"Bring him before me," King Hiran's voice, a low rumble, sliced through the still air of the throne room. His lips curled into a smile, a slow, venomous thing, as he sat back in the embrace of his unyielding throne. "I want that bastard's son bound in chains, kneeling at my feet."
In that instant, King Hiran felt as though he had shattered the heavens. This was a victory that transcended bloodshed. It was a triumph of power, of control. He had summoned Vairagya, the third commander of the Crimson Dragons, to his court.
Vairagya entered the room, his clothes ragged, stained with the evidence of a battle long lost. Chains coiled around his neck, wrists, and ankles like iron vipers, the weight of five supreme-grade mana binders dragging him down with each step. His head was bowed, but there was a fire that flickered behind his gaze, a defiance that no shackle could extinguish. Five guards encircled him, yet it was the presence of Shashwat—the Reaper incarnate—that hung heaviest in the room, his mere existence a shadow over death itself.
As Vairagya approached, Hiran's satisfaction began to waver. The sight of the young commander, proud even in chains, chipped away at the triumphant grin he had carefully held. For a moment, the king's fingers tightened on the armrest of his throne, his knuckles whitening. A chuckle escaped his throat, but it was brittle, hollow.
"I never imagined," Hiran began, his words soft but dripping with malice, "that even his son would have the same cursed stubbornness. You are a mirror of him—every inch, every look, every ounce of defiance. It's almost as if I'm staring at him through your eyes."
Hiran leaned forward, his voice lowering, his eyes narrowing as he took in the broken yet unbowed figure before him.
"And that," he continued, his smile twisted now with something darker, "is what I both love and despise about you, little one."
He paused, savouring the moment. The silence between them grew thick, laden with years of bitterness and unspoken history. The court held its breath.
"I never admired your father," Hiran's voice was now a venomous whisper, each word a blade cutting through the air. "I never liked him. And that, little one, is why I hate you."
The silence that followed King Hiran's declaration seemed to stretch for an eternity. Even the courtiers, the guards, the shadows that flickered along the walls—all held their breath, as if the air itself feared to move. Vairagya, still shackled, still kneeling, did not flinch. The words were meant to break him, but he had faced far worse.
Slowly, he raised his head, the chains clinking softly with the effort. His eyes met Hiran's, and in that moment, despite the bonds, despite the weight of the binders and the presence of the Reaper, Vairagya's gaze burned with a defiance that neither throne nor king could extinguish.
"You hate me because you fear me." Vairagya's voice was hoarse, each word pulled from his throat as if it cost him his last breath, yet his tone was unyielding. "Just like you feared my father."
Hiran's smirk faltered for just a moment. A ripple of something unreadable passed through his eyes before it vanished behind his mask of smug superiority.
"You speak out of turn," the king sneered, though the slightest tremor had crept into his voice. "You are no different than him—clinging to the hope that stubbornness alone is enough to defy me." He rose from his throne, his robes flowing like a dark river around him as he descended the steps, each footfall echoing with authority.
With every step closer, Hiran's presence seemed to grow, as though the very room bowed to his approach. He stopped just before Vairagya, towering over him, and tilted his head as if appraising a broken, yet still dangerous, beast.
"You think I fear you?" Hiran said, his voice almost a whisper, though every word was as sharp as glass. "No, little one. I don't fear what I have already conquered." His hand reached out, gently lifting Vairagya's chin, forcing their eyes to meet again. "I pity you. Because I will make sure the world forgets you. Just like I did with him."
Vairagya's jaw tightened, his breath coming in slow, steady pulses as he fought to suppress the anger surging in his veins. His heart pounded, not with fear, but with a rage that threatened to erupt. His father's shadow loomed in the room, more real than Hiran could ever admit.
"You can try," Vairagya said, his voice a low growl. "But I am my father's son. And I will never kneel to you, not truly. You can chain my body, but you'll never chain my will."
The defiance in Vairagya's voice cut through the air like lightning. It was not loud, not boastful, but there was an unshakable certainty in those words.
But the king could respond, the silence was broken by Shashwat, the Reaper himself. His voice, cold and devoid of any human warmth, filled the room like the rasp of a blade being drawn.
"His spirit will burn until the end and that's a promise my liege," Shashwat said, almost as if he were speaking to no one and everyone at once. "I will make sure to break the very existence of his being."
The room seemed to freeze in the weight of Shashwat's words, the grim reality of what lay beneath Vairagya's defiance dawning on those present. Hiran's hand fell back to his side, and his smile, which had once been a symbol of his power, was now thin and uncertain.
"I do not need to break his spirit," Hiran said, though the confidence in his voice was eroding. "I only need to break his body."
With a sudden movement, the king turned, walking back toward his throne, his robes swirling behind him like a stormcloud. His words rang out as he ascended the steps, reclaiming his seat of power.
"Take him to the dungeon. Let him rot in the dark. His spirit will burn out eventually."
But even as he spoke, there was something in the room, a quiet truth that lingered, hanging between Vairagya and the king. Something unspoken but undeniable.
As the guards began to move, dragging Vairagya to his feet, Hiran's eyes flicked back toward him one last time.
"Lock him in the same dungeon as his father," King Hiran commanded, his voice cold and final. There was no hesitation, no second thought. Vairagya, battered and bound, was dragged away, his chains scraping against the stone floor. The throne room remained deathly silent as the king watched his enemy vanish from sight, his expression unreadable.
The Crimson Dragons had once been the mightiest force in the realm, a symbol of both unmatched power and unbreakable pride. But now, with Vairagya shackled and humiliated, their legacy lay in ruins. King Hiran had crushed not just the body of the Crimson Dragons, but their very soul. The capture of their third commander was more than a simple victory—it was the final blow that shattered their pride. And Hiran, in his wisdom, did not need to kill Vairagya to make his point.
In sparing him, the king had shown the realm a far more devastating truth: Vairagya, son of the feared Aurelius, lived only because Hiran allowed it. His life was not a symbol of mercy, but of control. Hiran could have ended the young commander's life with a single word, but he chose not to. It wasn't out of compassion or pity—it was to demonstrate that Vairagya, once a symbol of defiance, posed no threat to him. Keeping him alive wasn't a sign of weakness; it was a calculated move to instill fear among those who might still think of rebellion.
The courtiers shifted uneasily, their whispers silenced by the weight of the king's decision. They knew now that defiance would not lead to a glorious death in battle, but to something far worse: a life lived in chains, powerless and forgotten.
Hiran leaned back on his throne, the faintest smile curling at the edges of his lips. He had learned long ago that true power was not simply about the sword—it was about control, about breaking men without spilling a drop of their blood. Vairagya was living proof of that.
"He still burns with defiance," one of the courtiers dared to speak, his voice trembling slightly. "Should we not—"
"No," Hiran interrupted, his voice sharp but calm. "Let him burn. Let him feel the weight of his father's failure, and let him see how little his name means now. Fear will spread faster than any blade. The realm needs to know that I am the one who chooses who lives and who dies—not them. Not their bloodlines. Not their so-called destinies."
The king's eyes darkened, his gaze fixed on the empty space where Vairagya had been. "By keeping him alive, I've already won."
Shashwat, the Reaper, stood silently by the throne, his presence as heavy and inevitable as death itself. His cold eyes glinted with understanding. He had seen countless men broken under his watch, but none quite like this. Vairagya's fate had been sealed the moment he set foot in Hiran's court. The young commander's fire, though still burning, was nothing more than a flicker against the vastness of Hiran's power.
"As your command, my king," Shashwat said softly, "his spirit will wither in that dungeon. Just as his father's did."
Hiran nodded, his mind already moving to the next step. The Crimson Dragons were finished; their once-proud warriors scattered, leaderless, and broken. There would be no uprising, no heroic charge to rescue their commander. They would see Vairagya's imprisonment as the final blow to their legacy, and fear would do the rest.
The courtiers bowed their heads, silently understanding the depth of Hiran's triumph. It wasn't the capture that sent shivers down their spines—it was the knowledge that Vairagya, the last hope of the Crimson Dragons, had been reduced to nothing more than a tool to showcase the king's dominance. By sparing him, Hiran had made him a living monument to the consequences of defiance.
As the guards led Vairagya deeper into the dungeon, past cells filled with men who had once fought against Hiran's rule, the weight of his father's shadow grew heavier with every step. They arrived at the lowest level, where the air was thick with damp and despair. The iron door creaked open, revealing the cell that had held his father until the very end.
Vairagya's knees buckled as they shoved him inside, the chains around him clanging against the cold stone floor. His eyes, though dimmed by exhaustion, still burned with the same defiance that had carried him through every battle. But here, in the same cell where his father had perished, the weight of Hiran's power was inescapable.
The door slammed shut behind him, and in the suffocating darkness, Vairagya let out a breath. His body was broken, but his will remained unshaken. His father had died in this dungeon, but Vairagya had vowed to live through it. To survive. To resist.
Hiran's words echoed in his mind. Fear will spread faster than any blade. But Vairagya knew that fear, once faced, lost its power. He had been captured, yes, but not defeated.
And somewhere, far above him, King Hiran reclined on his throne, certain of his victory.
As Vairagya adjusted to the dim light of the dungeon, his gaze swept across the damp stone walls, each surface marred by years of neglect and despair. The air was stale, thick with the scent of mold and decay. He leaned against the wall, feeling the chill seep into his bones, when something caught his eye—a faint inscription carved into the stone.
Aurelius was here.
The letters were rough but deliberate, the name etched with a clarity that defied the darkness around it. A sense of recognition surged through Vairagya, and he instinctively traced the letters with his fingertips, feeling the grooves that had been worn down by time. His father had left his mark here, a testament to his existence, a defiance against the encroaching shadows of despair.
But as Vairagya read the name, something stirred within him—a spark ignited by the remnants of his father's strength. He straightened, drawing in a deep breath.
So was Vairagya.
He carved his own name beside his father's, each stroke firm and resolute, the sound of metal against stone resonating like a rallying cry in the darkness. The two names stood together, bound by blood and defiance. This was not just a proclamation of existence; it was a challenge, a promise that he would not fade into oblivion as Hiran intended.