The assassin's words echoed in Darion's mind long after the man had fallen silent. "You were never weak. You were only made to be so." The revelation burned within him, igniting a fury unlike anything he had ever felt. His entire life had been a lie—his failures, his humiliations, his father's disappointment. All of it had been orchestrated.
Darion tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles whitening. "Who ordered this?" he demanded, his voice sharp as steel.
The assassin hesitated, glancing toward the window as if expecting death to strike him at any moment. "I cannot say," he murmured. "But know this, Prince Darion: even if you break free, the ones who hold your chains will not let you go so easily."
Darion's jaw clenched. "Then I'll make them let go."
Before he could press further, the assassin moved with sudden, desperate speed. A small, hidden blade flashed in his hand as he drove it toward his own throat. Darion lunged forward, but he was too late. The blade sank deep, and with a choked gasp, the assassin collapsed, his blood staining the cold stone floor.
Darion cursed under his breath. His only lead—dead by his own hand. Whoever had orchestrated his downfall had ensured their secrecy with ruthless efficiency.
The door burst open, and a squad of imperial guards stormed into the room, swords drawn. At the forefront stood Captain Rhylen, his sharp eyes darting between Darion and the lifeless body on the ground. "What in the name of the Emperor is happening here?"
Darion took a steadying breath, forcing the storm inside him to settle. "An assassin infiltrated my chambers. He admitted to poisoning me for years, ensuring my weakness. Then, before he could reveal who sent him, he took his own life."
Rhylen frowned, stepping closer to examine the corpse. "This man bears no insignia, no identifying marks. Professional." He straightened, his expression unreadable. "Are you harmed, my lord?"
Darion glanced at the shallow cut on his arm. "Nothing fatal. But this means someone within the empire—someone powerful—wanted me crippled."
Rhylen nodded grimly. "This is a serious claim, Prince Darion. If what you say is true, then your enemy is someone close."
Darion sheathed his sword, his resolve hardening. "Then I must become stronger. No more illusions, no more chains. If they wanted me weak, then I will show them strength. I will tear apart this conspiracy, piece by piece."
A flicker of approval crossed Rhylen's face. "Then you must train—not just in the sword, but in the mind. Strength alone will not win this battle. Strategy, allies, knowledge—these will be your true weapons."
Darion met his gaze. "Then teach me. Not as a prince, but as a warrior. If I am to fight against those who control the empire from the shadows, I need to be ready."
Rhylen studied him for a long moment, then gave a slow nod. "Very well. From this day forth, your training will not be the training of a noble. It will be the training of a man who must survive. Prepare yourself, my prince. The real battle begins now."
As the guards removed the body from his chambers, Darion clenched his fists. He had been reborn for a reason. And now, he would claim his destiny—not as a failure, but as the true heir to Valtherion.