Xadran Thought He Had Won
He strutted through the palace, draped in silks and jewels, indulging in endless feasts, surrounded by courtiers too afraid to oppose him. At his banquets, he laughed loudly, raised his cup to gods he did not fear, and had himself called the Absolute Sovereign.
But he was blind to one essential truth.
Real power does not reside in a throne.
He believed that by seizing the crown from Oris, he had stripped him of everything.
But in reality, it was Oris who had given him this empty throne.
A gilded carcass. An illusion.
Because the true power—Oris had taken it with him.
The fallen prince had not fled. He had merely become the guardian of the shadows.
He had not vanished like a defeated king.
He was still there. In the streets. In the fields. In their hearts.
Oris was no longer the alchemist he had once been, but he didn't need his gift to understand the people's suffering. He walked among them, listened to their pain, shared their bread.
And more than anything, he healed them.
With his hands, with his knowledge, with the science of plants and remedies he had always known. He bent over the feverish, treated wounds, mended souls as much as bodies.
Every day, families whispered his name in gratitude.
Every day, soldiers returned from battle, claiming they had seen a familiar figure fighting beside them, turning the tide of war with a single glance.
Xadran ruled, but Oris governed.
Xadran commanded, but Oris protected.
And the people knew to whom the kingdom truly belonged.
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A Gilded Throne, An Invisible Prison
Xadran, despite his arrogance, was no fool.
He understood that something was slipping through his fingers.
The people did not fear him as much as he wanted them to.
He felt Oris's shadow looming over him—unseen but ever-present.
He ordered arrests, but dissidents vanished before his men could find them.
He demanded taxes, but the gold disappeared before it reached his coffers.
He sent mercenaries to hunt Oris, but they returned wounded, terrified, whispering that the Alchemist of War was not a man one could kill.
An alchemist of matter can be slain by a blade.
An alchemist of war is the blade.
Oris had never lost a battle.
Never.
Not even when he stood alone against an army.
Some claimed he was cheating, that his victories were unnatural.
That it was not just genius or talent.
That there was something deeper in the way he fought.
A bond between his instincts and the battlefield.
The science of combat carved into his flesh, his bones, his blood.
That power—Xadran had failed to take it from him.
Oris was not dead.
He had become something else.
A faceless warrior, carrying a silent vengeance.
Still invincible on the battlefield.
In the shadows, he was already preparing his revenge.
He no longer fought for a corrupted kingdom.
He no longer fought for a stolen throne.
He fought to reclaim the truth.
Xadran realized his mistake too late.
He had not seized power.
Oris had given it to him.
A poisoned gift.
A throne that was nothing but a trap.
A palace filled with feasts and pleasures, where every smile was a lie.
A scepter he clutched tightly, but which served him no purpose.
A shining crown, heavier than a chain.
And beyond the palace walls, in the streets of the kingdom, Oris was building another power.
A power no palace could contain.
A power waiting for the right moment to strike.