The kingdom had never felt so fragile.
Alaric stood on the balcony, staring out at the horizon. The morning sun had risen, but it did little to dispel the darkness in his heart. The weight of his crown—both literal and metaphorical—pressed heavily on him. A kingdom teetering on the edge of collapse. A court filled with traitors, some of whom he had trusted for years.
But now, the time for hesitation was over.
He could no longer afford the luxury of doubt.
The night before, after Cassiel's visit, Alaric had spent hours pacing the stone floors of his chamber, the words of the crown prince echoing in his mind. They were a challenge, an invitation to doubt himself, to question every decision he had made. But even as the paranoia twisted in his gut, Alaric realized that Cassiel had done more than just plant seeds of fear. He had also lit a fire beneath him. A fire that could not be extinguished by doubt.
Alaric's mind made up, he turned away from the balcony, his gaze settling on the map spread out across the table. The capital. The stronghold. The enemy's base of power. And at the center of it all, Valden. The man who had been the driving force behind every threat to Alaric's throne, and who now controlled the kingdom from the shadows.
Asher entered, his footsteps quiet, his face unreadable.
"You're planning something," Asher said. It wasn't a question.
Alaric didn't respond at first. His fingers traced the map, pausing at key locations. "The time for waiting is over. We move on Valden. Now."
Asher's expression hardened. "Are you certain? We've already made our move against Rion, but Valden's network runs deep. A single misstep could be disastrous."
"I've spent too long hiding in the shadows, waiting for the right moment," Alaric said, his voice low, almost dangerous. "Valden thinks I'm weak, that I'm a king without an army, a pawn in a game I can't win. I'm done playing by his rules."
Asher's eyes narrowed, studying Alaric carefully. "What are you thinking?"
Alaric's gaze flicked to the doorway, his mind racing with strategy. "It's time to take control. We'll use Rion as our leverage. He's loyal now, but I'll make sure Valden doesn't know that. I'll send him a message. He'll think I'm still in the dark, still vulnerable. We'll draw him out into the open, expose him for the traitor he is."
"Expose him?" Asher echoed, stepping closer to the map. "You'll risk everything on a gamble that Valden will fall into your trap?"
Alaric met his eyes, a flicker of defiance in his own. "I don't have a choice, Asher. If I don't act now, we lose everything. The throne, the kingdom, my legacy… everything will slip through my fingers. I'm not waiting anymore."
There was a silence between them, the air thick with the weight of Alaric's resolve. Asher nodded slowly, though there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—something that looked like hesitation. But it was fleeting.
"You know I'm with you," Asher said finally. "But you need to be careful. If we fail, there's no turning back."
Alaric's lips curled into a grim smile. "Then we won't fail."
The plan was set in motion quickly, with little fanfare. Rion was contacted, his role solidified in the delicate web of lies they were weaving. He would be the one to deliver the false information to Valden, convincing him that Alaric was on the verge of surrender. They would play the part of the beaten, broken king who was willing to bargain for his life.
But the truth was far different. Alaric was preparing to take back the capital by force. He would strike at the heart of Valden's power and cripple the traitor's network before he could react.
The pieces were moving swiftly now, and Alaric could feel the tension coiling in the air, like a trap being set. Every step felt like a tightrope walk over a chasm of uncertainty. But for the first time in months, Alaric felt the fire of purpose in his veins. This was his moment.
The night before the attack, Alaric couldn't sleep. His thoughts were a swirling storm, but this time, they weren't filled with doubt. They were filled with anticipation. A sense of inevitability.
The capital would fall.
And Valden would finally be exposed for the traitor he was.
As he paced the floors of his chambers, his mind returned to Cassiel's visit. To the questions Cassiel had planted in his mind. To the prince's chilling words about trust, about betrayal.
Alaric clenched his jaw, pushing the thought aside. Cassiel's influence was poisonous, a seed of doubt that had taken root in his mind. But it didn't matter anymore. This wasn't about trust. This wasn't about alliances.
This was about survival.
And in the game of thrones, survival meant sacrifice.
The next morning, the first move was made. Rion, as promised, sent the message to Valden. It was a false report, claiming that Alaric was negotiating with the royal family for a peaceful surrender. But the message was riddled with contradictions—small details meant to confuse and lead Valden into thinking he was winning.
Alaric's army—small but loyal—was already on the march, moving under the cover of darkness. The streets of the capital were silent, unaware of the storm that was coming.
The moment Rion delivered the message, Alaric would strike. Valden would think it was his victory, but it would be his undoing. And when the time came, Alaric would walk into the heart of the capital and claim what was rightfully his.
But as he stood at the head of his army, staring out at the rising city, a cold thought lingered in the back of his mind: What if he was being played? What if the real traitors were the ones closest to him?
As the sound of marching feet echoed in the distance, Alaric's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. He couldn't afford to doubt now.
There was no turning back.