The massive doors groaned open, the iron hinges echoing through the chamber like a drum announcing fate's arrival. A tall figure stepped in, his presence as heavy as the shadows that trailed him.
Ryan's gaze snapped to the newcomer, and in the instant their eyes met, recognition hit him like a jolt. He knew this man.
The King of the Northern Plains.
Ryan had last seen him in the halls of the Old Sleeping Monk's palace—a ruler who thrived in the spotlight, clad in fabrics that shimmered under torchlight, every gesture steeped in arrogance. Even then, the king's royal crest had been embroidered proudly across his chest, a golden serpent curling around a black sun. That very same crest now gleamed on the fine silk robes before him, untouched by time.
But it wasn't just the crest Ryan remembered. It was the resentment. The subtle curl of the lip when the Old Sleeping Monk had favored Ryan's advice over the king's. The tension in the air when the king's requests were ignored.
So you're the one sent to "relieve" me, Ryan thought grimly.
Yet the man before him was not quite the same. Age had left its mark. Silver streaked through his once-dark beard, and faint lines etched the skin around his sharp eyes. His hair, though still thick, carried the weight of decades. Ryan remembered him as a fierce young ruler; now he looked like a man in his fifties—a man still dangerous, but in a quieter, more calculating way.
Ryan inclined his head with measured respect.
"It's been a long time, King of the Northern Plains."
The king's guards reacted instantly, their armor clinking as they stepped forward.
"Intruder! Here!" one barked, hands going to the hilt of his sword.
They had barely taken two steps before the king raised a single hand. The gesture was calm, but absolute. The guards froze mid-stride.
The king's gaze sharpened.
"Who are you?" he asked, his voice deep and resonant—an accusation wrapped in a question.
Before Ryan could answer, the king's right hand ignited with white light. Lightning crackled to life, weaving between his fingers in jagged threads, the air around him humming with raw energy. Without warning, the bolt leapt forward, faster than Ryan's eyes could follow.
It struck his chest.
The world flashed white. A wave of blistering heat exploded across his torso, driving him back a step. His breath caught, and for a moment he expected the smell of scorched flesh—expected pain.
But it didn't come.
The heat vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. His vision cleared, and he looked down. No burn. No injury.
What…? The lightning hit me… so why…?
When his gaze lifted, he caught it—the flicker in the king's eyes. Surprise. Doubt. And then, as quickly as a mask snapping into place, warmth and reverence.
"Ah… my lord," the king said smoothly, his voice now rich with false humility. "Forgive me. I did not recognize you. It is my honor to serve you. The Northern Plains are blessed by your presence."
Ryan almost laughed aloud. The man's transition from assassin to devoted servant was flawless on the surface, but the intent beneath was clear. A failed attack. A hasty cover.
You snake.
His hand twitched with the urge to end the charade here and now. But he held it back. The power gifted by the Old Sleeping Monk had shielded him, and now was not the time to reveal just how strong he had become.
Instead, he accepted the king's sudden courtesy in silence.
The king escorted him to a lavish chamber—polished stone walls draped in rich tapestries, a thick carpet soft underfoot, a massive bed carved from dark oak. Servants flitted in and out, bringing fresh water, fruit, and wine. The king's instructions were clear: anything the "lord" desired was to be provided immediately.
But Ryan could feel it—the coiled venom beneath the politeness, the simmering grudge waiting for its moment.
Two days crawled by like a slow poison. Ryan was smothered in luxury—golden trays of roasted meats and spiced wine arriving with the precision of a military parade, silken sheets that seemed to drink in his weight, guards stationed outside his chamber like statues carved from iron. He was treated as if he were a sovereign in his own right… and yet, the one man who mattered never came.
The King of the Northern Plains.
Ryan had not so much as glimpsed him since that first meeting. No summons, no message, not even a shadow in the doorway. The man had vanished into the depths of his own castle, leaving Ryan in a gilded cage.
He's keeping his distance, Ryan realized, the thought hardening like ice in his chest. Still plotting. Still waiting for an opportunity to finish what he started.
But Ryan's situation was worse than that. The longer this stalemate lasted, the more the balance tilted against him. His blessing from the Old Sleeping Monk had saved him once, but it would not carry him home by itself. If he wanted to leave this land alive—if he wanted to find a way back—he couldn't simply survive the king's malice. He would have to invert it.
He would need to make the king not just tolerate him, but need him.
Earn his trust. Secure his favor. Make him believe I'm indispensable.
Only then could Ryan slip free from these walls and set foot on the road home.
On the morning of the third day, he stepped out of his chamber. Two guards fell in behind him without a word. He ignored the castle's grand corridors and tapestries; his interest lay beyond the fortress walls.
As he passed a side hall, low voices caught his attention. Guards clustered near a doorway, speaking in hushed tones.
"Two days ago… intruder in the third princess's bathhouse…"
"When we arrived, the place was empty. Not a trace."
The name surfaced—Princess Serenya. The youngest daughter of the King of Myrraval. Beautiful, sharp-tongued, and spoiled beyond belief. Known for her mischief, feared for her temper. No one dared to challenge her.
Ryan moved on, their whispers fading behind him.
By the time he reached the gates, two more guards had joined his escort.
"My lord," one ventured, "shall we take a carriage? It will spare you the walk through the city."
Ryan shook his head.
"No carriage. I'll walk."
The great gates creaked open, revealing the wide stone bridge that spanned the moat. Crossing it, Ryan stepped into the capital.
The city of Myrraval was alive with motion.
Narrow streets wove between timber-framed buildings, their upper levels leaning slightly over the cobblestone roads. The smell of roasting meat mingled with the sharp tang of tanned leather and the faint sweetness of fresh bread. Merchants shouted over one another, hawking spices, cloth, gemstones, and tools.
A juggler in the main square tossed blazing torches into the air, each one trailing ribbons of fire that licked the air like living serpents. He caught them barehanded without a flinch, the heat rolling off him in shimmering waves. Another performer, lean and sharp-eyed, drew a breath so deep it seemed to pull the chill from the air itself. With a snap of his wrist, a sphere of ice burst from his palm, soaring skyward before exploding in a sudden bloom of flame that drew gasps from the crowd.
Ryan slowed, watching with genuine interest.
"What's going on?" he asked one of the guards.
"They're cultivators," the man replied. "Too weak to hunt now, so they sell their skills for coin. Even a dying ember still gives off heat."
Ryan blinked. "That's… not magic?"
"No, my lord. It's cultivation—the essence every soul here strives to temper. Some are born with more, some with less, but all carry a spark. Power refined over years, sometimes decades, until the body and spirit become one with the elements."
Ryan's gaze lingered on the performers. Even these so-called 'weaklings' could command fire and ice like extensions of their own breath. His mind flicked back to the lightning strike, to the searing heat on his chest and the way it had simply vanished.
The Old Sleeping Monk's blessing—that fragment of cultivation—had saved him from the king.
One guard gestured to a nearby stall where skewers of sizzling meat rotated over a fire.
"You should try this, my lord. A delicacy."
Ryan began to refuse, but the man pressed a small leather pouch into his palm. Coins clinked softly inside.
"It's our custom to treat honored guests," the guard said with a faint smile.
Ryan stood there a moment, the warmth of the fire brushing against his skin, the smell of the food making his mouth water.
Hospitality… in spite of the hatred lurking behind palace walls. Strange world.
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