The air in the throne room was thick, like the silence before a storm. The gilded walls, adorned with tapestries depicting battles won and lost, seemed to close in on Kaelis as he stepped over the cold, blood-slick marble. His boots made no sound as he walked, but the faint scent of iron and incense filled his nostrils. The floor beneath him was smooth, yet slick in places—still wet from the recent spill of royal blood.
The grand, cracked throne loomed before him, draped in shadows. Its once-glorious gold sheen had faded to a dull bronze, as if time itself had claimed it, just like the family that once held dominion over it. He ran his fingers along the back of the throne, the cold touch of the metal sending a shiver through him, and the sharp edges of the worn carvings dug into his skin. The throne might be crumbling, but it still held the promise of power.
From the shattered body of the King, his life drained into the stone beneath, came a faint, lingering scent of burnt herbs. Someone had tried to hide the smell, but it still clung to the air, a reminder of the ritual that had failed to save the King. The assassin's knife was still lodged in the King's chest, but the death wasn't clean, wasn't precise. Kaelis could already feel the ripples—he'd watched this unfold, felt the eyes on him. Whispers would spread like wildfire.
He stood there for a moment, watching as the blood pooled beneath the King's once-mighty form, his body lifeless, slack. But Kaelis wasn't looking at the King. His eyes were locked on the dagger, still embedded in the monarch's heart. The dagger was a symbol, a warning.
"Who will wear the crown next?" The question echoed in his mind, but it didn't need to be asked aloud. The whispers had already begun, the nobles in the room already positioning themselves like vultures over a carcass. Kaelis knew their every move, their every thought before they did. They were pawns in a game, and Kaelis had always been three moves ahead.
There was no fear in him, only purpose.
His mind flitted over his options, calculating, weighing the risk and reward. His eyes darted to the high windows, where the soft, eerie glow of the setting sun filtered through the stained glass, casting long shadows across the marble. The soft glow of the flames from the nearby torches illuminated the polished stone, their flickering light dancing over his features. Despite the blood and decay around him, Kaelis remained as composed as ever—his wolf-cut hair, streaked with silver, falling just over his pale, almost porcelain skin, his amber eyes glowing with an intensity that none dared to challenge.
He didn't feel the tension building in the room. The others did—he could feel their eyes, their uncertainty—but Kaelis was beyond that. He was the storm that would come next.
"Your Majesty…" A voice broke the silence—a nobleman, trembling, barely able to meet his gaze. Kaelis didn't turn to him, didn't acknowledge him. The man's words hung in the air, but Kaelis wasn't listening. He was thinking about the path forward. Every step counted now.
The whispers grew louder. The dagger was still lodged deep, the blood a testament to the swift betrayal. But the palace was filled with secrets. Some darker than others.
"I didn't ask for this," Kaelis thought, his mind shifting into the cold, calculating space it always occupied when things needed to be done. He had never wanted the throne, but it had always been there, hanging just out of reach, like the darkened sky above. He had played this game before, but this time—this time was different.
He could feel the weight of their gazes on him, probing, testing, waiting for him to make a move. There was no other choice. If he wanted to claim the throne, to take the power that was rightfully his, he would have to act. Now.
The nobles began to stir, whispers turning into murmurs, eyes shifting from Kaelis to one another. But Kaelis had already turned away. He wasn't interested in their petty games. The King was dead. The crown would soon be his—whether they liked it or not.
As he walked toward the darkened corridor, his footsteps echoing in the empty throne room, he allowed himself a fleeting smile. This was just the beginning.