It was a new day.
I moved through the halls of my castle, pulling my long black cloak over my shoulders as my hair drifted behind me in the cold morning air.
My footsteps echoed sharply, and I moved swiftly, almost gliding, accidentally startling those I passed.
I kept my gaze lowered to avoid meeting anyone's eyes.
I did not yet feel ready to be seen as the prince I needed to become.
Mirabel had realized something was wrong.
So I thought it best to ease myself into the role of a great prince rather than rush headfirst into declaring war.
Small steps. Measured steps. That was how progress began.
The first step would be the throne room.
My eyes traced the black brick walls as I walked.
Paintings of my ancestors lined the halls, stern faces watching over me with silent judgment.
Vases and stone statues sat beside long white carpets, and the air held the scent of burning wood drifting from the distant furnaces.
It took time to find the great doors, mostly because I had gotten momentarily lost again.
My illness muddled my sense of direction more than I wanted to admit.
But eventually, I stood before the massive brown doors with handles shaped like lion maws.
My hands trembled as I gripped them. I pulled without mercy.
A crushing pressure fell onto me the moment the doors opened, the weight of ancient authority and death rolling through my bones.
It was a pressure set after my father's passing, something meant to test the worth of whoever dared enter.
I fell to my knees, coughing violently as I looked up.
I had never entered this room before, not even after my parents died.
And now, for the first time, I saw its full, overwhelming splendor.
A vast gothic hall stretched beyond me, with towering pillars and gold coated statues holding up the ceiling.
Straight ahead were two thrones, one black with rising roses carved into its surface, the other its white counterpart.
My father had planted his rune magic deep into this place, forcing the room to mold itself into something beyond mortal design.
I coughed again, a spray of blood striking the polished black marble.
My body struggled for air, each breath scraping my throat.
My illness gnawed at me, reminding me that weakness clung to my ribs like a second skin.
I pressed my right hand against my chest, steadying my breathing as I began channeling energy into myself.
In this world, something called magicae existed. It was the underlying source of reality.
The breath behind creation. The possibility of something and the certainty of nothing.
It had no limits, no duality, no form unless shaped by will.
All things possessed it, even those who never realized.
I guided this magicae into my chest, carving runes along my heart using the ancient tongue of magic.
As each symbol took shape, the pain dulled.
My illness had been damning in my past life, a slow death I could not outrun.
But near the end, I discovered that the only counter to it was strength. Power. Growth.
A simple method I had failed to pursue out of laziness.
I stood and continued walking.
"Father, must you have left without guiding me. You are a cruel person."
I chuckled to myself as I reached the center of the hall. I spread my magicae outward.
It illuminated invisible intricate runes floating through the air, filling the room like hidden constellations.
I released all my energy.
Then I inhaled sharply.
The runes rushed into my body like polluted water, seeping in, corrupting into madness, then condensing into strength.
My eyes burned as blood dripped down my cheeks.
My voice emerged harsh and violent, twisted by power I barely held onto.
"The world is now mine."
The words forced themselves out, against my will.
[A man so arrogant, so disgusting, that he would steal the power his father left behind.]
I coughed, flinching as a voice echoed inside my skull. My ears rang painfully.
For a moment I thought it might be the voice of the world. But no.
This surpassed even that. When it spoke, the air stilled. Even time seemed to hesitate.
This voice troubled me. But only slightly. My insanity softened the horror.
A mechanism of grief perhaps. Something I accidentally created from suffering.
Either way, I ignored its remarks.
The rune magic my father left behind healed me slightly, enough to steady my body for training.
I needed to declare war within two weeks.
Today was January second. I planned to end that war by March.
I stepped backward, allowing my gaze to roam the hall with a lingering hint of fear.
I fell back into the pastel throne veiled in black roses.
[Nicholas was a foolish man, with ambition beyond his grasp. A foolish man destined to fail.]
I laughed quietly, then looked down at my trembling palms. I clenched them, forcing strength into my fingers as I stood again.
Runes jagged across my arms as my sleeves slipped up, glowing faintly.
That was when I saw the Mark of Sloth was gone.
Had God wiped it away. Redemption. Possibility.
I laughed, louder this time, joy flickering inside my chest where only sickness had lived before.
I pulled my sleeves back down and left the room.
The first thing I needed, after this, was to measure the true potential of my body. I had seen my future power once.
It was grim. But it was a future I would surpass.
Walking through the halls, I took a detour toward the open yard.
The sky was bright blue, untainted by ash.
Clouds drifted lazily overhead.
The yard itself was messy, with coarse dirt mixing with blood, sweat, and definitely my tears.
Weapon racks lined the sides, and groups of young recruits practiced with terrible form.
And there he was.
Sansir.
A man who died sacrificing himself to save me.
A sacrifice that had become meaningless in my rewritten path.
He stood with reddish brown hair and sleek brown eyes, his hair curled slightly and cut short.
Sunlight did not merely soften his features as before.
It framed him.
His posture was steady yet relaxed, every movement precise.
His skin, tanned like pine in early dawn, carried a warm vitality that the recruits around him lacked.
Even the way he breathed looked trained. Focused. Controlled.
There was something quietly glorious about him, not divine, but forged. Strength earned by choice, not birth.
He turned around.
And the moment his eyes met mine, the entire training ground stilled, as if instinct recognized a figure shaped by discipline itself.
He bowed, and with him, every soldier followed, their heads dropping low.
"I greet the darkness which shall prevail over light, Nicholas Anstalionah."
I almost blushed. That was the title given to the first prince of Anstalionah.
Everyone was required to say it. Being the only prince meant I bore it alone.
I sighed. "Continue. I only wish to speak to Sansir."
He straightened and barked orders. "Continue training. And fix your form."
The recruits snapped back into motion.
Sansir stepped toward me and guided me to the shade of the grand balcony.
As the shadows washed over his face, his eyes dulled, expression sharpening into something far more serious.
His presence shifted. It was almost frightening how quickly he could become a warrior carved from iron.
"What is it you have called me for?" he said, voice calm and emotionless.
His gaze held a hidden spite. I laughed softly at that. He was loyal, but honest with his feelings.
"It is simple. War will befall us soon. Mirabel is a bit much, so you are going to train me now."
His eyes widened, lips parting silently. I laughed again, louder this time.
"Do not worry. It is only a war with Fertical. And we have to win."