"Father."
He looked up. His son was already on the steps, one hand on a sword, eyes flat.
"This ends with you," the boy said.
Steel went in fast. Between ribs. Deep enough that the king's breath came short and thin.
"You want the throne," the king said, voice raw.
"I want the empire," his son answered, pushing until metal met bone. "And you're no longer needed."
The governors and elders watched from their carved seats. Generals, ministers, priests. People he had fed, shielded, raised. No one moved. No hand lifted. No voice said stop.
It wasn't the blade that hurt most. It was their stillness.
The queen stood beside the general, Marix. No crown. No cloak. Her shoulder brushed his as if it belonged there.
The king tasted blood. "You could have spoken to me."
"You don't listen," the boy said. "You never have."
"I would have," the king said.
The queen stepped close enough that he could hear her breathe. "I did love you," she said. The words were gentle. Her face wasn't.
The council murmured. Not prayers. Curses. Old words meant to strip a man of a name. A minister spat on the floor. A bishop raised two fingers and said, "Be nameless."
The boy pulled the blade free. Heat poured down the king's side. The boy smiled — a small curl at the mouth that would have looked like his father's, once.
"I'll make them remember me," the boy said.
An arrow took him in the neck.
He blinked, shocked, then staggered. Two more shots hit before he could fall. He dropped at the foot of the throne, fingers twitching toward the sword that had killed his father. Marix lowered a short bow, calm as if he'd only ended a hunt.
"Loose ends," the general said.
The king reached by habit and stopped his hand a breath away. The hall held its breath with him. No one knelt for the prince. No one cried. No one cried out.
"Be heirless," the bishop said. "Let the bloodline break."
The king's chest burned and then went cold. He pressed a hand to his stomach. It came away red. Each beat slowed.
He looked at the queen. She stood shoulder to shoulder with Marix. They did not touch. They did not need to.
"You, too," he said.
She didn't answer.
Marix drew his sword and lifted it. The guards didn't step in. The elders didn't speak. The priests didn't pray.
"Ready?" Marix asked.
"We'll manage," the queen said.
Steel flashed. He fell into dark.
It was not the dark of a room. It was a wide, thin dark with a single twinkling point, like a hole in a curtain.
"You died. Again."
The voice was inside him, sitting behind his eyes.
He tried to sit. His chest pulled and a phantom pain ran along the path of the blade. He tasted metal and swallowed nothing.
"Congratulations, Crownless Heir," the voice said. "You've failed twice. Care to try for a third?"
"I don't remember the first," he said.
"You're not meant to," it said. "The second? That one you'll keep."
Marble, blood, a smirk, arrows. It sat on him like a weight.
A pressure settled on his brow. A crown with no metal and too much weight.
"That's the feeling," the voice said, amused. "A blessing that bites. A flag you can't put down."
"Who are you?" he asked.
"The part that helps," it said. "And the part that keeps score."
"What do you want?"
"To win," the voice said. "Same as you. If you stop lying to yourself."
"I'm not here to rule," he muttered.
"Then why?"
"To fix what I broke."
A low hum that could have been a laugh. "We'll see."
The star widened. The dark peeled back.
Cold hit him first. Stone under his shoulder blades, grit on his cheek. He tried to sit and his body didn't obey.
When he lifted his hand, the shape was wrong — long fingers, pointed tips. Claws. His skin looked like paint washed with ash.
He rolled to his side. It took three tries.
Breathing felt like work. In, count three. Out, count three. He kept the numbers because the numbers kept him.
"Status," he said. His throat scraped.
[System: Online.]
[Designation: Crownless Heir.]
[Deaths: 2.]
[Motor Control: Desynced (43%).]
[Stability: Low.]
[Time since Death_2: 50 years, 19 days.]
"Fifty," he breathed.
"Fifty," the voice confirmed. "And a little."
He flexed his hand. The claws clicked on stone. His feet were longer, too. Toes that gripped when he didn't mean them to. He curled and uncurled them until the movement didn't startle him.
"Don't stand," the voice said. "You'll fall. Crawl first."
He slid one elbow forward. Then the other. He moved like a man who had forgotten stairs. The world tilted and swayed and then settled.
A wall met his palm. He pressed his back against it and sat, slow. Every joint told him he'd been made again and made wrong.
"Good," the voice said. "Now breathe until the shaking stops."
He breathed until his chest stopped kicking.
When he tried to speak again, his voice came low and rough. "Lights."
[System: Visual Assist: Minimal.]
[Aim for the dim.]
In the dark, a seam of light traced the bottom of a doorless arch. He watched it until it felt steady. He braced a palm flat, pushed, and slid along the wall.
He didn't walk. He didn't try. He moved one knee, one toe, one hand. He kept contact with the stone. He learned the floor like a blind man learns a room.
His fingers brushed something smooth. He lifted it. Shard of mirror, cracked. He tilted it and caught his face in a sliver of light.
Someone else stared back. Same bones, sharper edges. Eyes with a faint glow. Teeth a little too eager. If he smiled, it would not look kind.
He put the shard down. His hand shook once. He let it.
"Water," he said.
[System: Resource Scan: Trace moisture east.]
[Advise: Move slow.]
He slid east, counting breaths, counting moves. His palm found a rough groove where water had once run. A damp chill kissed his fingers. He followed it to a trickle along the wall, barely enough to darken the stone.
He cupped a hand, waited, swallowed one mouthful. He waited again. If he rushed it, he would be sick. He wasn't interested in that.
"Motor Control: 47%," the voice said, like a bored clerk.
He did not thank it.
He tore a strip from his tunic and wrapped it around his right hand, then his left. The cloth gave him friction. He wrapped his feet next, not because the floor cut him, but because he preferred to choose what touched his skin.
He pressed his shoulder into the wall and tried to stand.
He made it halfway. His knees said no. He listened.
He rested his head against stone and waited for the swim in his vision to calm. He kept breathing. He didn't rush. He didn't beg.
"Calibration available," the voice said. "Motor tutorial. Ten steps. Accept?"
"Fine."
[Step 1: Open and close each hand ten times. Slow.]
[Step 2: Roll each ankle. Do not lock knee.]
[Step 3: Extend, retract, extend, retract — claws only. Controlled.]
He did as told. He felt stupid. He did it anyway. He would not fall because pride told him to stand fast.
By Step 6, his breath had evened. By Step 8, he could lean and not slide. At Step 10, he put a hand on the corner of the arch, braced, and rose.
His legs held. They shook. He let them shake.
"Good," the voice said. "Look at you. Not dead."
"Yet," he said.
He took a small step. Another. His toes gripped at the wrong time, then learned the right one. The arch opened into a short hall with tumbled stone and an old banner rotted to threads. He tore a strip and wound it around his forearm where the bone ached the most.
He reached the doorway and stopped. Light waited beyond. Real light. It stabbed his eyes when he stepped into it.
He flinched back. He breathed. He tried again, hand up to narrow his view. He stepped into day.
The sky looked washed. Low walls . Below, a river cut through a valley into a city he did not know.
Rails ran like veins. Boxes on wheels slid along them without horses. Banners showed no crest he recognized.
[System: Orientation.]
[Local Era: Accord Year 50.]
[Governance: Distributed.]
[Enforcement: Contracted.]
[Religion: Fragmented.]
"Plain language," he said.
"No thrones," the voice said. "No crowns. Lots of committees. Someone pays soldiers who pretend not to be soldiers. The gods are quiet or bored."
"What do you mean?" he asked, his eyes narrowing as they swept the valley again.
"There are still kingdoms," the voice replied, slow and deliberate. "Most fractured, some thriving. Borders redrawn. Names changed. But this land—" it paused, "—this was yours. Your capital stood where that new city squats. Now it's a hub for the Accord. They built over the bones and left the rest to rot. You're standing in the carcass of your own throne."
He let the words settle. The broken walls, the blackened stone, the weeds between the cracks — they weren't just ruins. They were his ruins. No soldiers here. No people. Just him, the wind.
He remembers when millions bowed before his presence but now nothing even exists. His claws curled slowly against his palm.
"They took my kingdom once," he said, voice low but steady. "This time, I'm not taking it back." He lifted his head toward the far-off city, eyes sharp. "This time… I'll take everything."