Smoke twisted like serpents above the burning palace.
Soot blackened the marble columns once carved with the stories of heroes. A fractured crown lay forgotten in the rubble. Somewhere between a collapsed arch and a bleeding memory, Prince Kaelin Vaerin stirred.
"—He's alive! We've got a pulse!"
Blinding lights. Steel boots thundering against shattered tile. A faceless medic shouting something in Kistech. Strong hands lifted him—rough, desperate. Everything spun. His ears rang like a church bell struck with a hammer.
As he slipped back into unconsciousness, a faint, mechanical whisper bloomed in the back of his mind:
> "Dominion OS booting... Please hold your sovereignty."
---
White light. Clean. Too clean.
Kaelin woke to the beeping of a heart monitor and the sterile scent of antiseptic. His ribs ached with every breath. One arm was strapped with an IV, and someone had the gall to dress him in a hospital gown with little blue ducks.
"Good morning, Your Highness," a voice drawled.
He turned. A short, tired-looking woman with reading glasses stood over him, flipping a chart. The name tag read Dr. Reyna Krasovic, ER Attending.
"You've got a mild concussion, two cracked ribs, a hairline fracture on your wrist, and, based on preliminary analysis, a pretty severe case of inherited national dysfunction."
Kaelin blinked. "What hospital is this?"
"St. Benedict's. We cleared the whole top floor for you. Feel important."
"I usually do," he muttered, wincing as he shifted.
"I need to check your vitals," she said, snapping on gloves. "Unless you prefer dying fashionably?"
Kaelin glanced at the nurse hovering nearby. "Tell her I only respond to bribes or threats."
The nurse blinked. Dr. Krasovic didn't even smile. "He's fine. Stable enough to be annoying."
---
An hour passed.
Visitors tried to force their way in. Courtiers. Staff. Maybe even press disguised as interns. Security blocked them all. Eventually, the staff left Kaelin alone in his dimmed room, the rain tapping gently on the windows.
And then it happened.
A flicker.
Blue light bled across his vision like a glitch in reality. A sleek HUD emerged, layered perfectly over the hospital ceiling, floating just above his natural sight.
> [DOMINION OS: FULL LINK ESTABLISHED]
"Welcome back, Prince. You survived. Mild applause."
"Vitals: Acceptable. Facial symmetry: Debatable."
"Sarcasm levels: Elevated. Blood pressure: Also elevated. Coincidence? I think not."
Kaelin groaned. "I have a smartass for an AI. Fantastic."
> "Incorrect. You have a national-grade covert governance interface engineered to rebuild a fractured kingdom. With personality presets. You chose 'Dry Humor' in utero. Not my fault."
He sat up, biting back pain. "Can we skip the comedy?"
> "Absolutely not. Humor module locked during traumatic events."
"Now scanning local environment..."
The HUD blinked rapidly.
> "...Room unswept. Last sterilized at 06:34 AM. That nurse Googled your net worth and updated her dating profile twice."
"Also: hospital uses expired gauze. Should we begin national reforms here?"
Kaelin stared at the ceiling, trying not to laugh and cry at once. "God help me."
> "Still unresponsive. Try again in church."
---
"Status report," he muttered.
> [KINGDOM SNAPSHOT:]
– King Ulric Vaerin: Deceased.
– Crown Prince Rhys Vaerin: Deceased.
– Surviving heir: Kaelin Vaerin.
– Dominion Transition Protocol: Active.
– National stability: 9.3%.
– Trust in monarchy: 12.6%.
– Public morale: ...Error: Too Depressed to Calculate.
> "Would you like a tissue or a tactical map?"
Kaelin exhaled, rubbing his temples. "So it's real then. I'm the last one left."
> "Affirmative."
"Congratulations on inheriting a kingdom with the political stability of a drunk peacock on fire."
"Also, please hydrate."
He reached for the water next to him, but stopped halfway. His fingers curled tight.
---
For the first time since the explosion, no one was yelling. No alarms. No guards. Just soft rain on glass and the quiet buzz of a machine pretending to be a friend.
Kaelin looked out the window.
The palace—his palace—was still smoking in the distance.
His chest tightened. Not just from the ribs. Something heavier.
His father, King Ulric. Cold, calculating, sharp as obsidian... gone.
His brother, Rhys. Arrogant, reckless, always two moves ahead... also gone.
They were supposed to fight forever. Rivalry was their ritual. Rhys was a bastard half the time, but he was still blood. Still there.
Now—he was alone.
No crown. No family. No roadmap.
Just a kingdom in flames and a snarky ghost in his head.
> "They're both gone," Kaelin whispered.
The Dominion OS didn't reply for once.
It simply dimmed the HUD and let the silence linger.
> "Not gone," it said finally. "Just… handed you their mess."
---
[MISSION 002: Assume Command. Attend the Dead. Calm the Court.]
---
They buried them under a sky that couldn't decide whether to weep or burn.
The day of the royal funeral came swift and terrible—like history trying to outrun itself.
Two coffins. Both obsidian-black. Carved with the crest of House Vaerin: a broken chain over a rising flame.
Father and son. King and crown prince. King Ulric and Prince Rhys.
They lay together now in the Royal Crypts of Altvir Cathedral, beneath seven hundred years of stone and sanctity.
Kaelin stood between them.
Dressed in ceremonial black robes lined with violet thread—royal mourning garb older than the nation itself—he looked less like a prince and more like a shadow desperately pretending to be human.
The cathedral was cold. Not from weather—but from the sheer weight of eyes.
Nobles. Generals. Clergy. Courtiers.
And beyond them… the world.
---
The President of the European Commission had sent a wreath shaped like the Kistechin flag. The Secretary-General of the United Nations wrote a letter ending with "a tragedy not just for your nation, but for the world's hope in peaceful dynasties."
The IMF issued condolences and a reminder of "structural commitments."
The Vatican envoy, cloaked in crimson, made the sign of the cross over the caskets—though Ulric had once banned his sermons from the palace.
Even China's Foreign Affairs Office sent a strangely poetic telegram: "The mountain has fallen. The wind now asks who will stand."
Kaelin's eyes scanned them all.
Their languages changed. Their smiles didn't.
Sympathy, polished and politicized.
> "You lost your father... your brother... now let's see what's left of your spine."
---
The priest chanted the rites. Latin rolled off his tongue like falling ash.
One hand rested on each coffin. Between them, a single crown. Not gold. Not jewels. Just iron and bone—Ulric's war crown, forged during the Revolution of 1981.
Kaelin was supposed to kneel.
Supposed to say the words.
Instead, he just stood there—heart hammering. Mind blank.
And then—
> "Incoming Data Pulse..."
"Dominion OS detects international surveillance drones: 3. Audio bugs in marble pillars: 2. Micro-scout from unknown origin cloaked near the Vatican envoy. Suggest feigning grief. Or actual grief."
Kaelin's lip twitched.
He turned to the caskets. Let his knees slowly bend.
Everyone in the cathedral leaned forward.
The cameras zoomed in.
He whispered loud enough for them to capture:
> "Farewell, Father. Farewell, brother."
"You were the storm I tried to outrun… and the calm I never found."
"Rest now. I'll carry the throne... even if it burns me."
And then—he rose.
The perfect shot. Strong. Solemn. Alone.
---
Outside the cathedral, as the bells tolled twelve times, a single raven landed on the spire.
An old omen.
A new reign begins. Blood for stone. Fire for order.
---
Later, as the funeral cortège moved through the capital, tens of thousands lined the black-draped streets. Many wept. Many just watched. Some whispered.
> "He's too young."
"Too quiet."
"Looks like his mother."
"I heard he didn't cry."
"I heard he laughed at the hospital."
"He's not his father."
"He's not his brother."
"He's something else…"
---
That night, back in the palace—what was left of it—Kaelin stood alone in the old war room.
Charred maps. Melted brass fixtures. His father's sword, bent but unbroken, leaned in the corner.
Rain tapped the broken windows like fingers asking permission to enter.
> "Dominion OS online."
"You played the part. But you are not grieving. Should I be concerned?"
Kaelin exhaled.
"I'm grieving," he said. "I'm just… not finished yet."
> "Then let's begin."
---
[MISSION 003: Consolidate the Circle. Identify Allies. Remove Liabilities.]
---
The war room still smelled of smoke.
The marble table was scorched on one side, and a crack ran right through the etched map of Kistechin—splitting the northern highlands from the capital.
A perfect metaphor.
They gathered around it anyway. The remaining heads of state, hand-picked by King Ulric over two decades.
Now, like vultures circling a carcass, they waited for the boy to speak.
Kaelin entered quietly, no entourage. Dressed in a tailored black suit—not military, not royal. Just clean lines and a crimson lapel pin shaped like a sword.
He took his place at the head of the table.
Didn't sit.
Didn't smile.
Didn't blink.
---
General Ilyan Sorev, Minister of Defense, broke first.
Scarred face. Jaw like a wrecking ball. Ulric's oldest warhound.
> "Your Majesty…" he began, voice rough. "The army grieves with you. But with your leave, the Council would like to propose a temporary regency. Just until things—"
Kaelin raised one hand.
Not a word. Just the gesture.
The General went silent like a scolded schoolboy.
Next to him, Minister of Finance, Loretzka van Mier—a cold-blooded economist who could drain a nation without spilling a drop of ink—leaned forward.
> "Forgive us, Your Highness. But decisions must be made. The IMF has frozen all pending disbursements. The Rubek Pipeline negotiations are in limbo. We need clarity. Direction."
> "Leadership," someone muttered. Soft, but not soft enough.
---
> "New Voice Detected: Chancellor Raegin Vasch. Minister of Trade and Industry. Known sympathies with foreign tech conglomerates. High risk of betrayal."
"Would you like to neutralize?"
Kaelin blinked.
Too early.
Instead, he smiled.
A slow, surgical thing.
> "Thank you, Chancellor Vasch," he said. "For reminding me why my father never trusted you with sharp objects."
The table froze.
Even the wind outside seemed to pause.
Kaelin finally sat, resting his palms on the scorched table.
> "There will be no regency. No shared throne. No council rule. I am not a candleholder for a future king."
"I am the King."
"And this kingdom… is mine."
---
Silence cracked like thunder.
Minister Loretzka opened her mouth.
Kaelin spoke first.
> "Minister van Mier. You're hereby ordered to reestablish financial communications with the Chinese treasury. We'll renegotiate Rubek ourselves. You have twelve hours."
> "General Sorev, I want a full map of our remaining ground units. I want to know how many men I can trust with my life and how many I'll have to pretend to."
> "And Chancellor Vasch…"
He turned slowly.
> "You're dismissed."
Vasch blinked. "I—I beg your—"
> "Not from the room."
"From the government."
> "Effective immediately."
Two palace guards stepped forward from the doorway.
Kaelin leaned in, his voice a whisper soaked in iron.
> "You'll leave with your coat and your dignity. If you ask for either back tomorrow, I'll assume you want to negotiate which limb to lose first."
---
> "Move logged. First threat removed. System recommends: Track Vasch's offshore accounts. And maybe his cousins."
Kaelin smiled inwardly.
The ministers sat still.
Weighing him again.
Wrongly.
> "I'll be expecting all of you back here at 0700. Prepared. Ruthless. Or gone."
"This nation is bleeding. And I've got a kingdom to sew back together."
He rose.
> "Meeting adjourned."
---
Outside the war room, he walked alone again—until the hall echoed with a familiar voice.
> "Well. You're either mad or magnificent."
Kaelin exhaled. "You're late."
> "Had to scan four thousand files to find a proper insult. 'Tyrant-in-training' seemed too pedestrian."
> "You removed a minister on your first day."
"Your father would've waited weeks."
"Your brother would've compromised."
Kaelin stopped near the cracked stained glass window that once showed the founding of Kistechin.
Now the king's face was missing.
> "I'm not them," he said quietly.
"And I won't die like them."
> "Good. Because Mission 004 is ready."
"Let's get to work."