Year 2035 – The United Kingdom of Areja – Earth
The heavy oak door groaned, signaling the interruption Prince Malik had been waiting for. A bald man, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit that cost more than most citizens earned in a lifetime, stepped into the private chambers.
The man bowed deep—a gesture of reverence, but also of complicity. When he straightened, a satisfied smile played on his lips.
"Your father, the King, has passed, my Lord," the man said, his voice steady. "Your brother has finished the funeral rites and is currently in the midst of the coronation ceremony. However... we have prepared the board. The pieces are set for you to take the crown. Your older brother won't see the blade until it's already between his ribs."
Malik's lips curled. It wasn't a happy smile; it was the expression of a predator spotting a limping gazelle. He spoke in a whisper, low and sibilant.
"That is what I value in you, Farid. You don't just work; you excise the rot without leaving a scar. Mark my words, you will hold a high seat in my new world."
Malik stood, walking to the window.
"They believe the crown is a birthright, meant for the firstborn, even if that firstborn is an incompetent fool. A cosmic injustice, perhaps, but one we have the power to correct. Sovereignty belongs to the one who can seize it. I have spent my life crushing obstacles to reach this single, perfect moment."
Farid's smile widened.
"Your generosity honors me, my Lord. I am but your instrument. I simply chose to stand on the right side of history. I've secured the key infrastructure of the Kingdom while your brother plays at politics, shaking hands with ambassadors and begging for international validation. The military is yours. The generals have pledged loyalty solely to you. The order has been given to storm the palace and arrest the usurper."
Malik turned from the window. He smoothed his hand over his bald head, then spat on the polished marble floor.
"Do not call him my brother," Malik snapped. "He is the son of a different woman. He and his three siblings deserve nothing but the cage. Let us move. I want to see the look on his face when I take the throne. It's a feeling I've starved for."
Malik swept out of his chambers, his ornate robe—embroidered with heavy botanical patterns—billowing behind him like a storm cloud. Farid followed close at his heels.
As they emerged into the palace courtyard, the atmosphere shifted. Rows of soldiers stood at rigid attention, snapping salutes as Malik passed. They secured every exit, every corridor.
In stark contrast, the palace staff scurried about in a panic, eyes wide, sensing the shifting tides but understanding none of the details. To them, this was simply the terrifying uncertainty of a power vacuum.
Malik stopped. He scanned the line of trembling servants, his gaze dissecting them. He sneered.
"My brother's loyal dogs," he murmured. "How many times did you run to my father? How many times did you whisper about my plans when I was a boy?"
His voice rose, echoing off the stone walls.
"I remember the lash. Dozens of times, my father's whip cut my back because your tongues couldn't stay still. What would it have cost you to keep your mouths shut? Did you think I was weak because I wasn't the heir? You gambled on the wrong horse, and now you've lost everything."
The terror in the courtyard was absolute. One servant, a young man, lost control of his bladder, the dark stain spreading on his trousers as he shook violently. Another dropped to his knees, weeping.
"Mercy, my Lord!" the kneeling servant wailed, forehead pressed to the stone. "We beg for mercy! We will serve you! We were young and foolish then, we've changed!"
Malik laughed. It was a harsh, barking sound that rattled the opulent hall.
"Changed?" Malik shook his head. "Demons don't change. I know that better than anyone."
He gestured to the soldiers.
"Take them. Cut out their tongues. The very tongues they used to betray me."
He stepped closer to the weeping man, his voice dropping to a lecture.
"Don't you know? Words act as seeds. They bring life, and they bring death. A single sentence can ignite a war or burn a kingdom to ash. Let this be the first lesson of my reign. Words have weight. They can drag you to the abyss or elevate you to my right hand. Weigh your words on the scales of wisdom before you release them."
He waved his hand dismissively.
"Take them away."
The soldiers dragged the screaming, pleading servants toward the dungeons. Malik didn't look away. He savored the sound of their despair; it was sweeter than the songbirds that chirped outside his balcony every morning.
Satisfied, Prince Malik ascended the long staircase. The steps were draped in rich red carpets, leading upward toward the Throne Room.
His mind drifted to the source of his rage. His brother had been nothing but a brute, treating Malik with disdain because he was the son of a second wife. The conspiracy ran deep—his brother and that wretched queen mother had manipulated the late King into divorcing Malik's mother. They had cast her out of the palace without a penny, stripping her of title, dignity, and shelter.
She was out there now, somewhere in the city, sleeping in alleyways, begging for scraps. The thought made Malik's blood boil. The late King had threatened to do the same to Malik if he dared send her aid. He had sent money anyway, in secret, his heart breaking every time he thought of her destitution.
But even that small kindness had been reported by the servants. His brother hadn't punished him then, but Malik knew why. The Crown Prince was waiting until he was King to deliver the final blow—to imprison Malik or cast him into the gutter alongside his mother.
Not today, Malik thought. Today, the board flips.
He walked through the grand gallery, flanked by portraits of past monarchs. The Royal Guards stood like statues, rifles shouldered, saluting him as the true power in the castle.
The double doors of the Throne Room loomed ahead. Malik's pulse quickened. The anticipation was a drug.
He could already picture it: his brother's arrogant face crumbling into terror, the apologies, the begging. But Malik wouldn't be swayed. He would see his brother in chains, and his mother restored to her rightful place as the Queen Mother.
He reached the doors and shoved them open with both hands, ready to claim his destiny.
But the room wasn't there.
The moment the doors parted, the world lurched. A blinding, searing light assaulted his vision, brighter than the desert sun. The architecture of the palace seemed to melt, twisting into impossible geometries before snapping back and twisting again.
For a split second, through the distortion, he saw his brother sitting on the throne. The man didn't look afraid. He looked... proud.
Then, the floor vanished.
Malik stumbled, his boots slamming onto dirt instead of marble. The smell of expensive perfume was instantly replaced by the copper tang of blood and the ozone scent of charred earth.
He blinked, the spots clearing from his vision. He wasn't in the palace. He was standing in the center of a chaotic, sprawling battlefield unlike anything recorded in history. The sky was a bruised purple, and the horizon burned.
A weight dragged at his right hand. Malik looked down. He was gripping the hilt of a massive sword, the metal humming with a strange vibration.
"What in the name of God is this?" Malik gasped, his voice lost in the roar of the wind. He spun around, but the door—and his world—was gone.
"Is this heavens' punishment for my brutality? Where am I?"