The morning sun streamed into Alexander's chambers, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
He stood before his washbasin, the cool water a welcome shock against his skin, washing away the lingering fatigue from the training he had done before sleeping.
A towel was draped around his neck, and his robe was tied loosely, leaving his chest and torso exposed.
A sharp knock echoed from the door.
"Enter," he called out, not bothering to tighten the robe.
The door opened to reveal two young maids. The first carried a tray laden with a hearty breakfast of eggs, smoked meat, and thick bread.
The second held a long, slender object wrapped in dark silk.
Their eyes, initially respectful, flickered with a change as they took him in. Their gaze, meant for his face, dipped.
It went from his eyes, to the defined lines of his chest, down to the flat plane of his stomach where the hard-won evidence of his brutal training was now unmistakably clear.
They stared for a heartbeat too long, a silent acknowledgment of the prince who was no longer hollow.
Alexander noticed. It was not the flutter of vanity, but a colder, more satisfying click in his mind. This was a different kind of power than the kind that shattered stone, but it was power nonetheless.
It was the power to command attention, to be seen, not as hollow, but as substance.
I've had been invisible for too long.
A wave of profound, ancient boredom, like a glacier regarding a pebble, washed over him from Crimson.
The demon found such mortal concerns beneath notice.
Alexander cleared his throat, a soft but firm sound.
The maids jolted as if waking from a dream. The first one blushed a deep pink, her eyes snapping back to his. "Y-Your breakfast, Prince Alexander," she stammered.
The second maid, recovering slightly quicker, held out the silk-wrapped object. "And this... a gift. From Prince Nikolai. For your... endeavors today."
Alexander's interest, previously dormant, ignited. "Leave it on the table."
They did so with hurried bows. "Good luck, Your Highness," the first maid whispered, daring one last, fleeting glance at his form before they scurried out, the door clicking shut behind them.
The moment they were gone, Alexander was at the table, his fingers unwrapping the silk with a predator's focus. Inside was a scabbard of polished, dark leather. He drew the blade.
It was a masterpiece of smithing. The steel was a pale, shimmering silver, the edge so sharp it seemed to cut the light itself. The hilt was wrapped in black leather, the pommel a simple, polished sunstone.
It was beautiful. It was also a message form his brother: 'A fine blade for a fine performance. Do not embarrass the family further.'
As his fingers curled around the hilt, something shifted. A wave of resonant energy, dark and familiar, pulsed from his core, down his arm, and into the metal.
A black, web-like pattern, like veins of obsidian, spread from the guard down the length of the blade, transforming the shining silver into a matte, darkness-drinking black.
"What—?"
"Do not gawk," Crimson's voice pierced through, laced with amusement. "A simple fortification. That pretty steel would have shattered against Viktor. Now, it will hold. More importantly, it will now conduct our power without resistance.Consider it an investment in my vessel."
Alexander sheathed the now-black blade, the weight of it feeling right at his hip. He ate the food made for him, then dressed in simple, dark training leathers and headed for a private courtyard to warm up, his mind already in the arena.
He found Elvin there, the physician's son moving through a series of fluid stretches.
"Alexander," Elvin greeted with a respectful nod. "Nerves?"
"Something like that. Care for a light spar? To shake off the dust."
"Of course," Elvin said, falling into a ready stance.
But as Alexander moved to join him, a command, sharp as a whip-crack, echoed in his mind.
"Stop. The mouse. The clever one approaches."
Alexander froze mid-step. He saw Duke Lance walking briskly along a nearby colonnade, likely heading to the royal box, a ledger tucked under his arm.
'Viktor is the goal! The mountain I must climb!" Alexander's mind screamed back.
"The mountain is a distraction. The mouse holds a something I have not seen in an age. There is a truth here I must taste. Shake his hand. OBEY."
The command was not a request. It was a psychic blade severing his own will.
He felt his feet turn, his body moving down the colonnade before his conscious mind could form another protest. He was a passenger in his own skin.
The pressure in his mind was immense, an ancient will bearing down on his own.
Gritting his teeth, Alexander turned from a confused Elvin and strode toward Lance. "Duke Lance. A moment."
Lance stopped, his eyes wary. "Your Highness? Shouldn't you be preparing?"
"I am. I wanted to wish you luck. Today will be... revealing for us all." Alexander forced a neutral smile and stretched out his hand.
Lance stared at the offered hand as if it were a snake. This was not protocol. Hesitantly, he brought his own hand out. Their palms met. It was a brief, dry clasp.
But in that moment, Alexander felt it. A jolt, not of electricity, but of perception, funneled through Crimson's senses.
He didn't see a man; he saw a intricate, faintly glowing lattice of power woven into Lance's very spirit. Something hidden from the world.
"YES!" Crimson's ecstatic roar was a silent explosion in Alexander's skull. "The Oculus of the Fallen Seer! The Mantle of the Mimic King! I knew it! He doesn't measure his own strength; he mirrors his foe's and doubles his! He is a parasite, a reflection!"
Alexander released the hand as if burned. He gave a stiff nod and walked back to a thoroughly bewildered Elvin, Crimson's triumphant fury echoing in his head.
A cold sweat beaded on the back of his neck. His stomach churned for a reason he couldn't understand.
The Oculus of the Fallen Seer? The Mantle of the Mimic King? What are these, Crimson?
"They're old relics used by the weak to overpower the strong. A chest code. The Oculus... I watched a legion of the 'gods' own warriors tear themselves apart reflected in its light. To find it here, on this worm is both intriguing and insulting."
The sheer, unfair genius of Lance's deception was breathtaking. This whole time, the court had mocked a weak man for his cleverness, while he sat in a position of power earned by the most insidious form of theft.
It was the most brilliant and despicable thing Alexander had ever encountered, and Crimson's gleeful approval of it made him feel complicit in something filthy.
"What was that about?" Elvin's voice was low, concerned. His eyebrow furrowed. "Alex, what is going on? Your focus should be on Duke Viktor. Not him."
Alexander couldn't meet his friend's eyes. "The game just changed, Elvin," he said, his voice unsettling. "I'm not sure I even know the rules anymore."
"I don't understand what you're saying."
"Neither do I," Alexander muttered, his mind reeling.
Before Elvin could press further, a deep, resonant horn blast shook the air, signaling the commencement of the main event. The time for preparation was over.
They moved to the arena. The energy was palpable, a thunderous wave of sound and anticipation.
The first challenge was called.
"Lady Fionna, victor of the first bracket challenges Ree, Lead Executioner of Illyria, for his title!"
The fight was a spectacle of pure, unadulterated violence. Fionna was a storm, her sword a blur of relentless offense. But Ree was a mountain. He met her fury with immovable defense and terrifying, precise counters.
He didn't just block her blows; he broke her rhythm, then her guard, and finally, with a disarming twist of his executioner's axe, her spirit.
He stood over her, not with triumph, but with grim respect as she yielded, bruised but unbowed. She had lost, but her reputation was forged in steel.
The spectators' cheers shook the air.
"Sir Ree is the strongest!"
"I love you Sir Ree!"
"Please, marry me!"
Executioner Ree wore a huge smile on his face as he strode out, waving to his adoring fans.
Then, it was his turn. The herald's voice boomed.
"Prince Alexander, victor of the second bracket! Name your challenge!"
The crowd leaned forward. Nikolai smirked from the royal box. King Theron watched, his face impassive. Every soul in the arena expected the same name to be uttered.
Alexander drew a breath, the name 'Viktor' on his tongue.
The world narrowed to the announcer, the expectant faces, and the war inside his skull. He saw Duke Viktor in the crowd, a bored, hulking presence already half-turned away, expecting nothing.
He saw Duke Lance, a small, tense figure trying to become one with the shadows of the royal box.
"Lance," Crimson hissed, the command absolute. "Say the mouse's name."
This is madness. This is political suicide.
"It is evolution," Crimson countered, his voice dripping with dark anticipation."Now. Speak."
A final, internal rebellion flared and was extinguished. He was a sword in another's hand.
His voice, clear and steady, cut through the anticipatory silence.
"I challenge... Duke Lance. For his title, his lands, and his station."
Alexander could feel Crimson's will like a physical hand wrapped around his own, forcing his mouth to form the words.
For a moment, there was only stunned silence. Then, the arena erupted not in cheers, but in a confused, derisive roar. He had chosen the weakest target.
"Coward!" Some of the spectators shouted, expecting him to challenge the undisputed Duke Viktor.
Across the arena, Nikolai threw his head back and laughed, a loud, genuine sound of delight at his brother's perceived cowardice.
But King Theron did not laugh. The King's eyes, sharp and calculating, narrowed not on Alexander, but on Duke Lance, noting the sheer, undisguised panic on the man's face.
The King understood people, and the reaction he was seeing was not that of a man who had just been handed an easy victory.
But Alexander heard none of it. His eyes were locked on Duke Lance, who had gone pale.
The Duke's gaze was no longer that of a nervous bureaucrat, but of a cornered animal whose most dangerous secret had just been discovered.
"Interesting." Duke Lance muttered, his eyes meeting Alexander's.
As the crowd's jeers solidified into a wall of sound, a cold void opened in Alexander's stomach. He had done it.
He had thrown away his hard-won credibility in a single, inexplicable moment. He stood alone in the center of the storm, and the only thing louder than the crowd's contempt was the triumphant, silent laughter of the demon in his soul.