The throne room of Eldoria's Grand Palace was a shiny trap, all glitz and no grit, laughing at the guy stuck in the middle. Marble pillars with gold streaks shot up to a high ceiling painted with old kings fighting dragons and sailing rough seas. Red and gold tapestries glowed under chandeliers, their candles twinkling like stars. The stone floor, polished so bright it looked like a mirror, threw back the light, mocking him with wealth he couldn't touch.
To the nobles who swaggered through, this place was power, the heart of a sacred crown. To Alaric Veyron, it was a cage, locking him to a throne that looked good but meant nothing.
Four weeks ago, he was Ethan Caldwell, a millionaire who'd fought his way out of the city's gutters. He grew up in alleys that smelled like trouble, running with gangs as a kid, staying alive with quick fists, sharp talk, and loyalty bought with blood.
Betrayal hit him early—friends who sold him out for a quick buck, bosses who played him like a pawn. The streets never left him; their lessons stuck like scars: don't trust anyone, keep your eyes open, always have a knife handy.
He never went to college, but he taught himself how to read laws, picking apart their loopholes and tricks. He learned how to bend rules to cheat people, using the system's own checks and balances to cover his tracks and come out on top. That know-how let him build an empire—real estate, nightclubs, a network of favors running deep in the city. It looked legit on paper, but it was cutthroat underneath, all about power and control, the only things that kept him going.
One night, at a big gala with music and booze flowing all night, he missed a step on the stairs—or maybe his drink was spiked, or a bullet caught him in the dark—he'd never know. Next thing, he was Alaric, twenty-two and king of Eldoria, a land of green fields and busy trade roads, beautiful but slipping through his hands like smoke.
Alaric slouched on the black stone throne, its edges digging into his hands. His red robes, heavy with silver stitching, spilled around him like spilled wine. A lopsided grin sat on his face, a trick he'd picked up young to make people drop their guard. Back in the day, that smile had calmed rival crews; here, it kept the court from spotting the predator under the crown.
Inside, he was ready to break something.
He'd thought being king would mean running things—big parties like his old city bashes, hunts through wild woods, the power to shape a whole kingdom. Instead, he got rules that choked him. A king couldn't eat without someone tasting his food first. A king couldn't step outside without a dozen guards. A king couldn't do anything without the council saying it was okay. Eldoria's people loved their "great" king, not knowing he couldn't even pick his own clothes without a steward's nod.
Court that morning was a drag, a show of fancy clothes and sharp tongues that left him itching to punch something. The throne room had been buzzing with nobles, their talk like a swarm of bugs.
Duke Harrion owned the place, a big guy with a beard like steel wool and a grin that said, "Try me." His Crestmoor lands, packed with vineyards and port towns, gave him money that made the crown's empty wallet look like a joke.
Baroness Lirien stood nearby, all sharp edges and cold eyes, telling stories about bandits hitting her northern trade routes. Her words were sweet, but Alaric wasn't buying—her forts were too tight for that nonsense.
Count Veyne hung back, his skinny face twisted in a smirk that said he didn't care. His eastern plains grew enough grain to feed armies, and he acted like the throne was a bad joke. These nobles bowed when they had to, but their eyes said they didn't answer to anyone.
The royal family was just as bad, a bunch of snakes in fancy clothes.
Princess Elyse, his younger sister, sat to his right, her blonde hair tied with pearls, her green dress catching the candlelight. At twenty, she played the sweet sister, her voice soft as a breeze, but her pale eyes missed nothing, like she was keeping a mental list of every mistake. Alaric knew her type—city sharks with smiles that could cut. Elyse wasn't on his side; she was playing her own game, maybe looking for a marriage to some prince or a chance to grab power if he slipped.
His cousin, Lord Torren, leaned against a pillar, joking with the younger nobles, his messy dark hair and easy laugh pulling them in. He was tight with Duke Harrion's crew, his jokes too loud, his looks too knowing. Alaric's borrowed memories, fuzzy as they were, hinted Torren thought he'd look better with the crown.
The Veyron family was a fight waiting to happen, and Alaric was on his own.
He'd tried to shake things up, suggesting a big hunt to get the court moving. In his old life, he'd thrown parties that shut down streets, deals done over drinks and cigars. A hunt seemed like the same move—show them who's in charge, make them follow.
But the nobles brushed it off with fake smiles.
"Tradition takes time, Your Majesty," Duke Harrion had said, like he was talking to a kid.
"And the cost…" Baroness Lirien jumped in, all sweet and worried, saying the crown should stick to "important stuff" like bandits.
Count Veyne just smirked, saying nothing.
Even Elyse added her bit, her "Maybe next spring, brother" soft as poison.
Everything he said got picked apart, every move watched. Breaking the rules would make them suspicious, and Alaric, still getting used to this body and its half-remembered instincts, couldn't afford to show his cards.
The court had cleared out hours ago, leaving the throne room quiet except for the candles' soft crackle. Alaric shifted, the crown's gold band pressing into his head like a jab.
The rules were a chain, but they were also his cover.
The nobles wanted a king who stuck to their script, a puppet who danced when they pulled strings. Moving too fast would mark him as trouble, and he wasn't ready to show his hand.
For now, he'd play their king, watching, learning, waiting for his shot.
"Sire," a voice cut in. Sir Gavren, his steward, stood at the hall's entrance, his rough face lined from years of work. His armor, beat-up but clean, clinked as he bowed, his gray beard brushing his chest. Gavren was one of the few tied to the crown, not some noble's pet, but Alaric hadn't figured out if he was loyal or just playing a long game. Loyalty could turn fast, in alleys or palaces.
"Talk," Alaric said, leaning forward, his grin easy but his eyes hard.
Gavren held a worn ledger, his knuckles tight. "The treasury report, Your Majesty. It's bad."
Alaric's smile stayed put, but his stomach knotted. "Lay it out, Gavren. No fluff."
Gavren's jaw tightened. "We've got coin for three months, maybe four if we cut the palace staff. Duke Harrion didn't send taxes—says the harvest was bad, but his markets are full of wine and grain. Baroness Lirien sent half, blaming bandits, but her caravans come through fine. Count Veyne sent nothing. No reason, just silence."
Alaric's grin didn't waver, but a spark lit in his chest. "They're playing the crown for a fool." His voice was quiet, a growl under the charm.
The royal coffers were empty, a hit harder than any street fight. Nobles sat on piles of gold, their castles shining while the palace scraped by. Eldoria's people gave their oaths to local lords, not the king, their taxes sucked up before a penny reached him. The royal army, barely a thousand men, was nothing next to the nobles' forces—knights, levies, mercenaries who'd fight for whoever paid most.
Alaric's crown was a prop, his power a shadow.
He got up, boots clicking on the stone as he walked to the map of Eldoria on the far wall. Its borders stretched over rivers, forests, and sharp peaks, a messy quilt of duchies and baronies held by weak promises. Crestmoor's vineyards bloomed in the south, Lirien's northern forts locked down trade roads, Veyne's eastern plains fed armies.
To the east, Valthorne sat heavy, a kingdom of iron and hunger, its capital, Ironspire, a fortress of black stone. King Roland, a warlord dressed fancy, ruled there, his armies tight, his gold deep.
Alaric's finger lingered over the border, his mind spinning. He only knows one thing that none of the nobles trusted each other to share the throne, and none desired a crown so hollow or the brutal fight to claim it. The nobles' standoff gave him his only advantage, though it was a fragile edge, sharp and thin as a dagger's blade.
He turned, robes swirling, and walked back to the throne. The streets taught him to wait, to watch a mark before moving. His self-taught tricks with laws showed him how to hide his plans, to set traps with words and numbers. He wouldn't bring guns here—he loved how a sword or dagger felt in his hand, cold and sharp, easy to control, not like guns that any fool could shoot. A blade was a king's weapon, clean and personal.
A couple of tricks from his old life, like a ledger to track the nobles' hidden cash or a deal to shift the game, would let him tighten his grip without making a mess.
For now, he'd play their king, stuck in their rituals, while he planned his next step.
"Gavren," he said, settling back on the throne, voice smooth as a new deal. "Get a council meeting set for tomorrow. Taxes, trade, the usual crap. Make sure Princess Elyse and Lord Torren show."
Gavren nodded, his brow creasing. "Sire, the nobles are getting cocky. Harrion's throwing a feast tonight at his city manor. Didn't invite the crown."
Alaric's smile sharpened, a flash of the kid who'd made men regret crossing him. "He'll learn to send an invite."
He waved Gavren off, and the steward bowed, his steps fading as he left.
Alone, Alaric leaned back, the crown's weight a dull ache. The throne room's beauty was a lie, hiding a kingdom of snakes—nobles who bowed while scheming, family who smiled while sharpening knives, a king who ruled in name only.
But Ethan Caldwell had turned dirt into gold, built an empire from nothing, and Alaric Veyron would do the same.
He glanced at the map, Valthorne's shadow hanging in his thoughts.
"This cage is gonna break," he muttered, a street kid's fire burning in a king's eyes. "And they'll all bow."
The words lingered in the empty hall, a promise to himself.
The game was on, and he'd play it his way—slow, slick, and deadly.