never go with you then. We need to go now. Please!"
He clutched her dress, looking up with desperate eyes.
Lucy looked down, worry etched across her features. Secrets hid in her gaze—reasons she'd never taken him, reasons she perhaps never wanted to reveal. Her mind flashed to the twins, Alexander and Abigail, and how she'd raised them from infancy until they entered military academy at twelve. She remembered Damon too, before his mother took him under her wing—how he'd clung to her skirts during his father's absences, how she'd sung him lullabies when nightmares plagued him. Those bonds had been precious, each child needing something different from her care.
But now the twins competed desperately for her attention, their need growing sharper with each passing day. They watched her every interaction with Nex, jealousy burning in their eyes. Even Damon, secure in his mother's love, sometimes cast wistful glances her way—remembering the woman who'd first taught him to read, who'd bandaged his scraped knees and listened to his childhood fears.
"Next year, I promise," she said, rushing toward the door.
"That's what you said last year!"
She quickened her steps, fleeing the room.
He ran after her. "IF YOU DON'T GO WITH ME, I'LL GET AN IMPERIAL DECREE! I'M SURE THE EMPEROR WILL BE DELIGHTED FOR ME TO GO ALONE!"
The threat stopped her. She turned back, face masked with worry and guilt.
"Okay," she said quietly, defeated. "But follow my lead at all times. And never—never—go near the center."
He jumped with joy, his curiosity about her strange condition overridden by excitement. This would be his first Grand Bazaar—the same one his mother had loved, where she'd bought him the necklace he still wore.
Seven days passed—Nex in eager anticipation, Lucy in growing apprehension. For the first time ever, maids found Lucy staring at blank walls, her mind elsewhere as the grand bazaar drew closer. For the first time ever, Nex slacked off in training with Sarah, his mind filled with imagined scenes of the bazaar.
Sarah noticed his distraction and gave him the final day off. He thanked her and ran to find Lucy.
He burst into her dormitory still wearing sparring clothes and holding his practice sword. Lucy, selecting clothes, laughed softly.
"What are you wearing, young prince?"
He looked down, startled, then sprinted back to change. Lucy's laughter followed him down the hall. He was still a child, no matter how much he seemed mature.
After changing, Lucy met him halfway, taking his hands. Wariness and panic filled her eyes, though she marveled at his excitement—the first time he'd reacted this way since birth.
At the front gate, a carriage waited without crest or flag, disguised as a minor noble's transport. Inside, Lucy dyed his hair brown with ground blueberries and food coloring, ensuring no one would recognize him. They had no imperial protection, per the emperor's orders.
At the Grand Bazaar's entrance, they continued on foot through narrow streets filled with commoners and nobles alike.
The bazaar was foreign to anything Nex had known—unlike his world of status and formal speech. His first sight of families shopping together was utterly unfamiliar.
Lucy guided him through the outskirts, firmly holding his hand, keeping him from the center. She pointed out blacksmiths, bought him snacks—anything to distract from the center's marvels.
After hours of shopping, Lucy's constant worry became obvious. Nex suggested they return, planning to come back alone next year to see the center.
Walking back to the carriage, Lucy spotted a mark on the wall—a rune she'd written four years ago on necromancer Jack's command. She'd never learned its meaning, but had always felt dread about Jack's orders, always turning a blind eye. Now, seeing it after all these years, terror filled her heart.
Her hands began shivering. When someone pushed through the crowd, it broke their grip. Standing still shaken and biting her nails, Lucy took a moment to realize she'd lost Nex.
Meanwhile, Nex finally saw the Center's spectacle—multitudes of people, cultural clothes, spices, weapons, northern slaves being auctioned. The sights froze him in awe.
Unaware he was separated from Lucy, the crowd pushed him deeper toward the Center.
The crowd pressed in around Nex, the noise blurring into a distant hum. A sudden chill prickled along his spine.
Where is she?
He spun around sharply, heart thudding—but no one was there. Just a sea of faces, strangers pushing past him.
He swallowed hard, trying to steady his breath. Then—again—from right behind him:
Where is she?
Nex's blood ran cold. He turned fully, eyes wide, searching the crowd. His hand reached out instinctively—only to grasp empty air.
The warmth was gone.
"Lucy?" His voice trembled as he called, but the crowd swallowed his words. No answer came.
No one noticed the small child. He was pushed until he saw a tall fountain at the Center's heart. If he climbed it, Lucy could easily spot him.
He made his way through rich displays—Eastern spices, Western weapons, Southern books—observing everything as he reached the fountain and began climbing.
Lucy snapped from her daze when she no longer felt his warm hand. She searched frantically, calling his fake name "Oscar," then desperately his real name "Nex." People ignored her hysterical cries.
She searched the outskirts, stopping families with brown-haired children, asking shopkeepers and passersby. It hadn't occurred to her that he'd go to the center—she'd forbidden it clearly.
When the thought crossed her mind, she headed for the center and spotted him atop the fountain, gripping its peak.
Relieved, she ran toward him, but purple flames suddenly erupted from the walls where the runes she'd previously drawn were. Everyone caught in the flames burned to ash instantly. The fire formed a complete circle around the center, making escape impossible.
Lucy acted quickly. She could see the runes others couldn't—the same ones she'd written on Jack's orders. Knowing this was her fault, she ran to the runes, desperately trying to erase them. But once completed, runes become hidden to all but their creators, and once active, they disappear, serving only as power channels. She gathered water and threw it at the wall of flame, but it only evaporated before it even reached the flames.
Inside the flame wall, Nex was terrified. As the last echoes of screams faded and purple flames roared quietly in the distance like a monstrous breath, the sky above the center turned a deeper, unnatural gray. Then came the crows.
They circled in lazy, slow spirals—silent, deliberate, as if they'd already made their choice.
A gasp rippled through the crowd, followed by silence. Then a woman fell to her knees, wailing.
"The crows! The crows are here!"
"Death has come for us!" an older man sobbed, clutching a rusted pendant tight to his chest. "They see our souls already. There is no escape."
Some covered their children's eyes, others raised prayers with trembling lips. Superstition choked rational thought. One merchant screamed at the birds, throwing fruit at the sky as if he could bribe death with rotten oranges.
Another man began laughing uncontrollably—high, broken laughter that made those nearby edge away. "They've come to count us! Just like they did in Elar's famine. Just like in the drowning of Utherin!" He dropped to his knees, muttering numbers to himself as though trying to stay ahead of death's tally.
A few sank into stillness, numb and staring—resigned. One soldier from the East gripped his spear tighter but lowered his eyes, whispering, "They fly high when kings fall… and gods turn away."
Even children knew. A little girl clung to her father's tunic, whispering, "The crows mean we're going to be stories, Papa."
Then silence. No one dared move. The flames surrounding them felt colder now, not hotter—as if they were being mourned before the dying even began.
Nex, after his talk with Mallory, believed he could defy death. Despite his terror, he acted first, calling with shivering lips:
"We're not dead yet! Get buckets, collect water from this fountain. If we all use water together at the same place, we can breach the wall and escape!"
Everyone ignored him, hugging loved ones, preparing for death. Then two men echoed his words—the ambassador of Wu and crown prince of Lavat. They rallied people to fill buckets and coordinate their attack on the walls.
But the walls began closing in. Desperate, people finally acted, filling hundreds of buckets.
As they prepared their assault, observant Nex noticed a robed figure moving toward the fountain—sick, weary, moving as if his limbs weren't his own.
Climbing down to investigate, Nex saw an incomplete drawing made of blood on the ground before the fountain. As he reached to touch it, the sick man pushed him away.
"What are you—" Nex stopped, seeing the man's face.
Injuries from axes and blades covered his terrifying visage. His skin was decayed, flesh clinging to bone, slowly turning blue. His hair had fallen out. One eye was destroyed by a blade, the other filled with blood.
Nex's breath caught in his throat. The man's face—no, corpse—was a tapestry of violence and decay. Nex's legs moved before his mind caught up, scrambling backward like an animal cornered by something ancient and wrong.
The death servant ignored him, focused on the drawing—the rune. He bit off his own finger and completed the rune with blood, screaming in an unknown language.
The earth began shattering like a broken mirror, cracks spiderwebbing everywhere. It shook violently, throwing everyone to their backs. Only Nex kept his eyes on the cause, trembling as he realized the ground beneath them was breaking apart.
The earth collapsed in a perfect circle, swallowing only those trapped within the flame wall. Of the few who survived the house-deep fall, only those who fell last had any chance.
Amid the ruin, Lucy sat curled against the cold stone, her arms wrapped tightly around her head as if trying to hold herself together. Her fingers trembled just slightly—too small to notice at first, but there. Her breath came in shallow, uneven bursts, each one a quiet struggle. The weight of what had happened pressed down on her chest, steady and unyielding.
She didn't speak. She didn't cry. She only stared ahead, eyes unfocused and empty, as if the world beyond the walls had already slipped away. Every so often, her lips pressed together tightly, as if holding back a storm she couldn't name.
Minutes passed, or maybe hours—time lost all meaning. The silence around her grew thick, broken only by the faintest catch in her breath.
Voices rose in agony nearby. Crown Prince Dante of the Lavat lay with his back broken, unable to move but still conscious, his royal green robes torn and bloodied. Minor nobles lay dead around him.
Nex was spared physical harm, except for his necklace exploding, searing his chest with second-degree burns. He saw Jian, Wu's ambassador, legs impaled by steel fencing, head cracked but still conscious. Jian's helmet had a drawing of a tiger; as his eyes grew long red feathers, he looked up at the firewall still standing above them, then noticed the walls beginning to close in slowly.
"The walls," Jian gasped, blood trickling from his mouth. "They're moving inward. We have hours, maybe less." His eyes, though clouded with pain, remained sharp and calculating. "I can make you a shelter."
Using his "Soulharnessing" metal-controlling abilities despite severe blood loss, Jian began gathering scattered pieces of steel from the debris. "Fuck this."
The metal pieces twisted and contorted under his control, sparks flying as he shaped them into crude spears. "I've seen enough battles to know when death is coming," he said, his voice growing weaker. "I will save... you in return... tell people how we died."
He began ramming the makeshift spears repeatedly into the wall above, each thrust requiring enormous effort. Blood loss was making his vision blur, but his determination remained steel-hard. "Almost... there..." he muttered, creating a hole barely large enough for five people to crawl through.
His countless battles with the kingdom of Stella flashed before his eyes—the Wu kingdom's southerners praising him and calling out his name, The Fearless Tiger, celebrating his wins. Then he collapsed from blood loss, and everything went dark.
Nex climbed to the hole, digging with his hands to expand it for survivors.
Seventeen people remained from over six hundred. Only three were unharmed: Nex, protected by his mother's necklace; an infant cushioned by its parents' bodies; and a giant named Tazan, who'd held onto the hole's walls while falling.Of the remaining fourteen, nine were too injured to move, two had minor injuries but broken legs, and the rest were trapped under rubble.
With the walls closing in, after Tazan climbed into the small shelter, his massive size took three spots just for himself, leaving room for only one more person. Nex's sharp eyes scanned the wreckage. Two figures were still crawling—one closer, a younger archer with a snapped bow piece lodged in his shoulder, gritting his teeth as he pulled himself forward. The other was further off: Crown Prince Dante of Lavat, his spine crushed, unable to move. Behind him crawled a soldier in ornate grey armor etched with glowing green inscriptions in the Lavat tongue—his royal guard, marked with oaths of eternal loyalty.
"Aaron!" Dante called, his voice still laced with imperial command despite his ruined body. "Save me! I am your Master! Carry me to safety!"
But Aaron didn't so much as turn his head. His face was twisted with pain and desperation, eyes fixed ahead on the shelter. The green oath-script on his breastplate caught the dim light as he dragged himself forward with one working arm, his broken leg trailing uselessly behind him.
"Forgive me, Your Highness," he muttered, not even loud enough for Dante to hear. "I won't die for nothing."
Nex stepped to the edge and shouted to the two crawling figures, "What are your names?"
The younger archer looked up, wincing. "Actaeon!" he called.
Aaron didn't respond. He looked at Nex. He saw the boy—eleven years old, slender, blood-smeared, commanding from a perch above—and dismissed him instantly. Just another child playing hero in a burning world. Aaron was stronger, bigger, older. He didn't take orders from children.
With a grunt, he redoubled his crawl, elbow over elbow, eyes locked on the shelter. He angled his path to cut off Actaeon, determined to reach the platform first and haul himself up if he had to.
Nex's eyes narrowed. He'd seen this kind of desperation before—men who'd toss their comrades aside to gain a few more seconds of life.
"Grab Actaeon," Nex ordered sharply.
Tazan moved fast. He dropped down like a hammer, grabbed Actaeon with one hand, and heaved him up as if the wounded archer weighed nothing at all.
Aaron let out a furious shout. "He's weak!" he barked, struggling forward. "He'll slow you down—take me instead!"
Nex stared down at him coldly. "You didn't answer when asked."
Aaron's face twisted with hate and disbelief as the walls of the flames started closing in to reach them.
Behind him, Dante screamed, "Aaron! I command you!" His voice cracked with rage and helplessness.
But no one was listening.
Nex had made the only choice that made sense—save the one who listened, not the one who defied him."
Soon, Dante's and others' screams turned bone-chilling as the walls of flame finally settled in one spot in the middle of the massive hole. The crown prince's final cries echoed off the closing walls, his royal blood offering no protection from the flames, his broken back ensuring he couldn't escape his fate. Nex covered the infant's ears.
Later, as they sat waiting for help to come, introductions were made. Actaeon tried lightening the mood: "My name is Actaeon and I'm seventeen. How about you guys?"
"I'm Tazan, and you look twelve," Tazan replied, his voice deep and rumbling.
"Only because you're the size of a hog with the brain of one," Actaeon shot back, adjusting his grip on his broken bow. Despite his pain, his cat-like green eyes remained sharp and alert.
Both laughed, but Nex stared into the infant's eyes, lost in thought.
"How old are you?" Tazan asked, tapping his shoulder with a massive hand.
With dye half-melted, his black hair showing, Nex looked from Tazan's pure white eyes to Actaeon's distinctive green ones to the infant's brown ones.
"Eleven."
They couldn't believe it. The boy who'd rallied people at the fountain, spotted Jian's escape plan, heard an infant's cries over dying screams, and decided who lived or died—was just eleven years old.
Actaeon whistled low, wincing as the movement jarred his wounded shoulder. "Eleven and commanding like a general. My parents always said leadership wasn't about age—guess they were right."
Tazan nodded slowly, his red hair catching what little light filtered down. "My grandmother used to say the same. Small hands can carry heavy burdens."
PART III: The Aftermath Of The Massacre
After hours the group began hearing voices closing in on the hole—voices of soldiers telling the common folk to get back as they started screaming into the hole, "Is there anyone alive?"
As Nex and Tazan moved closer to the edge of their shelter and started looking upwards to the massive height they needed to climb, pebbles started falling down as the soldiers got closer to the edge of the hole and dust crept upwards from the rubble beneath the shelter.
Before Nex and Tazan could even reply to the soldiers' questions, the flame wall that had become a small circle in the middle of the hole started shivering, shaking almost with anger.
Nex noticed and pulled back Tazan without being able to move him. Tazan just went back into the safety of the shelter himself, trusting Nex's instincts, and almost as if the wall was waiting for them, as soon as he went back to the shelter, the flame walls exploded, driving them back to their starting positions. More screams echoed from above as the trap claimed new victims.
After the first morning passed, the cries of the infant grew louder and more desperate with each passing hour. The child needed milk, and they were running out of time.
"We need to get out of here," Nex said, his voice steady despite his youth. "Tazan, you're the strongest. Can you climb?"
Tazan examined the walls, his massive frame casting shadows in the dim light. "I can try, but these walls..." He pressed his hand against the surface, and small pieces crumbled away. "They're not meant to hold weight."
"I'll go," Actaeon offered, struggling to his feet. "I'm lighter, and I've climbed worse than this hunting with my parents."
"With a piece of bow in your shoulder?" Nex shook his head. "Tazan, just try. We'll figure something out."
Tazan began his climb, his powerful arms pulling him upward. But after only three steps, his grip failed. He fell hard, landing with a thud that shook the ground.
When he looked at his hands, the flesh had peeled away from holding onto the rough stone, practically skinning his palms. Blood dripped steadily from his wounds.
"I can't get a good grip," he said, frustration clear in his voice. "But I can try again."
"No," Nex said firmly. "We need a different approach." He picked up two of the spears Jian had used to dig their escape hole. "Thank you for your sacrifice," he whispered to the dead ambassador.
"What are you thinking?" Actaeon asked, his archer's instincts recognizing the tactical gleam in Nex's eyes.
"Throw me," Nex said to Tazan. "As high as you can, right next to the wall. I'll use these spears to climb."
Tazan's white eyes widened. "Boy, you could die."
"The infant will die if we don't try."
After a moment of consideration, Tazan nodded. He wrapped his massive hands around Nex's back and legs, lifting him effortlessly.
"Ready?" Tazan asked.
Nex gripped the spears tightly. "Do it."
With a grunt of effort, Tazan launched Nex upward. The prince flew through the air, slamming against the wall and driving both spears deep into the stone. They penetrated just enough for him to hang on.
"Good throw!" Actaeon called up, his voice filled with grudging admiration.
Nex began his climb, each thrust of the spears weakening his grip and cutting his hands. The spears, hastily twisted together by Jian from smaller pieces of steel, bit into his palms with every movement.
After several terrifying moments where he nearly fell, Nex finally reached the top. He expected to find imperial soldiers, knights, maybe even Lucy and his siblings searching for him.
Instead, he found nothing. No one.
The area was completely deserted. Papers blew across empty streets, and as he read one that stuck to a nearby wall, he understood why. The emperor had declared the area a wasteland after the second eruption of the fire wall. Everyone had been evacuated from the next three neighborhoods.
Nex felt truly alone for the first time in his life.
Despite his exhaustion, Nex forced himself to move. The infant needed milk, and his friends needed rescue. The strange smell that had been bothering him finally made sense—it was the smell of charred remains. The empty streets were littered with what looked like human-shaped piles of coal.
The purple fire, he realized, had been designed to burn only human flesh. It had a purpose, a will of its own.
Then he saw them—goats, still alive, bleating softly, their eyes wild, unable to escape despite their struggles. He found a small pouch on one of the coal-black bodies and filled it with goat milk. Then he worked to free the goats, breaking the steel needles that held their chains with rocks and debris.
The massive chain was too heavy for him to carry, so he dragged it, his small body straining with effort. Using the broken steel needles, he secured the chain around a sturdy house, threading the needles through the chain links and into the walls to hold it in place.
Finally, he kicked the other end of the chain into the hole, too exhausted to throw it properly.
Below, Tazan saw the chain drop and immediately understood. He gathered cloth from the dead, wrapping his already-wounded hands in thick layers.
"Actaeon, can you climb on my back?" he asked.
Actaeon grimaced but nodded. "I've had worse hunting injuries. My parents always said pain was just weakness leaving the body."
Tazan helped him wrap the infant securely to Actaeon's back with more cloth. The baby had gone quiet, too weak to cry.
"Hold tight," Tazan said. "This is going to hurt."
The climb took nearly half an hour. Tazan's massive frame carried both Actaeon and the infant, his incredible strength pushing through the pain of his shredded hands. Actaeon gritted his teeth against the agony in his shoulder, but his archer's discipline kept him steady.
When they finally reached the top, they found Nex lying flat on his back, breathing heavily and unable to move.
"Just... need to catch my breath," he gasped.
Actaeon slid off Tazan's back carefully, his green eyes scanning their surroundings with hunter's instincts. "It's like a graveyard up here," he said quietly.
"We need medicine," Tazan said, examining his hands. "And something for the baby."
They found an abandoned pharmacy, its shelves still stocked with herbs and medical supplies. Nex, despite his exhaustion, read through the medical texts until he found treatments for broken bones, burns, and wounds.
Working together, they treated their injuries. Nex applied healing herbs to his and Tazan's wounds, while Tazan held Actaeon's legs steady as they splinted them with wooden sticks and tight bandages.
"Not bad for field medicine," Actaeon said, testing his mobility. "My parents would approve."
After feeding the infant, they rested for half a day, taking turns keeping watch.
"We need to get to Castle Drakmoor," Nex said as they prepared to move again.
His hair dye had completely dried out, unable to hide his distinctive black hair. Both Actaeon and Tazan exchanged glances as they realized who they were traveling with, but neither said a word.
"The castle's our best bet," Actaeon agreed, his tactical mind already planning their route. "Assuming we can get past any blockades."
They traveled slowly, taking frequent rests. Tazan carried the infant most of the time, his massive frame making the burden seem light. Actaeon limped but kept pace, his determination driving him forward.
As the sun rose on the second day, they reached an imperial blockade. The flag of royalty flew atop the checkpoint, and Nex felt a surge of hope.
"I am Prince Nex, son of the Sword Princess!" he called out to the first guard he saw. "Open the blockade and let us through to my home!"
Whispers came from behind a tent, voices too low for him to hear clearly. After a brief discussion, the guards granted them an audience.
The twins appeared—Alexander and Abigail.
But their reaction wasn't what Nex expected. Instead of relief and joy, their eyes filled with guilt. Even Alexander, the hotheaded prince who always insulted him, remained silent and handed him water without argument.
Princess Abigail tended to his injuries personally, her touch gentle but her expression troubled. As she dabbed at Nex's wounds, her hand paused mid-air. Her lips parted to speak—but no words came. Instead, she cleaned in silence, blinking away something unspoken, memories of Lucy's teachings flashed through her mind—how Lucy had shown her to read stories aloud, how those gentle bedtime tales had been the only thing that could calm Alexander's nightmares. The bond Lucy had helped them forge felt like a weight in her chest now.
In the privacy of their tent, Alexander paced restlessly while Abigail sat in troubled silence.
Alexander: "Why isn't he handing him over? He's keeping him around the palace—just in case, isn't he?"
Abigail: "You don't know that. You're just assuming. The emperor doesn't even care about him. I'd bet he's already forgotten Nex exists—that's why he hasn't handed him over."
Alexander: "No. It's Lucy. She's the one stopping him, I know it. Whispering in his ear, promising she'll raise Nex into some harmless little pet. But you saw him in that duel—he almost bested both of us. At eleven."
With each word, his pacing quickened, his voice rising with it.
Abigail: "He didn't almost best us…"
Her voice was barely audible. "He did."
Alexander: "I know that."
He stopped suddenly in the road, eyes flicking to the checkpoint ahead. "All these guards on this roadblock—they're on our payroll, right?"
Abigail: Stiffening. "Are you really suggesting what I think you are?"
Alexander: "Think about it. If we take him with us—and he dies before we reach the palace—no one would ever know."
Abigail: "Are you insane, Alexander? I'm not killing him. He's the emperor's son, neglected or not."
Then, after a beat, quieter: "Besides… I have another idea. Listen carefully.
Momments later stepping out of their tent Abigail went to have a chat with nex.
"What happened at the bazaar?" Abigail asked Nex softly, pushing away her brother's words.
Nex explained everything—the trap, the escape, the survival. Actaeon and Tazan sat in stunned silence, slowly understanding the magnitude of their companion's status.
Alexander stood rigid beside his sister, his jaw clenched as he fought internal battles. Lucy's voice echoed in his memory—how she'd taught him to ride, how she'd told him stories of their mother's twin brother, how she'd warned that twins must never be separated. The irony wasn't lost on him that they were about to separate themselves from everything Lucy had taught them.
The twins provided water for all of them, their hospitality seeming genuine. But beneath the surface, years of resentment and desperate need for their father's attention warred with the morals Lucy had instilled in them.
Abigail's hands trembled slightly as she remembered Lucy's words about their mother's twin: "The moment he died, she felt as if a big part of her died with him." Their late mother had made Lucy promise to keep the twins together, to prevent them from ever feeling that loss. Yet here they were, about to destroy not just their bond with Nex, but everything Lucy had built.
But as Nex drank, he looked over the twins. Abigail's hands were trembling. Alexander, calmer than usual, averted his eyes.
A cold weight settled in Nex's stomach—not from the water, but from the silence. Something was wrong.
As he set the cup down, he opened his mouth to speak… but the dizziness was already spreading.
His limbs grew heavy, and his senses started to fade one by one—first sight, then touch, then smell, and finally hearing.
Just before he lost consciousness completely, he heard Abigail's voice, filled with what sounded like genuine regret:
"I'm sorry, Nex. For the first time in my life, I'm truly sorry."
Alexander's voice followed, his words carrying the weight of someone betraying everything they'd been taught: "Don't think badly of us. It was meant to happen eventually. At least it's us making the choice, but you'll still have your uses."
The implications hit him like a physical blow even as darkness claimed him.
Part IV: War Slaves
When consciousness returned, Nex found himself caged in a moving carriage with his friends—and the infant. Goat milk, food, and water sat within reach, enough for a long journey.
Actaeon spoke first, his voice hoarse from the drugs.
"Where are we going?"
The coachman's face was hidden beneath a robe. Even when he glanced back, they could not see his features. A grim smile twisted his lips—there was no kindness in it.
"West, boy. To the war front."
"What war?" Actaeon's archer instincts sharpened—danger, deception, survival—all flashing through his mind as he analyzed their situation.
"The one your deaths started," the coachman said, his tone laced with matter-of-fact cruelty. "There was an ambassador. He was royal blood from Wu. You have met him—red feathers on the ear of his helmet, a tiger drawn on his helmet and armor as well. Jian was his name. They demanded land as compensation."
Nex's stomach dropped.
"He was royalty?"
"Distant, but enough to matter. Stella saw an opportunity and threatened war to reclaim lands Emperor Bewolf conquered. But Lavat..." The coachman paused, savoring their growing horror. "They lost their crown prince. Their only heir."
"That guard's master," Tazan whispered, remembering the broken-backed man in the hole.
"Their only prince, and the king's only child. They demanded one of the emperor's sons as a hostage. When he refused..." The coachman shrugged. "Three fronts. Three wars. All because you four crawled out of that hole."
Actaeon's world tilted.
"We're going to fight?"
"You're war slaves, heading to what is believed to become the bloodiest front. Officially dead. Announced by your own families."
The words hit like cold steel.
"What do you mean, 'announced by our families'?" Actaeon's voice cracked.
"Some believed you died in that hole. Others..." The coachman's gaze lingered on Actaeon with something like pity. "Others took coin to forget they ever saw you breathing."
"Whose parents took coin?" Actaeon asked, already expecting the answer.
The coachman looked back without showing any of his features.
"Looks like you already know, young hunter."
Shame burned through Actaeon as understanding dawned. His parents—the hunters who'd trained him, who'd praised his leadership—they'd sold him.
Nex placed a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder.
"At least your father took money to forget you. Mine did it with an empire's wealth at his disposal."
Despite everything, Nex managed a bitter chuckle. He glanced at the infant, now stirring in his lap. Tiny fingers curled around the fabric of his tunic, clinging with quiet trust. Nex's expression softened just for a moment before he looked back to Tazan and Actaeon. Without words, they understood—if they were going to survive, it would be for this child, who had seen nothing of life yet.
Arriving at a camp guarded by foot soldiers—the most common and weakest soldiers of the empire, but their numbers were tenfold any other army—the camp was protected by a small number of them and natural trees and bushes. The tents weren't visible until they crossed into the bushes: a stronghold camp.
The twins greeted them at the tactical camp, having ridden ahead on horseback.
"Hello, boys," Abigail said softly, as if she weren't the reason they wore chains.
When she reached toward the infant, Nex lunged forward, trying to bite her hand. Her quick reflexes—honed by Sarah's training—saved her as she dodged back.
Alexander, seeing the attack on his sister, kicked Nex in the face, breaking his nose. Blood poured down his chin as he fell backward. The violence came naturally, despite everything Lucy had taught them about protecting their families.
Tazan's massive frame strained against his chains, rage filling his white eyes.
"You coward! Fighting children!"
Guards struck him repeatedly with clubs until he collapsed, unconscious.
Actaeon helped Nex sit up, his archer's eyes burning with hatred as he stared at the twins.
"Re-dye his hair golden brown," Abigail snapped. "And from now on, he answers to Servus. It means slave. Also, don't think someone is coming to help you. Your father was relieved to know you're dead. And Lucy? She didn't care."
As they worked, Alexander leaned close to Nex.
"Use the name 'Nex' again, and we'll kill your friends one by one. Starting with the baby."
The twins didn't see this as cruelty—in their minds, they were being merciful. They believed this was a necessaty they needed Nex to disappear so their battle for the throne with Damon would be head to head without any potential backstabbing from Nex.
"You should be thanking us," Abigail said, her voice filled with twisted justification. "We're saving your life. Your father would've killed you when you crawled out of that hole. Instead, we're giving you a chance to live."
Their plan was simple: make Nex disappear so their father's throne would be between them and Damon. With Nex gone, Lucy would return to caring for them as she had before—reading them stories and teaching them to depend on each other, as their mother had wanted.
But they had miscalculated.
Back at the palace, Lucy sat alone in the dim chamber—the place where she kept her secrets. Rune-scrolls lay scattered, their edges curling like dead leaves.
Her fingers trembled as she traced the fading symbols, each line a pulse of guilt beneath her skin.
A soft voice echoed in the silence—her own, but not quite.
"They will never forgive you," it whispered, thin and cold.
She blinked. The room shifted. A mirror hung on the far wall, but the reflection that stared back was fractured—three faces blurred and overlapping, eyes filled with grief, anger, and something darker. Something hungry.
The candle beside her flickered three times—then died, the sound of her breath and the rustling paper the only noises left.
"Mother?" a fragile voice called from somewhere deep inside her mind.
Another voice snapped back, sharp and bitter.
"We carry the truth alone."
Lucy's breath hitched. She tried to stand, but the weight of memories—shattered lives, burning flames, the children's cries—pulled her back into the chair.
The shards of her mind rattled, each fragment wrestling for control. One face smiled sadly, the next scowled, the last vanished into shadow.
A sudden knock at the door startled her, and she froze.
Who's there? The question splintered into three answers—none clear, all trembling with fear.
The past was not done with her. And neither was the darkness.
PART V: The Battle of BlackwaterSwamps
On a rainy night in the Blackwater Swamps—which stretched endlessly along the eastern borders of the kingdom of Lavat—hollow trees creaked as the wind struck them. When the moon shone its brightest, the sound of muddy footsteps could be heard. Imperial foot soldiers advanced as fast as they could, trying to avoid falling into the murky depths where many before them had unknowingly sunk.
A young man, not even in his teens, wore chainmail armor and a steel-capped helmet. He held a wooden shield bound with steel along the edges in his left hand and a short sword in his right—a blade used in many battles by foot soldiers before him, chipped at every edge and barely usable. His face was hidden beneath a layer of mud, pushed into it when he was handed his armory and thrown into battle—just as all foot soldiers were by their commanders.
Carefully, he navigated the swamps, obeying a simple order from his commander—to conquer the enemy camp atop the hill beyond the wetlands. He placed his sword into the ground before each step, using it to gauge the mud's depth. Around him, stretching ahead and behind, was an endless horde of foot soldiers. All were armed with poor-quality weapons and the same chainmail armor that, as the boy would soon discover, was utterly useless on this front.
Beyond the murky expanse of the Blackwater Swamps, the hill rose sharply, crowned by a fortress-like encampment aglow with flickering torchlight. From below, the advancing soldiers could just make out the silhouettes of fortified wooden palisades and watchtowers etched against the cloudy night sky. Rows of sharpened stakes jutted from the muddy slopes like teeth, promising pain and death to any who approached unprepared.
Flanking the incline, dense tangles of thorny vines curled around gnarled, leafless trees whose twisted branches reached skyward like skeletal hands, casting eerie shadows in the pale moonlight. Beneath the hilltop defenses, trenches carved into the soaked earth were reinforced with logs and sandbags, forming brutal barricades where archers and crossbowmen waited with patient, lethal focus.
At the summit, tall flags snapped in the wind—faded banners bearing the emblem of the kingdom of Lavat. Bonfires blazed atop stone-lined platforms, sending glowing embers into the dark sky and illuminating armored knights who strode confidently along the battlements. Occasionally, bursts of laughter and harsh commands echoed downward—a chilling mockery of the carnage below.
To those who looked up from the swamp, the hill seemed less like a strategic position and more like a grim altar—an unholy monument to war, built on the bones of the fallen, its very soil drenched in blood and sorrow.
By the time they neared the edge of the swamps and saw tall green grass ahead, the wetlands had already claimed hundreds. Some had drowned; others had fallen sick from mud seeping into their wounds. As the soldiers regrouped for the attack, stepping onto solid ground, they were suddenly greeted by fire arrows.
The arrows arced through the night air, trailing sparks, before igniting the dry grass—and the hundreds of men who stood in it.
The young boy was still in the grass when he saw his comrades—the elder who had shared his food ration, a strong man who looked like a stonemason, and another who had said he was once a farmer—all engulfed in flames. They had been cleaning their leather boots of mud to march forward.
He watched in horror as their skin melted and their screams pierced the night. Archers atop the hill laughed and mocked the agony below.
Terrified, the boy turned back, pushing into the swamps, trying to flee. Around him, however, most foot soldiers—apart from a few—marched toward the fire without hesitation, obeying the suicidal order.
Struggling through the muck between two massive pools of swamp water, he stumbled over a dead comrade's body. A miner nearby saw him fall and helped him up, pulling him by the armpit.
The miner wiped mud from the boy's face and shouted, "Where are you going, boy? Do you want your family to carry the debt of a hundred gold to the Empire, huh? Can your family buy twenty horses? If not, then don't turn back—run forward toward your death, boy, and let your family live with a hundred yearly gold! That's why you volunteered, right? Because your family needs it? If not, then go ahead—run back to them and work the rest of your life. Maybe your children will work too, just to pay off your cowardice!"
But the young boy didn't hear a word. His eyes were fixed on the flames consuming the people he had met—their lives reduced to ash.
He saw others scooping mud and swamp water into their steel helmets, throwing it onto the burning grass to make way for the charge toward the hilltop camp—heavily defended by archers, crossbowmen, and even knights of Lavat, the kingdom's elite troops.
Frustrated, the miner grabbed the boy's face, forcing eye contact. "Look at me when I'm talking to you, boy!"
But then he paused. In the boy's face, he saw his own ten-year-old son at home.
His voice softened. "Go. But don't return to the camp. Head somewhere else. Run to another kingdom. Abandon your armor and weapons. If you're missing, your family will still get the gold. Go."
The boy nodded and turned—not back to camp, but eastward. He aimed for the forest beyond the front lines. Rumor said anyone who entered that forest never returned. But he had made up his mind: he would vanish from his siblings' lives so that his five-year-old sister could use the gold to buy medicine.
Two days later, his legs were numb. He hadn't eaten or drunk anything since he left. He had discarded his armor, sword, and helmet, wearing only his leather clothes and boots.
At last, he heard the gentle sound of moving water—slow but steady. He ran toward it and found the Red River, the famous one that flowed from the northern sea all the way south through the forest and across the empire's western edges.
He dropped to his knees and drank directly, his hands muddy. Then he stripped, washed himself and his clothes, letting the cool current soothe his sunburned skin and parched throat. For the first time in days, he allowed himself to rest, letting the water wash away the grime and horror of war.
As he prepared to leave, he noticed fish swimming in the shallows. Desperate for food, he tried to catch them, but his clumsy hands scared them off. Frustration built as his stomach cramped from hunger. Each lunge at the water came up empty.
Then—footsteps.
A small group approached—four or five people.
As he grabbed his clothes to flee, one of them called out, "Easy, boy! We just want to fill our pouches. You can fish all you want."
He froze, then turned slowly. "I couldn't fish even if I wanted to. I've been trying for hours."
The men stepped into view—young, laughing at his failure. They looked like hunters, equipped with bows, quivers, and hunting knives. One peeled an orange casually.
As he crouched beside the riverbank, the leader glanced back at one of his men, who gave a subtle nod—almost imperceptible. It passed quickly, but the young boy noticed.
Their leader approached and extended a hand. "Need help?"
Then he asked, "What's your name, boy?"
The boy responded, "Bewolf."
The leader raised an eyebrow. "Your family must've loved the late emperor, naming you after him."
Bewolf's eyes darkened. "My mother named me after him because he avenged my father's murder. A thief killed him trying to steal from our cattle. My father fought him off, not knowing the thief had a knife. He was stabbed in the throat... and died before the night patrol could arrive."
The leader looked away, guilt creeping into his expression—or maybe something else. "I'm sorry. Your father was a good man. Your mother was brave to name you after the emperor—he was hated by many, except those who needed his justice."
"I heard stories," Bewolf said. "They say the thief was skinned alive. Salted water and rosemary were poured over the wounds. His fingers were cut off. Then he was kept alive before being publicly executed. They say he laughed and thanked the executioner while dying."
Another man stepped closer. "He did. My uncle was the executioner. Told me the same story."
The leader smiled faintly but didn't laugh. "So, boy, why are you here, fishing in this river? You're not from around here. The criminal was executed in the empire's northern region. What brings you all the way west to Lavat's border?"
"I got lost," Bewolf replied. "I was with merchants delivering goods to the Blackwater Swamps war front."
This time, the laughter stopped entirely. The leader's expression sharpened just slightly. He exchanged a longer glance with one of his men—this one not disguised.
"That front isn't public knowledge," he said after a pause. "Only imperial commanders and soldiers know of it." His eyes narrowed. "And you're no commander."
That was when Bewolf realized something was wrong.
He threw the fish at the man's face and bolted.
Laughter rang out behind him—not surprised laughter, but something darker.
He heard one of them shout, "Told you! Pay up!"
Coins clinked.
Then a net flew through the air, and in a blink, it tangled around him—his arms pinned, legs caught beneath heavy cords.
He hit the ground hard, mud splashing into his mouth as he struggled.
He wasn't unconscious.
He was wide awake.
But no matter how hard he twisted or kicked, the ropes only tightened. All he could do was watch, breathing heavily, as the boots of his captors approached through the grass.
"Let me go! Please! I don't want to go back!" the boy cried.
The leader crouched beside him. "Sorry, boy. Orders from the imperial twins—any deserter is to be brought before them for judgment."
They tied his hands and legs with thick rope, then mounted their horses and began the journey back to the war camp where the twins resided.
As hooves beat the dirt beneath them, a chilling thought sank into Bewolf's heart: imperial law gave deserters two choices—slavery in the stone mines for life, or returning to the front lines until their debt of a hundred gold was repaid in confirmed kills.
Each ear or head taken from an enemy was worth ten gold.
His stomach twisted.
Neither path offered hope of seeing his siblings again.
Part VI: Deserter's Fate
"My name is Loa. I'm the leader of this bounty hunter group," the man said from atop his horse. He handed a waterskin to young Bewolf, who lay limp across a saddle, too weak to move from thirst. They were riding north, following the river trail back toward the imperial front—toward the twins' camp.
As Bewolf greedily drank, he gasped between gulps, "Please… you don't understand what's happening on the front. This isn't a battle we can win. We're being thrown in just to die. Our only real purpose is to report which path is safer for the actual army of the Empire."
Loa didn't flinch. "That's not really my concern, young Bewolf. I was paid to do a job—and I'm going to finish it. Same as you were... before you deserted."
"I volunteered," Bewolf said. "For the Empire. And for my sister's medicine." He gritted his teeth, voice cracking. "But that wasn't a war. That was a massacre. Innocent men, elders—they were used and discarded. I saw a man who could've been my grandfather burn alive in a trap laid by the Lavantines. When I turned to look at our commander, he stood there—unmoved. Like he knew it would happen."
A moment of silence followed.
Then one of the bounty hunters riding beside them leaned in and kicked Bewolf in the head, knocking him off balance. He slumped to the side, groaning.
"We didn't ask for details," the man growled. "We don't want to know. We've got families too. We're not dying for the twins—no more than you are."
Loa slowed his horse and reached down. He grabbed Bewolf by the back of his shirt and hoisted him effortlessly, dropping him across the back of his saddle.
"Boy, your fate's not ours to decide. By imperial decree, you get two choices: a lifetime of slavery in the stone mines, or back to the battlefield until you pay your debt in blood. Either way, make your peace with it before we reach camp."
The sun had begun to dip behind clouds, casting long shadows as they followed the Red River north. The sound of the imperial camp ahead crept into earshot: shouting, hammers clanging, carts being moved across mud.
As they approached, Loa signaled his men. They rode through the perimeter checkpoint and presented their credentials—wooden necklaces carved with the phrase Imperial Bounty Hunters. The guards nodded, unimpressed, and let them through.
They made their way toward the twins' command tent.
Along the path, Bewolf looked around, absorbing everything with weary, sunken eyes. Men sharpening weapons. Others repairing broken carts. A few guards throwing dice near a wet campfire.
Then, as they neared the center, he saw him—a giant of a man, lifting barrels from the mud and stacking supply crates like they were nothing. His white, pupil-less eyes were unmistakable. It was Tazan.
Further ahead, just outside the twins' tent, a young boy with golden-brown hair and sea-blue eyes was bent low, digging a long trench with a rusted spade. He looked younger than Bewolf. The boy's face was pale, hands blistered from labor.
it was Nex.
Loa dismounted and entered the twins' tent, leaving his bounty hunters outside with the prisoners. He returned shortly after, carrying a heavy pouch of gold and silver. Without a word, he handed the rope binding Bewolf to Abigail.
She didn't drag him harshly—instead, she led him gently, but with the kind of calm that made it worse.
She brought him toward the trench where Nex rested, and stood him alongside two other captured deserters.
One was a wild-eyed madman, muttering to himself—his sanity shattered by what he'd seen at the Blackwater Swamps.
The other was an elderly man, accused of stealing weapons from fallen comrades to sell back home.
Bewolf, tired and grim-faced, stood between them.
Abigail called out with a soft voice: "Tazan. Actaeon. Nex. Come here."
Tazan dropped the crate he was lifting and strode over. Actaeon came with the infant still in his arms. Nex followed last, wiping dirt from his forehead with a shaking hand.
Abigail spoke again, her tone almost gentle:
"Execute them."
There was silence.
Then: "No!" Tazan shouted. "It's against imperial law to execute them without trial. Deserters must be given a choice—slavery or a return to the front."
Actaeon added, "They still have rights, even now."
Alexander, who had been standing behind the tent's flap, stepped forward. His voice dripped with disgust.
"Rights? My sister is showing them mercy, and you dare object?"
He unsheathed his massive two-handed sword, its steel gleaming in the firelight.
With one swift movement, he beheaded the madman, blood spraying across the trench's edge.
"See? That wasn't so hard, was it?" he growled. "And look—no lightning struck me. No imperial knights burst from the woods to drag me away. We are the law here. Our father gave us full authority over this front. We do what we deem right."
The elderly thief collapsed to his knees, sobbing, begging for a second chance to fight.
"I'll return to the front! Let me die with honor! Please!"
As for Bewolf, he didn't beg. He looked up at the sky, took a deep breath, and said quietly:
"I am ready."
Alexander smiled and reached for a nearby short sword. He tossed it toward Nex.
"Give him mercy, Servus," he said mockingly, using Nex's slave name—the identity they had forced upon him, stripping away any memory of who he truly was.
Nex bent down and picked up the blade.
It felt cold.
He had trained with it before. Sparring, drills, thousands of repetitions under imperial command.
But this moment wasn't training.
His fingers trembled around the hilt.
The blade was suddenly heavier than he remembered.
He looked at Bewolf—cracked lips, raw bruises, hollow eyes filled with pain.
Not a criminal.
Not a threat.
Just a boy, barely older than him.
A boy the Empire had chewed up and spat out.
And now they wanted Nex to end him.
Not in defense.
Not on a battlefield.
But because two imperial royals said so.
His legs locked. His shoulders tightened.
The sword in his hand vibrated with hesitation.
He wasn't a soldier. He wasn't here by choice.
He was a slave, forced to carry out the will of his brother and sister—two children wrapped in silk and armor, playing judge and executioner.
And his father, the Emperor, had given them this unchecked power… and never once looked back to see how they used it.
That was the truth.
It wasn't about duty.
It was about abuse.
It was about who gets to decide who matters.
And the ones who did?
Didn't even flinch when they used their boots to press others into the dirt.
Abigail stood nearby, watching—not with cruelty, but with something worse: curiosity.
A glint in her eyes, subtle, intentional.
She was testing him.
Not his skill.
His obedience.
Alexander, irritated, raised his sword again, stepping forward—ready to carry out his threat to harm Nex's friends.
But Abigail lifted her hand, graceful and composed, and stopped him with a small smile—like a noblewoman feeding stray dogs.
In the thick silence, Bewolf screamed.
"Do it! Release me from this!
You coward!
You're no soldier—you're a disgrace!
I'm begging you… just make it quick!"
Nex's lips parted slightly.
But his voice failed him.
His body felt as if it were trapped in stone.
Then—an arrow flew.
It struck Bewolf cleanly through the left eye.
He collapsed backward into the trench Nex had dug with his own hands.
Nex didn't turn to look.
He didn't need to.
He knew it was Actaeon.
The old thief fell to his knees, eyes wide and terrified.
Tazan took a step forward—ready, but not eager. He reached down toward the ground for a weapon.
But before his fingers could wrap around the hilt of anything—
Thwip.
A second arrow shot forward. Clean. Deadly.
It pierced the old man's throat.
The thief dropped, gurgling into silence, his body joining Bewolf's in the trench.
Behind them, Actaeon's bow trembled in his grip, even after the string had gone slack.
His breathing was heavy. His face was stone. But in his eyes burned something he couldn't yet speak aloud—rage.
Not just at the twins.
At himself. For not speaking sooner. For not stopping this madness. For letting it get this far.
Tazan, standing nearby, released a quiet breath.
He didn't say a word, but a flicker of relief crossed his face.
He hadn't wanted to kill the old man.
And now… he didn't have to.
Alexander turned to Nex, eyes narrow with disgust.
"If you won't kill a deserter," he spat, "then kill a slave instead."
But Abigail's hand rose again. She was still watching Nex—not with anger, not with kindness, but with something colder.
Assessment.
"No," she said softly. "Nex has another task now."
She nodded toward the trench.
"Bury the dead."
Nex nodded. Once.
And so he did.
He stepped into the grave he had unknowingly prepared.
And with his bare hands, he began to cover the bodies with soil.
From that day on, Nex changed.
Not because he had killed.
But because he had refused to.
Because he had seen what power does—
Not in stories. Not in drills. But in the faces of those it crushed.
Because he had watched his own brother and sister tremble on the necks of the voiceless, simply because they could.
And because now, he knew:
He could no longer lift a sword without it slipping.
Not from fear.
But from the unbearable knowledge that one day,
they might ask him to do it again.
And next time…
they might not let him hesitate.
"One day, I will bury them too," Nex—the Prince of Death—vowed, as he threw soil over the dead, pausing only to wipe away his tears.