The throne hall was soaked in blood. Moonlight streamed through the high stained-glass windows, casting long streaks of crimson across the marble floor. The scent of iron and smoke hung thick in the air.
Stanford lay sprawled at the centre of the court, nothing left of his once-arrogant figure but a trembling, blood-stained torso. His limbs had been cut away one by one; his mouth still hung open in a silent scream. He bled out slowly, eyes rolling back until the last flicker of life left them.
Reinhardt stood over the corpse, his boots streaked with scarlet. He looked down at his brother without even a flicker of sympathy.
"Greed until the end," he muttered under his breath, turning away.
On the far side of the room, King Stephen trembled where he knelt. His wrists were bound in iron and his leg was a mangled ruin from Reinhardt's spear. He tried to drag himself back across the blood-slick floor, but his strength failed him.
"N-no… Reinhardt, please… don't hurt me… please…" The king's voice cracked, a pitiful whine.
Reinhardt said nothing. He strode forward, seized the back of Stephen's collar and dragged him like a sack across the floor. The king gasped for air as the iron grip cut into his throat. When they reached the dais, Reinhardt threw him down in front of the throne with a thud.
"Iris," Reinhardt called, still staring down at the king. His tone was sharp as a blade.
From a shimmer of light, Iris appeared beside the throne, her hands still glowing with magic. "Yes, my lord."
"Summon every surviving soldier and minister left in this palace to this court. Now." Reinhardt did not even glance at her. His voice carried the weight of command.
Without a word, Iris lifted her staff and began to chant. Circles of runes spun across the marble, the same pattern as a teleportation spell. All across the palace, survivors—soldiers, ministers, servants—were wrenched from their hiding places and hurled into the throne room in bursts of cold light.
"What… what are you trying to do?" King Stephen hissed, his fear creeping into anger. "You— you wouldn't dare—"
Reinhardt's head tilted slightly. His crimson eyes were cold. "Father," he said softly, "do you remember my mother's name?"
Stephen froze. His mouth opened, then shut again. He had taken so many wives, so many mistresses, each discarded like old garments. The names blurred together long ago.
Reinhardt watched his father's expression and found the answer he already knew. A small, bitter smile curved his lips. "I thought so."
The teleportation spell finished. The hall flooded with people—the surviving ministers and soldiers, disoriented and panicked, blinking at the carnage. Then they saw the centre of the court: Stanford's limbless corpse. The tied, bloodied king at the foot of the throne. And Reinhardt standing above them, tall and unflinching.
"The royal bloodline is no more!" Reinhardt's voice cracked like a whip through the hall. "I have ended them all—even the future heirs who carried this cursed blood!" His words rang with the power of a ruler.
The crowd went still. Murmurs of horror rose like a tide. Some began to pray; others clutched their chests.
Reinhardt pointed to the corpse at his feet. "Look at the man you called prince! Look at the king behind me! Greed. Lust. A dynasty built on betrayal and blood while the people starved. This kingdom has been driven into ruin because of him."
He ground his heel into Stephen's injured leg. The king screamed, high and thin. Reinhardt's voice rose over it. "From this moment on, I am your king. You will obey me until your last breath."
Iris dropped to one knee, head bowed low. "Your Majesty—King Reinhardt."
One by one, with trembling hesitation, the ministers and soldiers followed her example and knelt. The sound of knees striking stone echoed through the hall.
King Stephen lifted his head. Sweat and tears streaked his lined face. He had underestimated his son for years, thinking him a tool, a weapon to be controlled. Now the weapon held the throne.
Reinhardt bent down, gripped the king's head by the hair and forced him to look up. "I will not let you die until you get what you truly deserve," he said in a low, deadly whisper.
The first rays of dawn broke through the stained glass, painting the court in blood-red light. The massacre of the royal family had ended in a single night, carried out by only two people—Reinhardt and Iris.
Reinhardt straightened and turned his back on the throne. Without another word he walked up the steps and sat down on the high seat, the king's seat. His eyes swept over the kneeling crowd like a blade. For a heartbeat the hall was silent except for the drip of blood from the dais.
The sun climbed higher. A new reign had begun.
-----------------------------------------
Dawn broke over the capital like a blade cutting through shadow. Bells tolled faintly in the distance, but the usual morning bustle was gone. In its place spread whispers—whispers that swelled into open talk, then shouts in the streets.
The entire royal family had been slaughtered in a single night. Stanford, the Crown Prince, dead and dismembered. King Stephen was dragged from his own throne and executed. Reinhardt Alvis von Emestrild, the emperor's forgotten son, had taken the palace with only a single mage at his side and declared himself king before the court.
On the palace gates, the evidence hung for all to see. Heads of princes, princesses, mistresses and illegitimate heirs were displayed on black pikes, their faces pale and stiff. Above each one fluttered a parchment listing their crimes—embezzlement, murder, treason, the sale of commoners to the demon kingdom. For the first time, the people saw the dark ledger of the monarchy laid bare.
Some stared in horror, unable to reconcile the carnage with the name they had whispered for years. Others fell to their knees and wept, not for the royals but for the sudden release of a long-chained anger. A baker's wife spat at one of the heads. A boy of ten read the list of wrongs aloud to his father and asked why no one had stopped it sooner.
Not everyone accepted Reinhardt. In the nobles' quarters, there was outrage—murmurs of "usurper" and "tyrant" ran through the surviving aristocracy. But in the crowded markets, in the alleys where the poor had suffered under Stephen's taxes, a different word was whispered: "Hero."
Inside the palace, Reinhardt stood at the top of the grand steps with Iris at his side. He looked down at the rows of kneeling soldiers and servants in the courtyard. The heads of his family lined the gate behind them like a grisly crown.
"Let the kingdom know their true faces," he ordered coldly. "Let them know why they died."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Iris murmured. Her eyes flickered once toward the heads but she said nothing.
Reinhardt's first command as king rang out across the hall:
"Track down every remaining royal bloodline hiding outside these walls. Drag them here. Alive."
With Iris's spells and the newly loyal soldiers, the work was swift. Couriers and magic circles burned across the land. Cousins, bastards, hidden wives—all were flushed from their estates and brought to the palace within a day. One by one they were marched before the throne. One by one Reinhardt executed them himself. His blade never trembled. The screams echoed for hours until at last there was silence. The cursed bloodline of Stephen was no more.
Only then did he turn to the work of building what would come after.
He dissolved the old councils and courts in a single stroke. Greedy ministers who had fed from Stephen's hand were cast out, stripped of title and property. In their place, he summoned men and women whose loyalty lay not in wealth but in service—scholars, judges, war veterans, healers, even common-born scribes. His intent was clear: a monarchy built on merit rather than inheritance.
By the third day, the bones of a new order were already in place. Laws were being rewritten. Bread was distributed to the outer districts. The palace, once a nest of parasites, hummed with a strange new discipline.
Reinhardt sat alone at the throne, reading the latest reports, when a small sealed scroll was brought to him by a cloaked messenger. The wax bore the signet of Robert Dandelian.
He broke it open.
Jaesper's ritual is complete. Kael has stabilised. He may awaken soon.
Reinhardt's hand tightened on the parchment. For a moment the mask of the new king slipped, and the cold light in his eyes flickered.
He rose from the throne. "Iris."
She appeared instantly at his side, her face still pale from the past days' work. "Your Majesty?"
"We leave tonight. Prepare a silent teleportation to the Vaelthorn estate."
Her brows rose. "So soon? The ministers—"
"They can manage without me for a few hours." Reinhardt's tone softened only slightly. "Tell them I've gone to inspect the southern front. No one must know our true destination."
"Yes, my lord." She hesitated. "Is this… about Kael?"
Reinhardt did not answer, but the way his jaw tightened was enough. His gaze drifted to the blood-stained hall, then out the high windows to where the sun dipped behind the city. The capital smelled of ash and iron, but in his mind's eye he saw another room—dim candlelight, a pale boy lying still on white sheets.
"I have news to deliver," he said at last. "And someone I must see with my own eyes."
As dusk fell, the sigils of teleportation began to glow beneath his boots. The court was left behind, a palace scrubbed clean of its old masters, while at its centre sat the empty throne.
In a blink of light, the new king vanished—heading not to war or council, but back to the Vaelthorn estate.
The night air was sharp when the teleportation light faded. Reinhardt and Iris stood before the great gates of the Vaelthorn Estate, the quiet northern stronghold bathed under a silver moon. The once–distant cries of the capital were gone, replaced by the solemn hum of wind brushing across the frost–covered trees.
The moment the northern guards saw him, they bowed deeply. "Welcome home, Your Majesty," one of them greeted, voice trembling with awe. The word Majesty still sounded strange in their mouths. Even Iris glanced aside when she heard it.
Beyond them stood the remaining members of the Hero Campaign—men and women who had once fought beside him. Their faces were marked with fatigue, but when they saw Reinhardt, they straightened, relief flickering in their eyes.
Among them, Elric approached with a faint smile. Her silver hair shimmered under the moonlight as she bowed slightly.
"King Reinhardt," she teased, her tone light though her eyes betrayed exhaustion. "It feels awkward saying it out loud."
Reinhardt's lips lifted faintly. "Then don't," he replied quietly. "It doesn't matter here."
Elric chuckled softly but her smile faded as soon as he asked, "Where is Kael?"
The way her gaze dropped told him everything. She hesitated. "...I think it's better if you see him yourself."
Reinhardt's heart sank. Without another word, he brushed past her and strode down the corridor, his cloak sweeping behind him. Iris followed silently until he reached the chamber at the end of the hall.
The scent of alchemical herbs and burnt incense hit him as he pushed open the heavy door.
Inside, Jaesper and Robert were still cleaning up traces of the ritual—burnt seals, bloodied cloths, and empty mana crystals scattered across the floor. Kael lay motionless upon the bed, skin paler than moonlight, lips faintly red with the stain of blood.
Robert looked up first. "Brother! You're back!" he said quickly, but Reinhardt didn't answer. His gaze fixed only on the unmoving figure on the bed.
He moved forward as if drawn by gravity, his knees hitting the floor beside Kael. "...Kael."
Jaesper lowered his head, his voice grim. "The ritual is complete, Your Majesty. But I fear… he will never wake again."
Reinhardt froze.
"He's lost too much blood," Jaesper continued. "His core was already shattered beyond recovery. I'm barely keeping his heart beating with what remains of my mana."
The alchemist's voice trembled slightly at the end. He had seen countless men die, but never had he seen Reinhardt look so… small.
Reinhardt's fingers brushed Kael's wrist—cold, fragile, lifeless. His hand trembled, but he said nothing.
Robert quietly tugged Jaesper's sleeve. "Let's… give him a moment."
The two left the room, closing the door softly behind them.
Silence fell. The only sound was the faint crackle of a dying candle. Moonlight streamed through the half–drawn curtains, touching Kael's white hair like frost.
Reinhardt leaned forward, his breath uneven. For the first time since the massacre, tears spilled down his face.
"...No," he whispered hoarsely. "Please wake up…"
He took something from his pocket—a ring, plain yet heavy with power. The royal sigil of the new king gleamed faintly in the dim light. "Look, Kael," he murmured, his voice shaking. "I did it. I became the ruler, just like you said I would."
His grip on Kael's hand tightened. "You promised… to be my kingmaker. You were supposed to guide me, remember?"
The only response was the sound of his own uneven breathing.
He lowered his head beside Kael's still hand. "I killed them all," he whispered. "Everyone who whispered your name as a traitor. Every noble who spat on your sacrifice. Every soul who mocked the Hero that saved their world."
His voice cracked. "I swore I would build something better—so your name would live on as the savior this world deserved. They'll worship you, Kael. They'll sing of your bravery long after we're gone."
He pressed Kael's hand against his forehead, his tears wetting the cold skin.
"When you open your eyes again," Reinhardt whispered, "you'll see a peaceful world… built from your sacrifice. That's why—please—wake—"
He stopped.
A faint twitch beneath his fingers. His breath hitched as Kael's hand moved—just slightly, but undeniably.
"Kael?" Reinhardt's voice broke.
Slowly, Kael's eyelashes fluttered open. His blood-red eyes glimmered faintly beneath the moonlight, unfocused but alive. His lips parted weakly, a soft sound escaping them.
Reinhardt leaned closer, desperate to hear him.
The faintest whisper came—barely audible.
"...I'm sorry."
Then Kael's body went limp.
"No—no, no!" Reinhardt's panic broke through. He shook Kael's shoulders gently. "Kael! Look at me! Kael!"
There was no response. His chest still rose faintly, but his consciousness was gone, deeper than sleep.
Reinhardt turned sharply, shouting, "Jaesper!"
The door burst open. Robert and Jaesper rushed in.
"His mana pulse—! It dropped again!" Jaesper hurried to Kael's side, his hands glowing faintly as he began chanting. "He's falling back—his soul's too weak!"
Robert gripped the bed frame, his face pale.
Reinhardt said nothing. He just stared—eyes hollow, hands trembling—as Jaesper fought to stabilize Kael's mana.
After a long minute, Jaesper finally drew a shaky breath and lowered his hands. "He's alive," he said quietly. "But… his soul has entered a deep coma. I don't know when—or if—he'll ever wake again."
The words sank into the silence like stones into water.
Reinhardt didn't move. His gaze never left Kael's face.
"…Keep him alive," he said finally, voice low and cold as iron. "No matter what it takes."
Jaesper bowed his head. "As you command."
Robert wiped his eyes, trying to steady his breath. He looked at Kael—peaceful, quiet, and untouchable—and then at his brother, the man who had slaughtered kings but now looked utterly broken.
Outside, the moon began to sink beyond the horizon.
And inside that silent room, the new king knelt beside the only person who had ever made him human.
-----------------------------------------
The adjoining chamber beside Kael's room was quiet, the faint scent of herbs lingering in the air. Moonlight seeped through the thin curtains, drawing long, pale lines across the stone floor.
Reinhardt sat on the edge of a chair, elbows resting on his knees, his face hidden behind one hand. The other hand still faintly trembled — though from fatigue, grief, or guilt, even he didn't know anymore.
Across from him, Robert stood rigid. The silence between them was unbearable, thick with unspoken things. He could hear Kael's faint breathing through the wall — fragile, barely there — and it tore something inside him.
He finally gathered the courage to speak.
"Brother… I heard what happened in the capital."
Reinhardt didn't answer. He didn't even look up.
Robert took a hesitant step forward. "You—"
Reinhardt lifted his hand sharply, palm facing him — a silent order to stop.
"Don't come closer," he said flatly. His voice was low, hoarse, and laced with exhaustion. "I had Iris activate a blood–curse — a spell that kills anyone who shares a drop of King Stephen's blood if they step within a certain distance of me."
Robert froze mid-step, his eyes widening.
Reinhardt leaned back against the chair, his hand still covering his face. "You're the only one left, Robert. Don't test the spell. It will be active until tomorrow night."
For a long moment, Robert couldn't speak. His lips parted, but the words caught in his throat. "Why… why would you go so far?" His voice trembled. "You already won. The royal bloodline's gone. Isn't that enough?"
Reinhardt didn't respond immediately. His eyes, shadowed beneath his golden hair, stared blankly at the floor. When he finally spoke, his tone was hollow.
"Because it's not enough. Not when Kael still hasn't opened his eyes."
The quiet words hit Robert harder than he expected. He looked down, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white.
Reinhardt exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable. "I'll be leaving soon. A few months, maybe longer. The kingdom is in ruins — someone has to rebuild it. Until then…" His gaze shifted toward the closed door that led to Kael's room. "I want you to stay here. Watch over him. Don't let anyone near him unless Iris or Jaesper allows it."
Robert hesitated. "Brother, I—"
Reinhardt raised a hand to silence him. His tone softened for the first time that night. "Please, Robert. That's all I ask of you."
Robert swallowed hard, then nodded slowly. "Alright. I'll stay. I'll protect him."
He hesitated, then continued, voice low but steady. "But, brother… you should know this. From this day forward, I'll abandon the royal name. I won't carry the Von Emestrild blood anymore. I'll take my mother's family name — Dandelian. That way, no one can use me against you."
Reinhardt's eyes widened slightly. He turned his head toward Robert, the faintest flicker of emotion breaking through his exhaustion. "You would give up your title… for me?"
Robert smiled faintly. "For you, and for him. I was never meant for a throne. But I can still serve the people I love."
Reinhardt said nothing. He only looked away, gripping the armrest of the chair tightly. His knuckles turned pale.
Just then, a gentle knock echoed against the door.
Both men looked up.
"Enter," Reinhardt said quietly.
The door creaked open, and Lucy stepped inside — her hands trembling slightly as she carried a silver tray with two cups of steaming tea. Her face was pale but composed, though her eyes darted nervously between the two brothers.
"I… I brought tea, Your Majesty," she said softly, placing the tray on the table. "And for you as well, Lord Robert."
Reinhardt's gaze followed her every move. There was something uneasy about the air the moment she entered. Even Iris's enchantments around the estate seemed to waver slightly, as though reacting to her presence.
Robert smiled faintly, trying to ease the tension. "Thank you, Lucy. You should rest after this—"
But before he could finish, Reinhardt's voice cut through the room, low and sharp.
"Stop."
Lucy froze mid-motion, her hand hovering above the teapot.
Robert turned to him. "Brother?"
Reinhardt's eyes had changed — no longer weary, but cold, focused, dangerous. His pupils dilated slightly as a faint golden aura flared from his hand.
Robert felt it — that murderous intent leaking through the air like poison.
Reinhardt rose from his chair, his expression empty yet terrifying. "I can smell it…"
"Smell what?" Robert asked cautiously, already stepping between him and the maid.
Reinhardt's voice was a whisper, almost inhuman. "The stench of Stephen's blood."
Lucy's eyes went wide. "W–what are you—?"
In an instant, Reinhardt moved — faster than Robert could track — his spear materializing in his hand as he lunged forward. The air cracked with mana.
"Reinhardt, stop!" Robert shouted, pushing Lucy aside just as the spearhead grazed past her shoulder, shattering the teacup she was holding.
The tea splashed to the floor, mingled with the drops of blood from the small cut on Lucy's arm. She stumbled backward, terrified.
"Stay away from her!" Robert yelled, holding out his arm to block Reinhardt's path. "She's innocent!"
Reinhardt's chest rose and fell rapidly, the glow from his eyes flickering like a flame losing control. "She's not. I can feel it. A trace of royal blood lingers in her — faint, but real. She carries their stain."
Lucy's voice broke as she sank to her knees. "No… no, I swear—I don't even know what you're talking about!"