"From now on," I said aloud, standing and slipping back into the same arrogant nobility I'd worn earlier, "you three belong to me. You follow my orders without question. Your loyalty is to me - and to her." I nodded toward Zeyra, "Your superior in every way."
They nodded frantically.
"Yes, young master!"
"Of course!"
"We'll serve you to the death!"
I narrowed my eyes. Bullshit loyalty, all of it. They weren't brave, noble, or devoted - they were scared and desperate. And that meant they were exactly where I wanted them.
They were pawns. Nothing more. No emotional investment required. Just tools. Leverage.
As they started to turn away, thinking the lecture was over, I cut through the quiet.
"Did I say I was finished?"
They froze.
Backs still turned, I heard the shiver run down their spines.
My voice light, almost amused: "Tell me. What were you planning to do to me earlier? Hm? Go on. I'm curious."
"We-we were just joking, young master!" one stammered. "All in jest!"
"Yeah, just fooling around. Honest!"
I chuckled.
"Oh, I believe you. Really."
They heaved sighs of relief a little too early.
"But..."
Turning to Zeyra, I smiled. "Do me a favour."
"Yes, young master?"
"Beat them to a pulp."
"Yes, young master."
There was no hesitation. No questioning my instruction.
She simply moved.
One blink and she was gone - swallowed by the air, slipping between shadows.
She emerged behind them.
What followed wasn't a fight. It was a dismantling.
The tallest brother turned, sluggish and confused. Zeyra's palm struck the back of his knee, and he crumpled with a strangled grunt.
The fat one roared and swung wide. She wasn't there. He stumbled forward, only to choke when her elbow slammed into his ribs, stealing the air from his lungs.
The "average" one, poor soul, managed half a stance before Zeyra twisted his wrist. His arm bent the wrong way, and he was rewarded with a sharp backhand that sent him staggering.
Clinical. Graceful. Effortless.
She didn't waste a single movement. Each strike landed with surgical precision - knees, ribs, wrists, solar plexus. Pressure points I'd only ever read about in half-baked wuxia fanfics. To see them actually used was something else.
Driven by panic and shame, the brothers finally drew their swords.
That was when Zeyra stopped.
Not out of hesitation. Not even caution. She looked at them with disdain, as if their choice was beneath her.
Her voice dropped, colder than ice.
"Only those ready to kill should draw their blades. And those ready to kill… should be prepared to die."
The killing intent that followed was suffocating. My chest tightened just from standing near it. The three of them froze mid-step, blades trembling in their grips.
And then, without even seeming to try, she took everything from them.
A twist of the wrist here. A kick there. A feint so sharp it turned their desperate swings against each other. Their blades scattered across the floor, ringing like bells of humiliation.
She went back to work.
It wasn't rage. It wasn't brutality. It was efficiency. She struck until they groaned, until their stances collapsed, until they dropped like discarded dolls. Every blow was a lesson carved into flesh: You are weak.
I stood with my arms crossed, watching without blinking.
Amazed.
Not just at how incredible Zeyra was, but at how utterly pathetic the three pawns looked in comparison. They had the numbers and the weapons. None of it mattered. Against her, they were insects crawling into a fire.
And despite how fast she was - despite how my eyes barely kept up - I realised something strange. I could still track her. Not every detail, but enough to understand what she was doing. Where she was guiding the fight. The intent behind each strike.
It was instinctive, like interpreting your opponent's movements in a chess match.
The gap between them wasn't just raw strength. It was skill. Training. Precision so refined it looked effortless. And terrifyingly enough, she hadn't even touched her mana. Not a flicker of it.
If she could massacre the three of them without breaking a sweat… what would it look like if she fought seriously? If she unleashed her aura, mana, and Special Trait at full power?
The image was chilling. Entire armies like Tim, Dim, and Lim… cut down in minutes, maybe even seconds.
Finally, Zeyra stopped. Not from exhaustion, but because she had decided it was over.
The three brothers lay sprawled in the dirt, groaning, too battered to even crawl. Weapons scattered. Pride shattered.
I exhaled slowly.
'Now that's a real beating.'
"Thank you," I said aloud.
Zeyra inclined her head, nothing more. Professional. Detached.
"I'll call upon you. But for now, stay out of trouble and heal up." I didn't offer the trio who sought to humiliate me earlier any pity.
We left them there, crushed and battered.
They were walking evidence of the narrative I wanted, and I was sure word would spread.
The weakling prince wasn't so weak anymore. He had teeth. He had a powerful presence. He had a shadow that answered only to him.
And I hadn't even raised a finger.
Back in my chambers, I collapsed onto the long-cushioned couch by the window, the faint ache of my ruined body reminding me that I hadn't done a damn thing. Zeyra took her place in the corner, wanting to remain beside me.
Be it to protect me, watch me, or keep me out of trouble - I didn't complain.
Her presence was… reassuring. A weapon at my side, silent and sharp.
I watched as she slipped back into her meditative trance.
Energies swirled around her faintly, like smoke stirred by a breeze, steady and dangerous.
I stared at the ceiling, hands behind my head.
Three pawns. One knight. A system that rewarded control.
A house that loathed me.
A reputation already shifting.
Not a bad opening, all things considered.
The welcoming ceremony was coming, and that was when the real game would start.
And Ashen Drakenthorn?
I was just getting warmed up.