The great hall of Eldermar shimmered with golden laughter and wine. Castor Veylan stood at his king's side—shoulder squared, heart full—watching the light play on faces he had known since he was a boy. A kingdom's worth of secrets hung in the banners and the art, but tonight was no night for secrets. Tonight was for celebration.
He stole a glance at King Aldren, whose broad shoulders and ready smile still startled Castor after all their years together: How can a man with so much weight carry so much kindness?
Aldren caught him looking and grinned. "You're frowning again, Castor. Is my right hand so burdened by duty that he can't raise a glass?"
"I suppose one of us should remain sober, Your Majesty," Castor replied, a rare teasing note in his voice.
Aldren's laughter was deep and honest. "You're not just my right hand, you're the brother I never had—a brother with a head so full of caution, I sometimes wonder how you survived your first duel." He tapped Castor's arm fondly.
Castor felt a flush of gratitude—a private glow he'd never quite learned to hide. His gaze swept the room.
Princess Nyelle, the king's cousin and heir if fate turned cruel, wore delicate silver filigree and watched the festivities with a careful eye. Rumors painted her as cold, but Castor knew better. She was fierce and clever, the backbone of diplomacy, and, tonight, for once, her smile looked genuine.
A group of knights argued over a chessboard. By the food tables, Lira, Aldren's sharp-tongued spymaster, exchanged coded glances with her informants—knife hidden under her gown, wit even sharper.
And then there was Malric, always at the king's left, just outside the true circle of trust. Malric was tall, graceful in his tailored black velvet, his dark eyes quick to catch power's smallest movements. Once, he'd been Aldren's boyhood friend—a master of accounts and strategy, whose advice always seemed a touch too smooth for Castor's liking.
Tonight, though, Malric was all charm—offering toasts, sharing inside jokes, the perfect host. Castor watched him from the corner of his eye, as he always did.
The evening blurred in warmth: toasts were raised, minor nobles made their overtures, laughter chased shadows from every corner. The storm outside was a distant thing.
Toward midnight, Aldren pulled Castor aside, aching with sincerity. "You doubt Malric, don't you?" The king's voice was quiet.
Castor hesitated. "He's clever. Ambitious. Sees more angles than most. But I've never seen his heart—only his calculations."
Aldren nodded, the honest worry of a good king. "It's hard to rule, harder to trust. But Malric's saved us from ruin more times than I can count. He wants Eldermar to thrive, as we do."
Castor said nothing, promising himself to keep watch—not for his own sake, but for the crown that had given him everything.
It unravelled just past midnight.
The doors exploded inward. Dozens of armed men—faces Castor recognized from the palace guard—stormed inside. The hall erupted in terror. Castor had his sword drawn in an instant, back pressed to the king, voice rising for Lira. Through the chaos, he saw Princess Nyelle grab a letter opener in white-knuckled hands and dart behind the throne.
Malric emerged from the shadows. But something was different. Where there had once been polish and deference, now there was command: he strode at the head of the invaders, cloak thrown back, the glint of stolen authority in his step.
Castor's world warped. "Malric? What are you doing?" his voice cracked.
Malric's eyes were ice. "Saving the realm from weakness."
Aldren's betrayal was a wound deeper than steel. "You… you were my friend."
Malric sighed, not cruel, not angry—just tired. "The kingdom needs will, not sentiment. I won't watch you waste our years any longer, Aldren."
Castor lunged, but palace guards—his palace guards—pinned him to the tiles. "You always did underestimate me, Veylan," Malric whispered. "That's your problem—you believe loyalty can build a future."
Aldren pulled free for a moment—his crown falling, rolling across the stones like a discarded toy. "If you do this, Malric, you'll burn us all."
Malric just looked at him—sad, almost—then gestured. A guard's sword flashed. Aldren gasped. Castor reached, too late, as the king—his king, his friend—slumped, blood flowering on blue velvet.
Nyelle screamed. Lira was nowhere. The room was all shouts and red and betrayal. Malric knelt by Castor as he was pushed to his knees. In a low, venom-soft voice he said, "You would have made a good king's shadow if only you weren't so bright. But today, you follow your king into the dark."
Guards dragged Castor to the dungeons, his last sight the crown lying in a puddle of lamplight, Nyelle's silver tears forgotten as she was swept away.
Time splintered. In the cold of the dungeon, Castor faded in and out of waking. Stone beneath, pain in his shoulder and side. Death, he figured, wasn't far.
He remembered Aldren's laugh, Nyelle's smile, Lira's careful eyes—Malric's sad, dangerous ambition. "Betrayed by a friend," he rasped. "Left to rot because I loved too well."
The world grew narrow, his heart hammering alone in the dark. Shadows pulsed at the corners. He saw flickers—visions? hallucinations?—of Malric on the throne, Lira in shadowed alleys, Nyelle shackled, her song of hope strangled.
Castor closed his eyes. "Maybe this is death."
But death had more to say.
Light flared before him, unfamiliar and cold—a glowing script overlaying his blurred vision.
<< SYSTEM INITIALIZING: SCOURGE PROTOCOL >>
<< Condition Detected: Betrayed and Forsaken >>
<< Side Effects: Hallucinations Likely. Interpret with Caution. >>
Castor laughed, a wet, racking sound. "The dying see what they wish for, eh? Am I wishing for revenge?"
Words flickered sharper, impossibly real.
<< Welcome, Castor Veylan.
This system feeds on betrayal. Every act of vengeance or reclaimed loyalty will restore you and increase your strength.
Do you accept? >>
Castor's hands clenched into fists. "What else is left? Give me a purpose, even if it's a dream."
<< Acceptance Registered.
Vengeance Points: 10.
Skill Unlocked: Feed on Treachery. The greater the betrayal, the greater your strength. >>
A surge roared through him. Pain dulled—his wounds tingling with an alien, icy energy. He stood, dizzy but unbroken, and when the cell door opened for a lazy guard, Castor greeted him not with terror but new resolve.
The guard raised his club. "Malric says the rats can have you."
Castor's voice was low, inhuman. "Tell Malric his reckoning is coming."
Shadows licked his fingers. The guard froze. The dread—the system's power—made Castor terribly alive. He delivered a single blow. The man fell, dread-sick and shaking, as Castor stepped over him into a new fate.
<< Vengeance Points: +5.
Skill: Aura of Night—induce fear in the unfaithful. >>
He climbed toward the palace, the image of every friend and traitor burning behind his eyes. "This is for Aldren, for those who stayed true. For myself."
No matter if he was dead or dreaming—he would be the scourge that haunted the betrayers, and Malric would see every cruelty avenged.
Outside, thunder claimed the night; inside, Castor claimed his new beginning.