I slipped through the castle gates like a ghost.
No alarms. No shouts.
But the silence was worse.
The palace was crawling with Valors—armed to the teeth, stationed at every hall and corridor. Their armor gleamed under the torchlight, their blades already soaked in blood.
Bodies littered the floors. Council members. Servants. Guards.
Slaughtered like cattle.
"F**k…" I breathed, barely a whisper.
This wasn't Magnus.
This was something far darker.
I kept low, melting into the shadows, my cloak dragging like smoke behind me. Every step was calculated, every breath measured. One mistake, and I'd join the corpses rotting on the marble.
I needed answers. And Magnus—wherever he was—was the key.
Whether he'd planned this or not didn't matter now. Someone had used his name, his title, and possibly his blood to orchestrate a coup.
The throne room was the most likely place he'd be kept—if he was still alive.
But that was also the most obvious place for a trap.
I considered disguising myself as a Valor—grab a fallen helmet, a bloodied cloak, blend in. But it'd never work. My face was too well-known. My gait, too disciplined. They'd spot me before I could blink.
No. Shadows were my only ally now.
And they were running out.
Torchlight was spreading. Patrols doubled. Hallways glowed brighter with each passing second.
They were expecting someone.
Me.
I pressed my back to a cold stone pillar, heart pounding as a squad of Valors marched past—six of them, all carrying crossbows and blades.
This wasn't just a power grab.
This was a purge.
And I was walking straight into its heart.
The coast was clear.
Too clear.
I moved—swift and silent—gliding along the shadows like a second skin, every sense sharpened to a blade's edge.
The throne room loomed ahead. Its towering doors were wide open, the golden sigil of the empire split straight down the center.
No guards.
Not one.
Every instinct screamed.
Trap.
Then—
"Argon…"
The name hit me like ice to the spine.
I hadn't heard it in years. Not since the battlefield. Not since I buried that name along with everything it once stood for.
The voice echoed from within the chamber. Calm. Measured.
Familiar.
"I know you're out there," it continued. Smooth. Mocking. "Come on in… I've been expecting you."
My grip on my blade tightened.
That voice didn't belong to Magnus.
It belonged to someone far worse.
Someone who knew far too much.
I took a deep breath—quiet and slow. I pushed the door open, stepping into the lions den.
My eyes widened.
Magnus was bound to the throne—arms shackled to the gilded frame, blood trickling from his forehead.
Three swords floated before him, tips aimed directly at his chest. Suspended in the air by no earthly hand.
Magic.
Powerful magic.
My gaze shifted.
Beside the throne stood a tall, frail figure cloaked in midnight. His back was hunched with age—or corruption—but his presence filled the room like a rising storm.
A grin curled across his gaunt face.
Cassius.
The Arch Mage of the Valors.
A name that should've been buried with the last war.
"It's been a while, old friend," he said, his voice smooth and sharp like a dagger wrapped in silk. His pale eyes didn't leave mine.
"Cassius." I stepped forward slowly, every nerve braced for treachery. "Yes, it has."
My heart thundered in my chest. Caged. Restless.
I glanced at the floating swords. Then at Magnus—barely conscious.
This wasn't a power struggle. This was a purge.
"What is all this?" I asked, forcing calm into my voice. "What are you doing?"
Cassius's grin widened, twisted with something dark. A madness long cultivated.
"This…" he gestured around the blood-soaked room, "is retribution."
"Retribution?"
"Yes." His tone turned bitter. "For every life shattered by royal command. For every soldier who bled on foreign soil while the highborn feasted. For every family broken… every name forgotten in service to a throne that never deserved it."
His voice rose with fervor—his eyes wild now, burning with conviction.
"You lost someone too, Argon," he said, taking a step forward. "You know their apathy. Their hypocrisy. You know what they cost you."
He extended a hand.
"Join me, my old friend. Together, we can burn the rot away. We can build something new."
My hand hovered near my blade.
I stared at him. Then at Magnus, still struggling to lift his head.
And for a moment—
I hesitated.
He was right—in a twisted, half-truth kind of way.
The royal family had cost me everything once. My brothers-in-arms. The love I lost. The peace I never found again.
But that was then.
I had made a vow. Not to a king, but to a kingdom.
To Drakonia.
And I planned to honor it, with my life if I had to.
I narrowed my eyes at Cassius. "Have you gone mad?"
He tilted his head, that smug grin still clinging to his face.
"You speak of justice," I spat, stepping forward, "but look around you. You've slaughtered councilmen, staff, innocent people in the streets."
I could still hear the screams beyond the walls. The clash of blades. The weeping of children.
"And you blame the royal family for loss?"
My hand gripped the hilt of my sword. I drew it in one fluid motion, the blade hissing free like a promise made of steel.
"You don't seek justice, Cassius. You don't even seek retribution."
I pointed the blade toward him, my voice cold and steady.
"You seek death and destruction. Chaos. Power."
He said nothing, but the shadows behind him twisted, as if reacting to his will.
"I'm afraid I can't let you do that, old friend."
Cassius chuckled—low, quiet, dark.
"So be it," he said, raising his hand.
The three swords pointed at Magnus flared with light, trembling with magical tension.
And just like that—
The throne room erupted.
Bright flashes of light tore through the throne room—violent, blinding, divine.
Sparks exploded in every direction. The very air burned.
I screamed as the heat engulfed me.
It felt like my skin melted from my bones, peeled away by invisible fire. Agony coursed through every nerve, every sinew.
Then—
Silence.
A stillness so complete it swallowed all sound.
Darkness. Endless, formless.
I couldn't see. Couldn't move.
But I could feel.
My body—reforming.
Muscles stitching themselves together. Bones aligning. Skin sliding back into place like memory returning to a forgotten name.
And then I heard it.
A chorus of voices, deep and layered, echoing from every corner of the void.
Ancient. Eternal.
"You have sworn to protect Drakonia.
For that, we grant you our grace."
The darkness rippled with light—soft, celestial blue, pulsing like a heartbeat.
"Argon Sapphrus.
Go forth… and rewrite your story."