Vanhound mourned.
From the highest spires to the narrowest alleys, the capital was wrapped in grief so thick it felt tangible, like fog clinging to the lungs. Black banners draped the marble streets. Bells tolled without pause, their hollow echoes sinking into every stone.
People filled the plazas in silence.
Old men leaned on canes, heads bowed. Mothers clutched children who didn't yet understand why everyone was crying. Soldiers removed their helms and knelt, fists pressed to their chests. Candles flickered everywhere—on window ledges, on shrine steps, floating in the canals like small, trembling stars.
Julies Vanward was dead.
The king who smiled at farmers.
The king who trained with soldiers.
The king who bled for his people.
No one spoke his name loudly. It hurt too much.
In the Grand Cathedral, thousands prayed shoulder to shoulder. Some wept openly. Others stared blankly at the altar, lips moving soundlessly, asking gods that no longer answered why someone so kind had been taken.
Even children cried—for Julies had knelt to their height, had listened, had remembered their names.
The coronation came too soon.
Old Wilmington slept beneath a pale moon.
The city was older than most maps bothered to remember—stone buildings softened by time, balconies carved with forgotten sigils, rooftops layered like steps toward the night sky. Wind drifted in from the coast, carrying the faint scent of salt and distant waves.
On one such balcony, two figures sat.
Saru perched on the very edge, legs dangling into nothingness, back straight, balance effortless. The moonlight traced the sharp lines of his mask as he lifted a porcelain cup, steam curling lazily upward.
Across from him, the madman sat relaxed, fingers wrapped around his own tea, posture casual—too casual for someone who had just torn a kingdom apart.
"Jake," Saru said after a sip, voice amused, "isn't the brightest when it comes to convincing people."
The madman let out a quiet chuckle. "Convincing is too crude a word. I prefer guiding."
Saru tilted his head. "Still. The people are grieving. They love dead kings."
"Exactly," the madman replied, setting his cup down with a soft click. "Which is why I don't intend to rush anything."
He leaned back, eyes half-lidded, watching lanterns flicker far below.
"Let him play his little king game for a while. Let him attend funerals. Let him cry in public. The people will watch closely at first—every step, every breath."
Saru smiled faintly. "And then?"
"And then," the madman continued calmly, "they'll get bored."
He gestured lazily with two fingers. "Ruling isn't a spectacle. It's famine reports, border disputes, trade negotiations, taxes. Jake isn't built for patience. He's brittle. He'll fracture under expectation."
Saru hummed. "So you won't force him out."
"No," the madman said. "Force creates martyrs. I'll let incompetence do the work. Slowly. Cleanly."
The wind stirred his cloak.
"When the people stop believing… when whispers replace prayers… I'll step in."
Saru took another sip. "You really are a clean freak."
"Someone has to be," the madman replied dryly.
There was a pause.
Then Saru asked, almost casually,
"Oh. By the way—why do you even want that stupid kingdom?"
The madman stood.
He walked to the edge of the balcony, standing beside Saru now, both of them facing the moon. Below, Wilmington glimmered faintly, alive and unconcerned.
"Our land," the madman said, "is fertile. Rice, wheat, fruits, vegetables—name it. Rivers everywhere. Fresh water without effort."
Saru nodded. "And salt."
"The largest manufacturer and exporter," the madman agreed. "Salt feeds armies. Salt preserves empires."
He clenched his fist slowly.
"But Vanward…" His gaze sharpened. "Vanward has what we don't."
Gold.
Diamonds worth ten thousand minas for ten grams.
Steel. Copper. Iron. Rare minerals buried deep beneath their soil.
"They have everything needed to build weapons, cities, and futures," he said quietly. "And I want it."
The moon reflected in his eyes as he stared upward.
"I don't want Vanward destroyed," he continued. "I want it absorbed. Functioning. Producing. Feeding my ambitions."
Saru watched him for a long moment.
Then he chuckled.
"You're greedy, my king."
The madman smirked faintly. "I prefer to be prepared."
Saru raised his cup in mock salute. "And here I thought this was all chaos and impulse."
He leaned forward slightly.
"So this was your plan all along?"
The madman nodded. "From the moment I learned who Julies was—and who Jake wasn't."
"Assassins to destabilize."
"A public martyr."
"A brother crowned too early."
"A lie clean enough to swallow."
"And while the kingdom mourns," Saru said slowly, "you build influence. Trade. Debt. Dependency."
"Exactly," the madman replied.
Saru laughed softly, the sound light and dangerous.
"Well then," he said, draining his tea. "Guess I'll enjoy the party while history catches up."
The moon shone bright above them.
And somewhere far away, a kingdom believed its worst days were over.
They were wrong.
Jake Vanward stood upon the same platform where his brother once addressed the kingdom, the crown resting heavy upon his head. His face was solemn, eyes downcast, posture perfect—every inch the grieving successor.
"My people," he began, voice steady, practiced. "I stand before you with a broken heart."
The crowd listened, breath held.
"I failed to save my brother."
Behind his eyes, another image flickered—Julies on his knees, blood on his lips, looking at him not with anger, but confusion.
Jake's mouth twitched. Almost a smile.
"The attack," he continued, "was carried out by an assassin guild known as The Knockers. They sought our royal treasury. When their plan failed, they turned their blades on our king."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"Julies refused to flee," Jake said softly. "He chose to stay. He chose to fight. He chose his people—until the very end."
Applause broke out, mixed with sobs.
Then a voice cut through it.
"That's a lie."
Silence crashed down.
A man stood near the steps—middle-aged, clothes worn but clean. His fists trembled, but his eyes burned.
"You expect us to believe that?" he shouted. "The king never ran—but you did! You're lying!"
Gasps echoed. Guards tensed.
Jake's expression darkened—not with rage, but disappointment.
He turned away from the crowd.
And walked back into the palace.
That evening, Jake received a letter.
He read it as he descended stone steps into the depths of the castle, torches casting long, warped shadows across the walls.
Congratulations on your ascension, King Jake of Vanward.
Your cooperation has ensured peace between our nations.
The treaty shall be formally signed in nine months, under the neutral banner of the Kingdom of Bartholome.
I hear you may soon gain a queen as well.
Jake folded the letter neatly.
Peace.
Marriage.
Legitimacy.
Everything proceeded as planned.
The dungeon doors opened.
The man from the crowd was chained at the center of the chamber. His wife knelt nearby, arms wrapped around their daughter, both trembling. The man was blindfolded, bruised, blood staining his shirt.
"I only spoke the truth," he whispered hoarsely. "Please… forgive me."
Jake picked up a whip.
The first crack echoed like thunder.
The man screamed.
Again.
And again.
The whip tore flesh, each strike precise, methodical. The wife begged. The child screamed until her voice broke. Soldiers lined the walls, faces pale, hands frozen on their spears.
No one moved.
Jake didn't raise his voice once.
When he finally stopped, the dungeon floor was slick with blood.
He leaned close to the man's ear and whispered, calm as prayer,
"Truth is whatever the king says it is."
Jake turned and walked away, boots echoing softly.
Above, the kingdom still mourned a good king.
Below, a new one ruled.
Nine months passed.
Vanward withered.
What had once been a kingdom of music-filled streets and open markets turned gray and silent. Taxes rose again and again—on grain, on water, on trade, even on funerals. Shops shuttered. Fields were left untilled because farmers could no longer afford seed. Bread became thin, then scarce.
Anyone who spoke out vanished.
Public executions became routine. Heads lined the gates as warnings. Soldiers no longer removed their helms when walking among civilians. Children learned to whisper. Old men learned to bow.
The people stopped praying.
They only endured.
And far away, beyond Vanward's misery, the Kingdom of Bartholome prepared for history.
Bartholome was not powerful.
It held no vast armies, no legendary generals.
But it was neutral.
Trusted.
Respected.
A place where kings could sit in the same hall without drawing blades.
The great meeting had finally arrived.
One by one, chariots rolled through the wide stone gates—emblems painted proudly on lacquered wood. Royal guards dismounted. Banners unfurled in the wind.
Out of the eleven nations of the continent, only eight had answered the summons.
Lu arrived.
Vanward arrived.
Whispers immediately rippled through the marble corridors.
"For the first time…"
"They're in the same room…"
"After everything…"
Inside the grand council chamber, a circular hall of white stone and golden pillars, kings and queens took their seats. Heavy silence pressed down as old enemies sat only a few steps apart.
Jake Vanward entered last among them, draped in black and silver, his crown sharp and austere. Across the hall, Marsh of Lu met his gaze.
They nodded.
Cold. Polite. Calculated.
Behind Marsh stood Saru, arms folded, posture relaxed—as if this were a theater rather than a council. His eyes gleamed with quiet amusement.
The herald stepped forward, staff striking the floor.
"His Majesty, the new King of Bartholome, now enters."
The massive doors at the far end of the chamber began to open.
Light flooded in.
Every voice died.
The figure who stepped through wore regal white and deep blue, a mantle trimmed with gold flowing behind him like a banner of dawn. His crown was elegant—not jagged, not cruel—but commanding, forged to inspire loyalty rather than fear.
Julies Vanward.
Alive.
Walking.
Standing tall.
For a heartbeat, no one breathed.
Jake's chair scraped violently as he shot to his feet, face drained of color. Marsh of Lu stood as well, eyes wide, lips parted in disbelief.
"…Impossible," someone whispered.
Julies moved forward with calm, measured steps, his gaze steady, his presence filling the chamber without effort. He looked every inch a king—not the boy they remembered, not the wounded man they believed dead.
Right behind him walked a shadow.
Gris Luxion.
The Demon of Vanward.
He was broader now, stronger—his posture coiled and dangerous. His hair was shorter, tied back, streaked faintly with silver. A scar ran across his right cheek, sharp and unmistakable, a mark earned rather than hidden. His eyes were colder than before, sharper—those of someone who had survived hell and learned from it.
He wore no crown.
He didn't need one.
The room felt smaller with him in it.
Saru's grin widened slowly, genuinely entertained now.
Julies stopped at the center of the chamber.
He raised his chin slightly and spoke, voice clear, resonant.
"I apologize for my lateness."
Silence shattered into chaos.
Kings murmured. Advisors whispered frantically. Guards tightened grips on weapons, unsure whether to kneel or draw steel.
Jake stared as if seeing a ghost.
Across the room, Saru chuckled under his breath.
"Well," he murmured to himself, eyes never leaving Gris.
"This just got interesting."
The balance of the continent shifted in that instant.
And everyone in that hall knew it.