The wind up here tasted like regret.
I stood on the crumbling parapet of Wyvrling Keep—my keep now—watching the moon rise over a land that barely remembered the name of its rulers. Below me, half the town was sleeping, the other half was either stealing chickens or arguing about whether or not the haunted glade screamed at night.
It did. I checked.
Behind me, stone cracked under frost. Moss grew between marble tiles. Statues of my ancestors stared down at me, not with pride, but disappointment. It wasn't hard to imagine them whispering:
This is the boy who will restore our legacy?
And yet, I was here. Breathing. Thinking. Plotting.
I always played Regal Dominion like a bastard. Pick a weak dynasty, survive long enough to exploit a civil war, then marry, murder, or manipulate my way to the top. Now I was living it.
Except in-game, I didn't feel cold. Or hunger. Or fear.
I definitely didn't get splinters from leaning on half-rotted battlements.
---
I heard footsteps behind me—soft, calculated, and annoyingly familiar.
"Spying again, Lyra?" I asked without turning.
"You're easier to watch when you think you're alone," came her voice, smooth and sharp like a knife in silk. "And less dramatic."
She stepped beside me, her cloak fluttering in the wind. The moonlight caught her silver hair and half-elven features, making her look like a ghost. A very judgmental ghost with a dozen throwing knives and zero patience for teenage monarchs.
"I'm sixteen," I said before she could speak. "In case you're wondering. Old enough to rule, young enough to be underestimated."
She snorted. "You are underestimated. Because you're reckless. You think like a gambler, not a lord."
"I think like a player," I corrected. "Which means I see the code behind the curtain. This game—this world—it's built on rules. Patterns. Exploits."
"You're not in a game."
"Then why does everything feel like one?"
I didn't say it aloud, but part of me still wondered if this was a coma dream or a hallucination. Maybe I was back in the hospital, hooked to a machine, and this was my brain's weird way of coping with death.
But no dream ever smelled this bad. Or had taxes.
---
Back in the hall, I gathered my so-called "court." Which consisted of:
One half-mad priest,
One paranoid spymaster,
One grizzled soldier with the personality of boiled bread.
We sat around a war table so worn, you could see bloodstains in the wood. Arden leaned on it like it owed him money.
"Three villages sent letters," he grumbled. "Bandits took two shipments of grain and a wagon full of tools."
"Did they leave survivors?" I asked.
"One. A farmer who shat himself and then walked home."
"Resilient," I muttered.
Caldus stepped forward, robes dragging. His staff clacked against the stone as he gave me that look—equal parts reverence and insanity.
"The gods test you, young lord. Perhaps the burning of the granaries was a sign. Purification before rebirth."
"Or maybe we just need guards who don't sleep through raids," Lyra cut in. "Your holiness."
He glared at her. She smiled. I sighed.
---
This was my court. My team. And if I wanted to survive long enough to conquer anything, I needed to get them on the same damn page.
"Listen up," I said. "We don't have men. We don't have gold. We don't even have enough grain to feed the rats. But what we do have... is leverage."
They looked confused.
"In the eastern glade," I continued, "there's cursed forest no one wants to touch. So we touch it."
Lyra raised an eyebrow. Arden scowled.
"You want to send men into haunted woods?" the old soldier asked. "We'd be better off digging our own graves."
I grinned. "We send peasants. Supervised. Tell them it's for the glory of Wyvrling. Add a little religious flair, maybe a blessing or two. Brother Caldus?"
He straightened like a hound catching scent. "The old glade... yes... a cleansing ritual. The sun god's light purifying ancient darkness. Yes. Yes. I could spin it."
"Spin hard," I said. "We need morale and wood. Preferably both. Then we trade that lumber to Baron Dareth. In exchange, we get weapons. Steel. Maybe even mercenaries if we bluff well enough."
"And what do you want me to do?" Lyra asked coolly.
"Start a rumor," I said. "Tell the taverns that the Wyvrling line has found a divine heir. That omens are stirring. Use whatever tricks you like—phantom sightings, lights in the castle windows, ghostly whispers. Make the people believe something's changing."
She gave a rare smile. "You want hope?"
"I want uncertainty," I said. "Hope is good. Fear is better. Make them think something powerful is rising in Eldhollow. That maybe—just maybe—we're not dead yet."
---
Later that night, I sat in the castle library—or what was left of it. Half the books were moldy. The other half were boring.
But in the corner, I found the records.
Family trees. Lineage scrolls. History carved in ink.
House Wyvrling had been mighty once. Ambitious. Arrogant.
They made alliances, broke oaths, killed rivals, and founded temples. They were warlords with crowns, kings beneath kings, dragon-blooded and thunder-willed.
Now there was just me.
I stared at my name, freshly added in red ink by a terrified steward.
Vihan Wyvrling, the Last Flame.
It sounded poetic. Almost prophetic.
I didn't feel like a flame. I felt like a flickering candle in a storm.
---
The next few days passed in a blur.
Peasants were conscripted for lumber. Arden drilled farmers until half of them puked. Caldus held a purification ritual with lots of shouting and suspicious incense. Lyra's rumors spread like wildfire—ghostly horns at midnight, visions of silver wyverns, even a fake prophecy carved into a rock near the market square.
It worked better than I expected.
The people didn't trust me—but they started watching me. Talking. Whispering.
And the bandits?
They made a mistake.
They came again.
This time, we were ready.
---
I planned some traps and asked Arden to to lead our troops, I am not strong enough to engage in a combat right and this game was not all about fighting anyway, although I might have to train in future.
It was a small skirmish. Six of them. Armed with rusted blades and padded armor. Probably mercenaries turned raiders after the last war.
They expected easy pickings.
Instead, they got burning oil, a hidden pit trap, and one very angry Arden with a spear in his hand and murder in his eyes.
We captured two. One talked.
They worked for Lord Greymoor, a minor noble to the south. Technically not our liege, but close enough to be a threat. He'd been watching us. Testing us.
I let the survivors go—but not before having Lyra stage a "vision" of a flaming wyvern in the sky and a farmer who "miraculously" survived three arrows to the chest.
Superstition beat strength nine times out of ten.
---
A week later, a letter arrived.
Baron Dareth was "curious" about trade. Curious was good.
I was making moves now. Small ones. But they rippled.
And in those ripples, I saw the future.
Not just survival.
Ascendancy.