Following the boy’s lead, Noyer’s soldiers surged into the palace like an unstoppable force, swiftly executing their mission without hesitation. Their eyes scanned the scene of carnage only briefly before triumphantly proclaiming, “Long live the Fifth Prince!” announcing the success of the coup.
With the ascension of the new emperor that day, the name of Rezette echoed throughout Van Yela. The emergence of the fierce and unyielding dragon, fiercely loyal to the new ruler, not only rattled the Northern Federation but also sent shockwaves through the southern reaches of Grandel.
Noyer’s contentment, finally achieving his ambitions of over a decade, peaked as he lavished rewards upon his brother, granting him official titles and vast territories.
“Let your fortress be known as Kyrstan. Your name is now complete. You stand as a true man. Hahaha!”
The boy, however, averted his gaze from the new emperor’s words, seemingly unaffected. Above the fortress shrouded in the stench of death, snowflakes danced in the frigid air.
In this unforgiving season of icy stillness, his cheeks, kissed by the biting wind, bore a stark contrast of pallor and crimson. Within his clenched fist, blood dripped, its origins unknown to all but him.
Suddenly, his own reflection felt foreign to him. He surveyed the other knights in the hall, all pristine and unblemished. There seemed to be none marked by the stain of blood like himself. The sunlight filtering through frosted windows cast a radiant glow upon the helmets of the assembled knights.
“Noyer Erdelich.”
“From now on, it’s ‘Your Majesty’ for you. As a duke, it’s fitting to pay homage to the emperor,” he declared with a hint of pride.
“Am I truly a man?”
Noyer brushed off the question with a jovial slap on his brother’s back.
“Of course! Gone is the sly, shrewd crow of yesteryears.”
“A man…”
“What’s wrong with being a man?! You’ve been granted a castle and a title, Rezette. You’re now a noble, one of those esteemed figures you once envied. Embrace your newfound status!”
Rezette hesitated, then let the severed head in his grasp fall carelessly. He wiped the blood from his trembling palm onto his clothes—an action foreign to his former self.
He, along with Noyer and the glittering assembly, attempted to cleanse himself, yet the stains of blood remained stubbornly ingrained in his attire.
Draped in the tainted cloak, Rezette made his way towards Rotiara, burdened with the spoils of his newfound station. At just fifteen winters old, he ascended to become the master of the fabled land.
***
Sixteen years had bled by since then, leaving only the faintest scar of spring. Now, the Emperor’s unwelcome gift arrived at Rotiara Castle.
Rebecca Petisson, her face a mask of disapproval, stood before a gaggle of heavily rouged women in gowns that spilled dramatically off their shoulders. She lost her breath, not from the display of flesh, but from the absurdity of it all.
“Is this some twisted jest?” she thundered, her voice cracking with barely contained fury. “Your Majesty, what in the seven hells is the meaning of this? His Highness is a mere stripling, barely sixteen! He’s just beginning to experience the world! You expect him to be shackled to a wife already? Have you lost your mind?!”
The messenger, a man with a perpetually worried expression, stammered, “Marriages of political convenience are not uncommon among the nobility, Lady Petisson.”
“But is this about convenience, or about manipulating a young man’s untamed emotions?” Rebecca spat back. “Who do you think you are treating like a horse!”
A horse, raised for its seed.
The day the young prince learned the meaning of “broodmare” was the day a naked woman had entered his chambers. Without warning, a monstrous rage had consumed him, a rage that defied explanation. It was a primal revulsion that ran deeper than mere instinct. The image of his deceased mother flashed before his eyes, fueling the fire within him. He’d acted without a single thought, and the woman lay lifeless on the floor.
The next night, another woman met the same grisly fate. By the third night, a chilling realization dawned on the prince. He had no memory of violence, only the sickening sight of a dead woman beside him, her eyes forever locked in silent accusation.
A scream tore through the air, shattering the silence of the night. Rebecca Petisson, her face drained of color, rushed into the bedroom. The boy, his gaze unnervingly blank, met her terrified eyes. A glint of gold on the floor – the remains of her spectacles, shattered by the invisible force that erupted when he heard the door open.
“Your Highness,” Rebecca stammered, her voice tight, “go to the study. I’ll clean this up, Lord Rezette.”
He didn’t respond, but at the sound of his title, Lord Rezette, a flicker of recognition crossed his features. He moved with the mechanical grace of someone emerging from a nightmare, the sound of drying blood flaking off his skin echoing in the tense silence. The metallic tang of blood filled his senses.
