Blood soaked the earth beneath Aelric's boots as he trudged through the ruins of what was once his home. The air reeked of ash and death, the cries of his people still echoing in his ears. It had been five years, but the nightmares refused to release him. Every night, the screams haunted him. Every morning, they reminded him of his purpose.
He would make them pay. Every last one of them.
Aelric's sharp gaze swept over the gilded halls of Thalor's royal palace, his hands curling into fists at his sides. The opulence disgusted him. Gold-lined walls, tapestries threaded with silver, chandeliers glittering with jewels—such riches had been stolen from the blood of his people. He bit back the bile rising in his throat, forcing himself to focus. This was no time for weakness.
He was no longer the grieving son of a butchered family. He was Aelric Thorne, mercenary, soldier, and now a trusted emissary sent to negotiate peace between warring factions. A lie, of course. His mission was clear: infiltrate the palace, win their trust, and destroy the royal family from the inside.
His chance came sooner than expected.
"General Thorne," a voice called, sharp and commanding. Aelric turned, his breath hitching as he laid eyes on the man before him.
Cassiel Altheon.
The crown prince of Thalor stood tall and regal, his presence as cold and unyielding as the rumors claimed. Dressed in black and gold, he looked every inch the untouchable ruler—except for his eyes.
Those eyes.
They were the color of storm clouds, dark and brooding, with a shadow of something… broken. Something Aelric couldn't place but felt like a dagger twisting in his chest. He hated it. Hated the way those eyes pinned him in place, as if Cassiel could see straight through him, down to the hatred he carried like a second skin.
"Your reputation precedes you," Cassiel said, his voice smooth but laced with steel. "I trust you'll live up to it."
Aelric forced a polite smile. "Your Highness flatters me."
Cassiel's lips twitched—was that almost a smile?—but the moment passed, and the prince's expression returned to its cold mask.
"You'll be accompanying me to tonight's council meeting," Cassiel continued. "Thalor doesn't trust outsiders easily. I'll be watching you, General."
Aelric bowed, the gesture low and deliberate. "I would expect nothing less, Your Highness."
As Cassiel turned to leave, Aelric's gaze lingered on him, his mind racing. He'd imagined this moment for years, rehearsed every step of his plan. Yet now, faced with the prince himself, he felt an unfamiliar flicker of hesitation.
It didn't matter. Cassiel was the key to his vengeance, nothing more. And if the prince's haunted eyes stirred something in him—something that felt dangerously like pity—Aelric would bury it deep, along with the last fragments of the man he used to be.
For the sake of his people, he would become the monster they needed.
Hours later, Aelric found himself in the council chambers, surrounded by nobles who spoke in riddles and lies. The weight of their stares didn't faze him—he was used to the scrutiny, the suspicion. It was the prince who unsettled him.
Cassiel sat at the head of the table, his expression unreadable as his advisors bickered. His long fingers tapped against the wood, the sound barely audible but relentless, like a warning drumbeat in Aelric's ears.
"Aelric Thorne."
The room fell silent at Cassiel's voice. All eyes turned to Aelric, but it was the prince's gaze that burned the hottest.
"You've seen battle," Cassiel said, his tone casual, but his words sharp as a blade. "Tell me, General. How would you handle the rebels in the south?"
Aelric hesitated. He knew this was a test, a trap designed to measure his loyalty. But he couldn't give himself away—not yet. He leaned forward, his voice calm, deliberate.
"Your Highness, rebellion is a weed. Pull it out by the roots, and it will never grow again."
Cassiel's lips curved, the faintest hint of a smirk. "Spoken like a man who knows blood."
The prince rose from his seat, his movements fluid and commanding. He crossed the room slowly, stopping just inches from Aelric.
"You speak of pulling weeds, General," Cassiel said, his voice low, dangerous. "But weeds thrive in weak soil. Are you prepared to prove your loyalty… or will I find that you are no better than the rebels you condemn?"
Aelric's heart thundered in his chest, but his face remained a mask of calm. "Your Highness has my sword—and my loyalty."
Cassiel studied him for a long moment, his storm-gray eyes piercing. Then, without warning, he leaned closer, his breath ghosting over Aelric's ear.
"Good," Cassiel murmured, his voice a whisper of ice. "Because I don't take kindly to liars, General. And if you are one… I'll make sure you beg for death long before I grant it."
As Cassiel pulled away, the room erupted into movement again, but Aelric remained frozen, his blood running cold. For the first time, he wondered if the prince knew more than he let on—if Cassiel already suspected the truth.
And if Aelric wasn't careful, he would find himself as much a pawn in Cassiel's game as the prince was in his.