The grand doors of the royal palace groaned open, as if they too suffered under the weight of betrayal that had flooded these halls. Guards marched forward with heavy steps, dragging behind them a young man bound in chains. His black hair fell carelessly over his shoulders, and his violet eyes gleamed with defiance. A smirk clung to his lips, unmoved by the gravity of the scene.
It was Daniel Krios, heir of cursed blood, a smile that mocked even death itself.
They halted before the throne, where Marcus sat with false majesty, leaning on a sword as if he had inherited the crown—rather than stolen it.
Daniel gave him a long, disdainful look, then spoke in a voice dripping with mischief:
"So, you finally sat on the throne, Marcus… Congratulations on wearing a crown heavier than your mind and broader than your ambition. Tell me, do your knees ache from all the bowing?"
Silence followed… then whispers. Murmurs spread like wildfire across the hall as Marcus's face flushed with rage.
"Kill him!" he roared. "Cut out his tongue!"
The guards lunged toward Daniel.
But they never reached him.
In a flash, a veiled woman dressed in black emerged from behind the pillars—Daniel's silent maid. She moved like a snake, swift and lethal, twin daggers flashing through the air as she cut the guards down one by one. Blood marked her path like crimson footprints on the marble.
Chains shattered from Daniel's wrists, clattering across the palace floor.
And still—he didn't flee.
He walked calmly toward Marcus, each step slow and theatrical, as if strolling into a play rather than facing a man who just ordered his execution. The closer he got, the more Marcus's tension rose. Sweat traced a cold line down his back.
"You feel it, don't you?" Daniel said, his voice barely a whisper. "That tremor in your spine? Those cold drops crawling down your neck? That's not heat, Marcus… that's fear. Pure. From you."
Standing before the throne now, Daniel leaned forward and whispered into Marcus's ear:
"Enjoy your last days on this throne… because you will not die sitting on it."
Then he turned and walked away, unhurried, toward the center of the hall.
But Marcus, ever the proud fool, couldn't bear it.
He drew his sword and charged at Daniel from behind like a coward stabbing in the dark.
And then—clang!—the sound of steel crashing against steel.
Nirsa, the Ashurian general, had stepped in. She blocked Marcus's strike at the last second.
Marcus cried out in disbelief:
"Why?! Why would you protect him?!"
Nirsa smiled, cool and amused, her eyes fixed on Daniel like a noblewoman eyeing a rare gem.
"Handsome. Brave. A tongue sharper than any blade… I like him. I'll take him to Ashur, as a servant to the Queen."
Then, with chilling indifference, she added:
"And I'll take your sister… and Lena's daughter. As for his quiet little maid—she'll make a fine slave. Just how I like them."
Silence fell. The air thickened.
And Daniel stood there in the middle of the hall, watching the theater unfold… his smirk deeper than ever.
Marcus—the crowned traitor—had no idea.
From the very moment he sat on that throne…
He was just another piece on the board.
And the true player?
Was smiling… in the shadows.