The cold wind clawed at the stone walls of the royal palace, carrying the faint scent of pine and smoke. Kaelin Vaerin stood at the edge of the balcony, his gaze sweeping over the city below—a sprawling patchwork of dilapidated rooftops, cobblestone streets, and flickering lamplight.
For years, he had been away—hidden beneath a borrowed name, far from the whispers of court and the weight of expectation. But the death of his older brother had thrust the future of Kistechin into his hands, whether he was ready or not.
Behind him, the echoes of footsteps drew closer. His father, King Ulric, emerged from the shadows, his expression unreadable.
"You return not as the boy who fled, but as the man they fear," the king said quietly. "Do you understand what it means to wear this crown?"
Kaelin turned, the firelight catching in his dark eyes. "I understand that to lead is to walk among ghosts. And sometimes, to become one."
King Ulric's gaze hardened. "This kingdom is a fragile thing. It depends on appearances, traditions. If you break the mold too sharply, you risk everything."
Kaelin smiled, bitter but honest. "Then perhaps it is time the mold was shattered."
Ulric nodded, as if weighing a secret. "There are those at court who would see you dead before you sit the throne. Your brother's death... was no accident."
A silence fell between them, heavy with the weight of unspoken truths.
"I have no illusions," Kaelin replied. "But I have something they don't. Knowledge. I have walked the world beyond these mountains. I've studied power, politics, and faith in ways this kingdom refuses to face."
The king looked away, staring down at the city, its lights flickering like dying stars. "Faith is the last anchor we have. Even now, the priests speak in riddles and warnings."
Kaelin's voice dropped. "Then faith must become a tool—not a chain. The old gods, the old ways—they're not enough to save us. We need to build something new, even if it means breaking with the past."
A sharp rap echoed through the hallway. A guard appeared, his eyes wide with urgency. "Your Majesty, the council awaits. They grow restless."
Ulric's face hardened. "Then it begins."
---
The council chamber had changed little since Kaelin's childhood—same long polished table, same portraits of solemn ancestors glaring down from oil-painted frames, and the same smell of aged wood and pretension.
As Kaelin entered alongside the king, conversations died mid-breath. Every eye turned. Some curious, some wary… a few hostile.
"Gentlemen," Ulric announced, his voice echoing. "My son has returned. He will be attending the council sessions from this day forward."
The Prime Minister, a sharp-nosed man with an uncanny resemblance to a tax collector, cleared his throat. "With all due respect, Your Majesty, is this... wise? Prince Kaelin has not attended a single diplomatic event in years. Some of us wondered if he still existed."
Kaelin smiled. "Rumors of my death were, sadly, premature. Though I imagine a few of you were already fighting over my inheritance."
A few coughs masked laughter. The Defense Minister leaned toward his aide. "He's sharper than his brother."
"Sharper tongue too," the aide whispered back.
King Ulric sat at the head of the table, signaling for calm. "We are not here to debate his presence. Kaelin is a Vaerin. He belongs here."
Baron Proulx, the Minister of Finance, tapped his pen. "Then perhaps the prince can explain the economic future of Kistechin. The World Bank downgraded our outlook—again."
Kaelin leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers steepled. "Here's an idea: Stop awarding highway contracts to your cousin's shell company in Luxembourg. That might help."
Proulx went red. "How dare you—!"
"How dare I? Oh, I don't know," Kaelin said coolly. "Perhaps because the people are starving while you're importing gold-plated bidets for your summer house."
Several council members chuckled behind their hands.
Ulric raised a brow but didn't stop him. He let Kaelin speak.
Kaelin stood. "You all see me as the prodigal son. The exiled scholar. The one who fled. But I've seen what nations become when their leaders grow fat and afraid. I've walked in cities where progress isn't just a promise on a campaign poster, but reality. I've studied governments that fell because men like you couldn't see past their own egos."
Silence followed.
Then: "Do you think yourself better than us, boy?" The Interior Minister glared.
"No," Kaelin said with a smile. "I think I'm different. And maybe that's what this kingdom needs."
---
Later, as the royal convoy rolled through the capital—black sedans flanked by sleek motorcycles—Ulric and Kaelin rode together in the center vehicle.
The king was quiet.
"You let me talk more than I expected," Kaelin finally said.
"You said things I couldn't," Ulric replied. "They listen to me out of fear. But they'll listen to you... out of curiosity. Or maybe because they don't know how to control you yet."
Kaelin grinned. "Good. Let's keep it that way."
Then—the flash of headlights.
A screech.
The world tilted sideways.
A thunderclap.
Glass exploded inward. Tires shrieked. Metal bent.
Kaelin coughed as smoke filled the car. He turned—his father wasn't moving.
"Father!"
The guards shouted.
Another explosion rocked the street.
Kaelin stumbled from the wreckage, one arm around his chest. His ears rang.
Sirens in the distance.
Blood in the street.
His father was dead.
As chaos unfolded around him, a strange hum filled Kaelin's ears.
His vision blurred, then sharpened.
Lines of glowing code shimmered faintly in the air, like something from a dream.
> [Dominion OS Initializing…]
[Welcome, Kaelin Vaerin. Crown recognized. Sovereign authority confirmed.]
[Warning: National instability detected.]
[Mission 001: Survive. Reclaim. Rebuild.]
Kaelin blinked.
"What the hell…?"
A voice—cool, calm, faintly amused—whispered in his mind:
> "Well… that escalated quickly."
---