I am Edric Drakemore, age 56, King of Arcadia, and I live only for the day I can exact revenge for the murder of my beloved wife.
My dear Arin, the love of my life, was taken from me five years ago. Since that day, the world has been stripped of color, food of taste, and my soul of joy. Each breath I take is heavy with sorrow, and the only thing more unbearable than her loss is the cruel torment I endure daily. The evil that stole her from me lives under my roof, and I am powerless to remove it.
My nightmare has a name: Ren. A demon who masquerades as my son, wearing a face that mocks my Arin with every glance. It is a vile trick, a torture so exquisite it could only have been conceived by the cruelest of devils. The day he was born, the day he ripped her soul from her body, I tried to kill him. Not out of madness, but with the clearest conviction I have ever known. What lay before me was not a child but a monster. My belief was vindicated when he summoned an equally terrifying monstrous fae by the name of Willow to curse me.
This devil's familiar took the form of a beautiful sliver hair maiden. It's beautify being only a insidious mask to hide the evil inside. She is a powerful, dangerous monster with the ability to enthrall mortals and bend them to her will. Despite all my power, my many years of training my craft to become the most powerful mage and assume the throne, it still fell victim to her curse. And what an evil curse it was. She placed and enchantment on me that prevents me from taking any action to directly harm the devil by the name of Ren. Nore will my mouth allow me to tell a sole what lady willow actually is. I was forced to speak the lie that i wished lady willow to care of the devil in my castle.
It is a terrifying feeling, not being able to control or trust my own mind, knowing that creature is in my head, silencing the truth and forcing my mouth to form lies. At first, I wanted nothing more than to have them leave. I never wanted to see the monster wearing my wife's features or the devil that cursed me again. It was torture having them live in my home, a daily reminder of my helplessness and loss.
But over time, my hatred evolved into something sharper, something more resolute. I don't want them gone, I want revenge. I decided it was better to keep the beast close, where I could observe and control it to some degree, rather than risk it slipping out of reach.
I have endured this nightmare for years, but I do not endure out of fear. I endure because I know the day will come when I can finally act. I will find a way to neutralize Lady Willow. I will find a way to destroy the curse she placed on me. And when that day comes, the monster that killed my beloved Arin will face the full wrath of a King who has lost everything.
I have a plan to kill her, but it requires time and patience. The enchantment she placed upon me demands that I send others to gather what is needed, unable to reveal the true purpose behind my requests. Yet I found a way to navigate the constraints of her curse. Carefully crafted words and vague instructions ensure my loyal servants fulfill their tasks without understanding their purpose.
To safeguard my kingdom and my plan, I have commanded all the noble families of Arcadia to avoid Lady Willow and Ren at all costs. I have ordered them to remain silent about Ren's existence and to erase all mention of his birth. To the world, I have only one son, my real son.
Until I acquire the means to destroy them, my loyal lords will do whatever they can to limit Willow and Ren's influence. They will quietly sabotage their efforts, weakening their standing and undermining any foothold they may gain. All of this is merely a prelude to the day I take my revenge. It is my duty, not only as a husband but as a king, to avenge Arin and protect my kingdom from this monster.
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These are the thoughts that consume my days.
I wake with a start again this morning, my chest heaving, my heart racing, as I emerge from the grip of another nightmare. Always the same nightmare, of her death, of the creature that mocks her memory.
"MAIDS!" I roar, my voice thundering through the royal chambers. Two elf slaves rush in, their heads bowed as they move to dress me.
As I step from my bed, one of them fumbles with my crown in her trembling hands. The delicate golden circlet slips, clattering loudly to the floor. My fury surges. Without hesitation, I strike her across the face, the blow sending her sprawling to the ground.
"Useless!" I shout, my voice cold and venomous. "You dare defile the royal crown? Drop it again, and I will gut you myself!"
The pathetic creature scrambles to retrieve the crown, her hands shaking as she places it carefully on my head. I strike her again, this time for good measure, reminding her of her place. She collapses to the floor, blood streaming from her nose, tears pooling in her wide, fearful eyes.
"Get out of my sight, you filthy animals," I order, my tone sharp and biting. "Have the cooks prepare my breakfast. And summon my son."
The slaves retreat quickly, leaving trails of blood and humiliation in their wake. I watch them go with disdain before stepping out of my chambers. I make my way down the long stone hallways toward the royal dining hall, the echoes of my footsteps the only company in the cold silence.
When Arin was alive, these halls were bathed in a beautiful and warm glow from the enchanted lamps that lined them. Now the light feels cold and eerie, casting long, uninviting shadows. It's strange how much the world can change in an instant. One person can make all the difference.
I enter the dining hall, a vast room that once pulsed with life and laughter. Long, ornate tables stretch the length of the chamber, each capable of seating fifty people. At the head of the room, on a raised platform, stands a slightly smaller table, designed to seat twenty.
This hall, now so silent and empty, once hosted Arin's grand balls and galas. She loved this room, pouring her heart into planning events that brought both nobles and commoners together. It was one of the many reasons she was beloved by our people, far more than I could ever hope to be.
When she was taken from us, the kingdom mourned deeply. To them, she died from an unexplained illness. Only I know the truth.
She died on the tenth day of the first week of Blossomarc. Every year since, on that same day, the kingdom holds a grand festival to honor her memory. The people still love her, even in death. It is a bittersweet reminder that she lived, that she was cherished, and that my mission to avenge her is far from over.
I sit at the head of the table on the raised platform. Shortly after, my 6-year-old son enters the room, guided by his attendant, Holt. Holt is a thin, tall, middle-aged man with a perpetually tired and shrewd expression, as if the weight of his responsibilities presses on him constantly. Charles walks beside him, his posture casual and his expression bored.
Charles takes the seat to my right, and I smile warmly at him. He is the only thing in this world that I truly love. He is the last remnant of Arin, the only piece of her I have left. I would do anything for him, give him anything.
"Good morning, son," I say, my voice soft with affection as I look at him lovingly.
"Good morning, Father," he replies, though his tone is indifferent, his eyes wandering as if he'd rather be anywhere else.
Servants hurry into the room, placing food on the table before us. The clinking of silverware and soft shuffle of feet echo through the vast, empty hall. I glance around at the grand room with its countless empty seats, and a pang of sadness strikes me. This space, once alive with laughter and conversation, is now filled with silence. My son and I dine alone.
As we begin eating, I speak gently. "Son, I've heard from your instructors that you haven't been applying yourself in your studies."
Charles rolls his eyes, his voice tinged with annoyance. "I apply myself plenty. My instructors are liars."
"Your tutors and instructors are the best in the world," I say, keeping my tone patient despite having said this a hundred times before. "I've spared no expense to bring them here to teach you. Their knowledge is invaluable, and it's important that you take advantage of it."
"I'm tired of all the training and studying. It's boring!" Charles complains, his fork clinking against his plate. "I want to play with my friends."
I sigh softly, trying to remain calm. "Son, one day the time will come for you to inherit my throne. To ensure that you are not challenged in your right to rule, you must be strong and wise. If you appear weak, you risk jeopardizing the status and power of our family."
Charles scoffs, barely hiding his disdain as he pokes at his food. "Whatever," he mutters.
We eat the rest of our breakfast mostly in silence. The clinking of plates and the occasional sounds of Charles chewing are the only interruptions to the stillness. When we finish, Holt steps forward and bows slightly before guiding Charles out of the hall to begin his studies.
I remain seated, my thoughts heavy with concern for the future of my kingdom. I love my son dearly, but I cannot ignore the signs. He lacks the temperament, the discipline, and the motivation required to become a great mage or ruler. The kingdom demands strength, and without it, he may struggle to hold the throne I've spent my life fortifying.
I am pulled from my thoughts as a messenger enters the hall, bowing deeply. "Your Majesty, Lord Fobos is here and requests an audience."
I nod, rising from my seat. "Send him to the throne room," I command, striding purposefully from the dining hall.
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Moments later, I arrive in the throne room, where Lord Fobos and another, humbly dressed man await me. As I approach my throne, both bow low, their postures deferential.
"Thank you for gracing us with your time, my King," says the corpulent Lord Fobos, his ostentatiously embellished robes almost mocking in their excessive adornment.
"I always have time for you, my friend," I respond, though my tone is more tired than welcoming. "What is it you needed to discuss?"
"My Lord, I have news about that… boy," Fobos begins urgently, his voice lowering conspiratorially. "I think you should be aware."
"Well, what is it, then?" I ask, my interest piqued, a faint edge of tension creeping into my voice.
"During this last arc, he has been seen several times in the commons, giving away highly valuable healing potions," Fobos reports, his tone dripping with disdain. "The commoners are speaking of a second prince, calling him the 'Blessed Young Prince.' Worse still, he is doing this in blatant violation of Merchant Guild rules!"
"Sounds like he is trying to win the heart of the people. He gives them treasures they can't afford, though he intends to slaughter them in the future like a farmer fattening a hog for slaughter." I say darkly.
"I don't like the idea of commoners growing accustomed to access to luxury items meant for the nobility," Fobos says, his concern evident. "They may start demanding the prices of such items be lowered! The boy may be inflating the market supply now, but when he stops, the shortage will leave the nobility unable to secure what they need if they must compete with commoners."
"So, he's been selling potions, too?" I ask, narrowing my eyes. "Raising funds."
"Yes, my Lord. He has been selling 150 potions a week for the last arc through Lady Muara's apothecary. That volume means he's raising far more money than he would need for any ordinary expenses," Fobos explains. "I suspect he is planning something."
"I think you're right," I murmur, my thoughts turning. "The question is, what do we do?"
"I plan to revoke Lady Willow's merchant license," Fobos declares with conviction. "That will cut off their source of income entirely."
"No!" I snap, my voice firm. "You must not challenge Willow directly, she is dangerous." I pause, ensuring my words carry weight. "Instead, flood the market with potions. Oversaturate it so completely that the local shops have no room to purchase hers. Guild policy will force them to prioritize potions supplied by the Guild over any independent suppliers."
Fobos strokes his chin thoughtfully. "To do that, I would need to source potions from neighboring nations. It will cost a great deal of money and time to source, transport and stockpile enough potions."
"You'll only need to do it for a time," I say with a faint smirk. "Until Willow realizes her potions cannot sell and abandons her efforts altogether."
Fobos nods slowly, a calculating gleam in his eye. "It is expensive, but… doable."
"Also," Fobos continues, "the boy and Lady Willow were involved in an incident in Lord Griswald's domain last night."
He gestures toward a humbly dressed man standing behind him. "This man is one of my servants who drove their carriage last night. He came to me this morning with a concerning report."
"Well, what is it?" I demand impatiently, leaning forward on my throne.
"Apparently, after meeting with Lord Griswald, Ren, Willow, and Captain Gavin went to the affected farmland. Ren himself identified the cause of the blight instantly and then..." Fobos hesitates, his tone almost incredulous, "...he pulled a Dreadcoil out of the ground and helped defeat it."
"Impossible!" I scoff, though my stomach tightens with unease. "You're telling me that a 5-year-old boy pulled a Dreadcoil from the ground and fought it? At his age?"
If it's true, then that boy possesses unfathomable magical capacity. Far beyond anything I've seen in a human child. It would confirm my worst fear: that he truly is a monster. Worse still, if his power continues to grow, he may one day surpass even my own. If I do not deal with him before he reaches adulthood, he will become a threat to my throne. And I doubt my son will have the strength or skills to oppose him if that day comes.
"This is very concerning," I say, my voice colder now. "All this means is that I must follow through on my plan. I cannot allow him to grow unchecked. He must be dealt with before he reaches adulthood, before he has the opportunity to hone that power further. In fact…" I pause, calculating.
"He must be taken care of before he reaches the age of twelve. That is when he would be eligible to enroll in the magical academy. I cannot allow someone of his potential to enter that academy and refine his abilities. Nor can I stand for the kingdom to witness his power."
Fobos nods vigorously. "Don't worry, my King. Your loyal lords and I will see to it that the boy is dealt with long before then. He is just a child with a single attendant. There's no need to tolerate them any longer. The sooner we dispatch them, the better."
"No!" I snap, my voice sharp with frustration. "Leave Willow to me. Do not confront her."
The words burn in my throat, the curse she placed on me constricting like a vice. I cannot tell Fobos the truth of what she is. I cannot explain why I have failed to have her eliminated. The attempts still haunt me.
The first assassin I sent returned to me without memory of his identity or his mission. The second time, I ordered a slave to poison her, but the slave vanished without a trace. My third attempt was more calculated. I hired three skilled mages through an intermediary to attack the tower from a distance with fire magic. Their spells struck a barrier surrounding the tower, leaving it completely unharmed. By the next day, each of those mages was found dead in their homes, no wounds, no visible signs of what killed them.
The memory churns my stomach. She is untouchable. For now.
"Trust me, Fobos," I say through clenched teeth, the pain in my chest searing as I struggle against the enchantment. "Willow is… she is very powerful. Let me handle her. When the time is right."
Fobos hesitates but finally bows his head. "Very well, my King. I will trust your judgment. We will do all we can to help you, without confronting her directly."
"However," I add, my voice colder, "if you ever find an opportunity where Ren is far from Willow, say, in another nation entirely, do not hesitate. Kill the boy."
Fobos' lips curl into a cruel smirk. "As you command, Your Majesty."