"Before crown and court, you shall choose.
Will you name another to bear the crown and die as their most loyal hand?
Or will you take the crown for yourself, and live as the one who chose no king, but became one?"
The final trial echoed through the grand chamber, where the three remaining candidates for the throne stood in the heart of the palace's inner court. Gilded halls. Marble columns. And the throne--high above them--looming like judgment incarnate.
The King's words unfurled into the vast, vaulted chamber like a sentence already passed. The pronouncement did not shout-- it cut.
Gilded vaults caught the torchlight above. Marble pillars stood like pale sentinels. And the throne--perched high upon its dais--loomed not as a seat of rule, but as judgment made flesh.
Beneath its shadow, three candidates for the throne stood in the inner court.
First Prince Alaric Aure Valemont, his fiancée Yona Hanaki--the ally who had carried his cause through every trial.
Sixth Princess Althea Auri Valemont, flanked by Olga, the sworn knight who had shed blood in her name without hesitation.
And lastly, Sir Keiser--a common-born knight whose armor was still faintly scarred from the trials, his life spared more times than memory could count--standing with his Kingmaker, the fourth prince Gideon Aury Valemont, the one of royal blood who had laid aside his own claim, raising his knight to face the crown in his stead.
In this kingdom, the throne is not passed down by bloodline. Instead, anyone--even a peasant--may ascend to kingship through the crucible known as 'The King's Gambit'. A series of ordeals, wrought by the reigning monarch, to forge and unveil the next King. All citizens aged eighteen and above are eligible to participate, though the majority are nobles, having trained their entire lives to reach the final trial.
Now, only three candidates remain.
Two are of royal blood. The third, however, is a commoner-- who has not only survived the deadly trials but also navigated their treacherous political undercurrents. His endurance was made possible by the unwavering support of the fourth prince.
When Prince Gideon publicly declared that he would not compete in the Gambit, but would instead champion his knight, Sir Keiser, the court was thrown into uproar.
Though the Gambit was open to all, the nobility had long clung to the unspoken expectation that the crown should remain within royal blood. A commoner bearing the title of king--no matter how earned--was a scandal.
To them, Gideon's decision was not just unorthodox. It was heresy. A defiance of tradition. An insult to the order they had built their lives upon.
Yet Keiser, ever grateful to the man he calls his kingmaker, his friend, his brother-in-arms, pressed forward. He endured not only the trials themselves, but also assassination attempts, and bore the ever-growing target upon his back. Together, he and Gideon formed their own faction, one capable of challenging the great houses that had long dominated the kingdom's politics.
And now, as the last trial dawns, the few who endured the gambit that felled nearly all the King's kin, beside the chosen champion, awaiting whatever fate decrees.
The decision rests in the King's hands. Yet, in a twist befitting the nature of the King's Gambit, it is not the contenders who are questioned, but their most trusted allies.
The King's voice echoes through the silent court as he poses a single, harrowing question, one that will test the loyalty, resolve, and conviction of those who stand beside the aspiring rulers.
Keiser watches.
He watches as Prince Alaric strikes down his own fiancée, Princess Yona, his hand brushing her cheek--an almost tender gesture--before he drove his sword cleanly through her heart. She did not flinch. Even as the life drained from her eyes, her lips shaped his name. She died naming him her king.
The court was silent, but the King's voice cut through, cold and disdainful.
"A king does not mourn a woman. You will have concubines lined before the week is out."
He watched as Princess Althea stepped forward, her cheeks wet with unrestrained tears. Her knuckles blanched as runes flared across her skin, weaving into the air like chains of light. With a single, silent command, her magic tore the life from Olga--the knight who had stood at her side since childhood.
Olga's eyes did not falter. She met her princess's gaze and smiled as the breath left her body.
Keiser turned away. He could not bear the sight. Olga had once fought at his side, her blood spilled with his in defense of the very kingdom that now slaughtered its own loyal defenders, one by one, in the name of tradition.
The King merely glances at her, shaking his head in disapproval.
"No child of mine should weep over a knight. Their duty is to die before you. The king's life outweighs all others."
And now, it is Gideon's turn.
Keiser's hand trembles upon the hilt of his blade, the very sword Gideon gifted him on his twenty-fifth birthday. Its handle, carved from dragon bone and bleached white, is a symbol of their bond, its edge kept sharp by the hands of Keiser's loyal subordinates.
A thousand thoughts race through Keiser's mind. 'What would their faction think if he returned without his kingmaker?' The image of facing his comrades alone weighs heavy.
But the thought is severed, utterly and without mercy--
Gideon stepped forward.
For a breath, Keiser thought his prince would face the King's command as the others had--by refusing it, by defying tradition, perhaps even by turning the trial against the court itself.
Instead, Gideon ascended the marble steps.
He took the King's hand.
It was not ceremony. It was coronation.
The air in Keiser's lungs turned to stone. The nobles' murmurs spread like maggots in a wound--soft, vile, alive. The scent here was perfumed, but Keiser's mind filled it with the battlefield's stench, the rot of comrades abandoned.
Keiser's gaze slowly rose to meet Gideon, who now stood at the top of the stairs before the throne, looking down upon him. All around, the sounds of sorrow and glee hung heavy in the air. The anguished wailing of the princess, the quiet sobs of the first prince as he clutched his fiancée, unwilling to let her go. The nobles looked on, their expressions a blend of awe, confusion, and veiled judgment.
The murmurs grew louder, like a swarm of flies circling the dead--a sound Keiser knew all too well from the battlefields along the border. There, the stench of rotting flesh was almost unbearable. Here, the air was perfumed and clean, yet his stomach churned as if he were back among the corpses.
Because the man who had always stood behind him--the one who had raised him from obscurity, fought for him, bled for him--was, in truth, the one who had been holding the dagger at his back all along.
The King's laughter rolled down from the dais.
"My boy. You deceived enemies and friend alike. That is how a king survives--by choosing himself, no matter the cost."
Keiser did not blink.
Not once did King Aurex--balding, his wrinkled face stretched into a wide, tooth-gapped grin, pause as he threw his head back in laughter. His eyes, dulled over the years to a deep, weary red, gleamed with glee.
The jeweled goblet in his hand sloshed wine over the carpeted steps leading to the throne, staining the already crimson fabric a deeper shade, like a heart bleeding from a wound no one expected to come from behind.
"I hereby declare the fourth prince, Gideon Aury Valemont, as the next King!"
The court erupted in thunderous applause. Nobles rose to their feet, their cheers resounding through the vaulted chamber like a thousand war drums.
Yet to Keiser, it was not the sound of triumph that echoed loudest--it was the sobbing of the princess, the restrained weeping of the prince.
And above it all--the grinding of his own teeth, the tremor in his jaw as a vein throbbed in his temple. His body, still locked in a kneeling position, was taut with rage, his muscles coiled beneath his armor like a drawn bowstring.
His eyes were bloodshot, not from fatigue or grief-- but from staring, unblinking, at the man he had followed through trials and tribulations.
His Kingmaker.
Gideon was descending now, step by step, returning from the throne he had seized--not for Keiser, but for himself.
"Greetings to His Royal Highness. You may now commence the final trial before the crowning."
The voice came from the side of the court, one of the King's chancellors, solemn in tone, delivering tradition with practiced reverence. Gideon nodded in silent acknowledgment, stepping forward.
From below, Keiser stirred.
His voice cracked the silence like steel unsheathed--not a question, but a quiet condemnation.
"You… betrayed me."
He rose slowly from his kneeling position, using his sword, the same blade once gifted to him by Gideon, as a cane to steady himself. His grip tightened around its hilt.
Gideon look back. He did not blink.
"Such a naive way to put it," he muttered, his tone distant.
He paused, the last few steps to the dais hanging between them like a blade yet to fall.
Keiser could feel it, thecourt's eyes on him. The nobles, draped in velvet and smug certainty, watched with thinly veiled disdain. Some whispered, some chuckled.
The knight who reached too far, who dared to dream beyond his station... now cast down like Icarus burned by his own ambition.
And then Gideon spoke again, calm and cold.
"This is simply my way of winning the Gambit."
Keiser's rage boiled over.
With a roar, he swung his sword--more from instinct than thought--and a wave of air burst from the slash, sharp and violent. The force tore through the chamber, sending nobles ducking and scrambling for cover. It struck the far wall with a thunderous crack, cutting the stone and splintering the ceremonial podium.
"Stop talking nonsense, Gideon!"
But the fourth prince stood unmoved, his expression twisted not in fear, but in disgust.
"You really are the master of that sword." he said, voice quiet, cutting.
Keiser's brow furrowed, confusion creeping in as he looked down at his trembling blade. He had always felt its power, how naturally it responded to his will, how the magic within it pulsed like a second heartbeat. It had always felt close, familiar, almost living.
Then came Gideon's words, quiet and cruel.
"That dragon you spared must have been so grateful to you… for saving him. And for keeping him at your side… all this time."
Keiser's stomach churned.
Memories flooded in--the young dragon, wounded and terrified, saved from poachers when they were children. He had begged the young master--Prince Gideon--to help return the great beast to its home among the sacred trees. He had believed they succeeded. He had believed the dragon lived on, free and growing, somewhere in the quiet of the wild.
But now…
He looked again at his sword. At the bleached dragonbone hilt, the perfect balance, the sentient warmth he'd always taken for a blessing.
All this time--through every battle, every restless night evading assassins, every quiet moment polishing the blade he cherished--
The dragon he had vowed to protect… had already been taken from him.
Not lost.
Sacrificed.
Anger surged through Keiser's body, a burning current that ignited every vein. His sword responded in kind, its core glowing red with awakened fury--alive with the bond of magic and wrath.
Then, he felt it.
A sudden shift in the air--magic sigils flared around him, etched in glowing runes that encircled his feet and arms and rose in spiraling patterns. His blade flickered, then dulled, its enchantment suppressed. The pressure struck him like a hammer, forcing him down within the sigil cage crafted to subdue him.
His eyes widened.
He knew this magic.
And worse--he knew those who wielded it.
From behind him, his trusted subordinates stepped forward--one by one--not to stand beside him, but to align themselves with Gideon. Their armor gleamed in courtly light, but their loyalty had already shifted long before.
Gideon barely glanced back.
"Aisha, you're late."
The young mage grunted, eyes cold with focus as she extended her hand, reinforcing the binding sigils.
Keiser could feel it. The beast within--the magic, the fury, the fire--struggling, thrashing, but unable to break free.
He understood now.
All this time--from the very beginning--Gideon had been planning. Every gesture, every alliance, every favor… calculated. His path through the King's Gambit hadn't been through strength or glory--but through manipulation, misdirection, and betrayal.
Keiser let out a guttural roar, the sound shaking the marble floor. His sword slipped from his hand, clattering to the ground as the burning sigils licked at his skin, searing through fabric and flesh alike.
And still, he refused to look away.
He locked eyes with Gideon, even as agony coursed through his body.
He had always thought Gideon's eyes were silver--like minted coins, the kind that had bought him meals when he starved, clothed his back, sheltered his head… and kept him alive when he had nothing else to live for.
But now he saw clearly.
They were not silver at all.
They were murky grey--like the shattered concrete of war-torn houses, lifeless and cold. Like a roadside puddle, muddied and worn by years of wagon wheels passing through. Eyes that had never held their own light--only the reflection of what they meant to take.
Gideon muttered something, words lost beneath the searing hiss of burning flesh and bone. The sound echoed louder than any voice, reverberating through the court like a funeral bell.
Then, without warning, Keiser's sword flew.
The blade, glowing red with unspent rage, turned against its master--with Gideon's sigils slithered around the blade, binding it like the serpent he truly was. Coiling magic and betrayal into a single, elegant strike.
Plunging into Keiser's chest, burying itself deep as if responding to his own unspoken despair. The hilt clanged against the marble floor, anchoring itself as it bore the weight of his collapsing form.
Keiser sank, trembling, blood trickling down the runes etched in the blade. His body, now kneeling, was held upright only by the weapon he once wielded so proudly.
Around him, the court erupted in celebration.
The nobles cheered, oblivious or indifferent to the tragedy infront of them. At the top of the steps, Gideon turned his back, no glance spared, no words given. As the crown was placed upon his head.
Below, the floor of the court was a quiet grave. The princess wept. The prince bowed his head in silence. Those who remained--those not blinded by ambition--wallowed in silent grief.
Keiser's trembling hand reached for the sword's hilt, fingers barely brushing its surface. His voice, weak but clear, slipped between gritted teeth.
"I'm sorry… little dragon. We trusted a snake. I should've known it would be poisonous. If we meet again… in another life… I'll make sure you're truly free."
Blood ran down his chest, warm at first--then cold.
The protective enchantments woven into his armor, once a testament to the pride of a knight, had long since faltered. The very armor his subordinates had lovingly polished that morning, scolding him for always appearing before the court bloodstained, now lay drenched anew-- not with the blood of their enemies, but with his own.
He could almost hear their voices.
"At least be presentable, Sir Keiser… if you aim to be King." --Aisha.
"He did bathe today, at least." --Ebony.
"Sir Keiser, I await your ascension to greatness today!" --Yuka.
"Kei, the skies are clear… The heavens are smiling on you, good fortune awaits." --Gideon.
A cough broke from his lips, violent and wet. Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth, running in rivulets down his chin, joining the slow streams descending his chest. The sigil-burns etched into his skin pulsed with heat, still glowing faintly as they seared into flesh and bone.
Numbness crept in, slow and certain.
The pain that once screamed through his nerves faded--not healed, only smothered. His chest rose and fell in shallow gasps. His vision blurred. Eyelids heavy. Too heavy.
For a strange moment, he thought--at least death is gentle. He had expected darkness.
Instead… his vision turned red.
Not the red of blood, but something deeper. Older. His sword pulsed, its glow swelling--alive with something beyond rage.
Then--
Screams.
A new pain tore through him, erupting from his chest in an explosion of searing heat.
Keiser's eyes snapped open into a world drowned in red.
And in that red--there was breath.
His first, his last, and every breath in between.
Taken in a single, shuddering gasp.
Death had not claimed him.
It had released him.