The Morning After the Storm
Dawn crept into the East Wing—not a burst of gold, but a hush of pale radiance. Mournful and reverent, as though the heavens themselves dared not wake him too loudly.
Anya sat still beside his bed. Her shawl was pulled tight over her shoulders. She watched, wondering if his breathing would change. Were the spells weaving light under him enough? The crackling braziers had dimmed to embers. Long, slanted shadows stretched across the marble floor. Beneath the bed, runes—etched with light-aligned harmonization spells—flickered faintly, responding to his resting breath.
Charles lay half-curled in silk sheets, burdened even in sleep. But his breathing was steady. His weak aura still pulsed—no elemental spikes, no twitches from lightning or qi recoil.
He had made it.
Again.
Anya's gaze lingered on him, a silent plea, aching to hold onto him just a little longer, her heart warring with memory and fear.
Once so weak. So very little.
Her heart twisted so fiercely she almost gasped. Old pain pressed against her ribs—sharp, relentless. The past echoed, the wound never fully closed.
It had been fourteen years earlier, in the last days of winter—she remembered as if waking into that distant time again. The frost hadn't lifted even when the sun was high. The wind had bitten through every curtain and wall of the manor—like it carried death in its teeth.
She had stood at Duchess Evelyne's bedside, trembling—not from cold, but from grief already blooming in her veins.
The Duchess, who looked sickly and weak, had held her hand.
"Promise me, Anya," she had said, each word cracking with pain. "Not just to serve him. Not just to give him food or clothes. Love him. Love him as if he were your own."
Anya had cried. "Please, my lady, don't—"
Evelyne wheezed with desperation, her eyes sharp with the stubborn magic that made her feared. "He'll be alone. He can't afford it. He has no one. Not even Alaric."
Anya—star apprentice at a Count's alchemical academy, once dreaming of spell towers and arcane labs—bowed her head.
"I swear. I'll never leave him."
She could have returned to Velmora. Her brother, Count Jeoff Snider, had offered to bring her home, even pleaded. She could have had titles, libraries, access to cultivation resources, and a second chance at magic.
But she'd stayed.
Because Evelyne's dying words clung to her soul—icy, unbearable. The boy needed someone desperately. She needed—almost hopelessly—to matter, after her dream died with her mentor.
Her cultivation stalled. Alchemy studies went dormant. Her spiritual veins—once promising—dulled. She wasn't weak. She simply gave everything to the boy the world forgot.
And now that forgotten boy was rising—a storm unchained, raw and relentless.
A weapon. A strategist. A sovereign. Yet he clung to her—the small, wounded side wanting her warm baths and herbal wine; her solace amid his burdens.
Anya blinked away the memory, returning to the quiet morning in Charles's room—back to the present—and looked again at Charles—no, at Lord Charlemagne—sleeping like the war hadn't happened.
"Do you know what it costs to raise someone like you?" she whispered, her voice too soft for even the walls to catch. "Everything. It costs everything. And I would pay it again."
His chest rose and fell, steady as the tide.
The incense was gone, but her hands still carried the bittersweet scent of Stardrop Essence and Dreamveil Elixir—scents steeped in memory. Her fingertips tingled, aching with Light Qi, the echo of hours-old exhaustion—not just service, but a promise etched in soul and sacrifice.
She smiled faintly.
"You have your mother's fire. And your father's temper, gods help us."
There was a long silence. Then a rustle—the subtle twitch of his fingers curling into the sheets. He was dreaming.
She silently begged fate to grant him just one good dream.
Tomorrow, he would rise again. He would wear his charisma like armor and ambition like a blade. He would train. Scheme. Conquer. He would burn through the world like it owed him an apology.
And she would be here. Quiet, ever-present. A shadow with tea. A warmth in the cold.
"I'll keep your promise, Evelyne," she whispered into the morning. "Even when he no longer needs me."
And just then, the runes beneath the bed flared—soft violet and gold—and for a heartbeat, she saw it:
A halo.
Not just around his body. But his soul.
Like a sovereign not yet crowned… but chosen.
The Crownless King Wakes
It wasn't birdsong or the noise of the estate waking up that Charles heard first. It was the soft sound of a teacup scraping against porcelain.
Fragile. Familiar.
Charles's eyes opened to a blur of silver light and soft linen. The runic light pulsed along the silk seams above. His body felt heavy, but whole.
No stabbing rib ache, no chi backlash coiling like barbed wire—just a quiet, deep pressure in his core, like a dragon sleeping at the bottom of a storm.
He blinked. Then blinked again.
Anya sat beside the open window, hair in a loose braid, holding a tray of steam-kissed dumplings and rice porridge streaked with golden leaf. A cup of emerald tea glowed nearby.
"Ah, the invalid stirs," she said dryly, not even looking up from her stitching. "Quick, fetch the scribes. The miracle must be recorded."
Charles groaned. "If this is the afterlife, you're doing a poor job selling it."
"Oh?" She raised a brow. "Because I distinctly recall dragging your soggy corpse out of a bath like an overboiled crab."
"I was meditating."
"You were convulsing."
He sat up slowly, wincing only once. "Same difference."
The tray floated over, steered by Anya's Light Qi. He grunted thanks, eyeing the dumplings like platinum.
"Verdantblood pork dumplings, Phoenixroot broth, and a soul-calming tea blend," she recited. "Don't ask for the recipe. You don't pay me enough."
Charles popped a dumpling into his mouth, chewed once, then sighed like a dying poet.
"Stars above… If I ever marry, it's for this alone."
Anya rolled her eyes. "Noted. I'll tell the kitchen girl she's your type."
They shared a brief silence.
A gentle warmth pulsed between them—not idle comfort, but a rare, fragile peace, softly blooming where so much grief and devotion had tangled.
Then Charles's gaze turned toward the window, the horizon just beginning to bloom with sunlight over the distant ridges of Zephyrland. He wrestled with a mixture of anticipation and dread for the coming days, feeling the pressure mounting beneath the fragile peace of the morning.
"We need to move soon," he said at last, quietly.
Anya didn't argue. "You've only just recovered."
He set the tray aside and exhaled. "Loot from the serpent hunt is shifting things. The East Wing's morale is up. Borris and Wendy are ready. And I—" he touched his chest "—am finally stable."
He flexed his fingers. The body responded, ready. The fire in his veins had tempered: stronger. Focused.
"You're planning to break through to Core Realm soon," she said. It wasn't a question.
Charles glanced sideways. "The world doesn't wait for stragglers. The next game has begun: banquet, academy, rebellion... Everything's moving."
Anya stood, smoothing her dress. "You'll need allies. Not just servants. Not just soldiers."
He met her gaze. "Then help me find them."
"I've already done it." She smiled a little. "You just haven't seen it."
A break.
Then he laughed, in a low, rough way.
"Still too sharp for an alchemist who has retired."
She tossed a small crystal vial onto his lap, blue mist pulsing inside. "All my Stardrop Essence blend. Next time you wreck your meridians, you're on your own."
He flipped the vial over in his hand and raised his eyebrows. "I see you're still hoarding miracles."
"No," she murmured, voice cracking with aching devotion. "I'm saving them for the only fool I'd give everything for—my strength, my heart, every last miracle."
His eyes softened.
There were loyalties bargained in contracts. Loyalties won with gold. Loyalties demanded in blood. Cold, conditional, easily broken.
And then… There was Anya's.
Anya's loyalty stood, silent and formidable. Steadfast. Fierce. Deeper than the roots of mountains—more than most souls could ever hope for.
Charles leaned back, finishing his tea.
He would rest for a few more hours. Then gather Borris and Wendy. Then set plans in motion.
The capital awaited. Velmora awaited. But even more, the future he meant to seize awaited.
But more than that—the future he intended to seize awaited.
And this time, he wouldn't arrive crawling.
He would arrive crowned.
Assembly for Departure
The morning broke like a sword coming out of its sheath. Sharp. Great. Set for battle.
The east-facing towers of House Ziglar's East Wing broke up the sunlight. It kissed the courtyard, where the wind moved the flags. There was a lot of tension in the air, like the calm before a great battle.
Servants rushed around, polishing saddles and tightening straps at the last minute. The open stables were full of sparks of lightning. The most terrifying mounts on this side of the Davonan border were ready to be let loose.
Charles Alden Vale, now Charlemagne Ziglar, heir to a storm that was about to break, stood in the middle of it all with a half-cape over one shoulder and eyes shining through lashes that had been darkened by sleepless planning.
His presence showed that he was ready, and his shadow was long and regal. But even he couldn't help but smile a little as he watched the ragtag army come together under his command.
Knight Elmer, always the planner, had decided not to go with Charles this time. He sent the Twin Thorns of the North instead. Their names alone could scare off both tavern brawlers and beast tamers.
Kael, the elder by eight minutes, stood like a glacier in motion. Core Realm Rank 10. Earth affinity. His massive sword was strapped across his back like a slab of mountain iron, and his armor shimmered with embedded earth runes, the brown-gold of stormstone steel. His expression had only two modes: scowl and deeper scowl. If you asked him what joy was, he'd probably say "a sharpened blade and silence."
Karel, his younger twin and walking contradiction, was all heat and swagger. Core Realm Rank 9. Fire affinity. An archer of legendary accuracy with a composite longbow carved from Ashenflare wood and strung with phoenix-sinew, he wore a flamboyant red scarf that had no defensive value whatsoever. Beside the bow, a slim rapier hung at his waist, more a statement of elegance than function. His grin was the stuff of mischief and low-level court scandals.
"Are we escorting a noble heir," Karel drawled, "or preparing for a romance novel? Because I brought the wrong cloak if we're going for brooding hero aesthetics."
"Be silent," Kael grunted. "Or I'll bury you in your own metaphors."
Charles made a snort. "If I die on this trip, it'll be because you two are fighting."
Karel winked and said, "Wouldn't be the worst way to go."
Next was Wendy, who had her Windblade Daggers strapped to her hips. She was quiet but very sharp. She looked more like an assassin than a maid now, with her posture straight and balanced, as if every step could be an ambush. Her wind affinity shimmered faintly as she moved, as if the air itself made room for her blade.
Borris, the one-eyed former master blacksmith, stood behind her, healed enough to stand tall again. Even though his cultivation was still recovering, he had the air of a seasoned warrior about him, like coal dust clinging to forge fire. He had a heavy bag with him that was full of portable crafting tools and half-finished enchantments. The old man grunted once in approval when Charles looked at him. This was the Borris equivalent of a war speech.
"Wendy," Borris muttered, eyes flicking toward the girl. "If you get yourself killed, I'll be pissed."
Wendy gave him a cheeky grin. "Yes, instructor."
Charles grinned, already envisioning the chaos these two would unleash on each other. He wasn't sure if they'd end up a legendary duo or burn half a province down trying.
Rounding out the group were two more of Elmer's trusted elites.
Andy, Core Realm Rank 5, berserker-type with metal affinity, looked like someone had taken a warhammer and taught it how to smirk. His arms were thick as tree trunks, and two massive greathammers were strapped across his back like overkill made manifest.
"Please let something attack us on the road," Andy muttered. "I haven't crushed anything in three days. I'm starting to dream of punching soup."
"Maybe we'll find you a squirrel," Charles offered.
"I'll make stew out of its family," Andy said, completely serious.
Beside him stood Donald, Core Realm Rank 6 swordsman, lean and disciplined. His wind-cut silver hair and long jade-green cloak made him look like a rogue noble fallen from grace. He carried a longblade with an air of serenity and rarely spoke unless needed.
"The formation's balanced," Donald said simply. "We can repel mid-tier beast waves without reinforcements."
"And look good doing it," Karel added. "Did I mention I polished my bow for this trip?"
"Your bow's the only thing that'll shine by the time we reach Velmora," Kael muttered.
Just then, a fresh roll of thunder cracked through the sky—not from the heavens, but from the stables.