"Long live Prince Remiel!" "Long live our savior!" "Long live Prince Remiel!"
The capital city of the Solstice Empire, Astreon, trembled with praise.
From the cliffs of the East Gate to the exaggerated marble stairs of the Citadel, people flooded the streets, casting flowers on the pavement, chanting slogans, and welcoming the empire's soldiers.
Horns blared throughout the capital, as if victory had a voice for itself.
A single man rode alone at the front of the entire column of soldiers.
His short, tousled, and wavy dark-brown hair swayed in the wind like a banner of its own, streaked with ash and bright red blood. A chisled, handsome face sat beneath a shiny golden crown, signifying his high standing in the royal family.
His stormy gray-blue eyes, sharp as drawn blades, gazed forward, unreadable and detached from everything. His lean, battle-honed body rested straight-backed on the saddle, showing his discipline as a soldier.
His black iron and golden armor were scarred, crimson, and dented in places where monsters had tried to pierce but failed miserably.
Prince Remiel St. Clair.
Twenty One.
3rd Prince of the glorious Solstice Empire.
And now, the Slayer of two spirit generals.
There was another alias that was popular with his adorers—The Strongest Exalt ever lived.
He didn't wave to the crowd. He didn't acknowledge their cheers.
His horse strode forward at a calm, steady pace, and Remiel moved with it—aloof, unreadable, and utterly detached.
He didn't fight the spirits because he wanted others' applause.
He killed them for the sake of his revenge.
And today, he had killed more than what most armies could only dream of.
Two spirit generals alone.
…
The sun had long since dipped below the Eversby peaks when Remiel entered the side halls of the palace.
He didn't wait for fanfare. He postponed today's celebration for tomorrow. He didn't even greet the Emperor, saying he'd do it at the dinner table.
Nobody said anything against it. Be it power or status, Remiel lacked nothing, which gave him the leeways to do things most people cannot.
He passed his fellow exalts, the palace guards, the servants, and even the guard captain without saying a word.
He was exhausted.
He didn't want praise. He wanted silence.
His quarters sat deep within the eastern wing of the palace, past rare paintings, exquisite decorations, and multi-layered chandeliers.
As he turned the final corner for his quarters, a soothing voice echoed from behind, making his steps come to a halt.
"You look even more detached than usual, little brother."
From the archway behind him stepped Prince Cyrus St. Clair III, firstborn of the Emperor, and Remiel's half-older brother.
The man was even more handsome than Remiel, taller than him, and his demeanor was that of a benevolent ruler.
He wore a complex, layered regalia, with velvet, trimmed fur, heavy and intricate embroidery, made with gold threads, with not a speck of dirt on it, completely in contrast with Remiel's current situation.
The man looked like he had stepped out of a painting.
"You are missing the parades," Remiel said flatly.
"Why would I attend something whose centerpiece isn't even present?" Cyrus smiled thinly. "Besides, I thought I'd offer my congratulations in private. After all, it's not every day anyone slays two spirit generals."
Remiel's gaze didn't move, his eyes scanning Cyrus' every movement, waiting for him to finish so that he could go back to his quarters.
He felt Cyrus' gaze bore into him, when suddenly, he felt a weird tightness in his chest before he tasted metal.
His breath hitched.
Cyrus watched him without blinking, as his smile widened a bit more.
"You already feel it, don't you?" He said softly. "Don't worry. It's quick."
Remiel's mind blared in alarm as he tried to understand what had happened.
'The victory wine.' He remembered the customary wine that every royal had to drink after a victory.
"Why?" Remiel muttered in disbelief, his hands reaching his hilt—but his hands felt very sluggish, distant, as if they belonged to anyone else.
His entire body felt foreign, shuddering in weakness as if he had been starved for weeks.
Cyrus tilted his head, as if looking at a fool. "Because you are too good, brother. Too pure. Too… Beloved."
Remiel instinctively drew his sword and attacked Cyrus, but he wasn't even fazed; he caught his sword with his bare hands.
"Ahh! I forgot to mention this, but I have another surprise for you, little brother." Cyrus leaned in closer to Remiel is whispered, "I am now a Titan as well, Remiel. Just like you."
There were only 3 Titans in the entire empire, including Remiel, and now Cyrus had joined the club.
But Remiel wasn't the least bit surprised, as he knew his brother was one of the best talents in the entire empire.
If not for his own monstrous talent overshadowing all the others, Remiel had no doubts that Cyrus would've been considered one of the strongest as well.
"I hate the look in your eyes, making it look like you weren't even the least bit surprised," Cyrus spoke with an obvious detest.
Another wave of weakness suddenly washed over Remiel's body, and he staggered, his legs slowly giving up.
He fell on his knees, as blood started pouring out of his nose and eyes, his vision slowly getting more and more blurry.
Cyrus crouched beside him, slowly raising his hands and caressing his baby brother's hair gently.
"You don't know how painful it is for me, Remiel, but you know it had to be done." A glint of pity flashed through his eyes as he continued, "You were a genuine threat to my throne, Remiel. More of a threat than the second Prince ever was.
"You are the undisputed strongest Exalt alive, Remiel. The people of the empire adore you, the army is more willing to follow your lead, and the worst of all… The Emperor himself was about to declare you as the Crown Prince in tomorrow's event."
Remiel's head spun as he spat a handful of blood on the carpet. A distant hum was echoing violently in his ears, as the ground beneath him no longer felt real.
"I know you don't even want the throne, Remiel. But this doesn't even matter to our senile and irrational father anymore. He is too blinded by glory, to the extent of ignoring the obvious fitting heir of the throne."
Cyrus leaned in closer and kissed Remiel's forehead and muttered, "And I can't afford for that to happen."
"I can't let you exist, Remiel." Tears slid down Cyrus' cheeks as he stood up, "I really can't."
"But don't worry, my baby brother. I'll make sure to honor you and your existence properly. A hero's tomb. Statues all over the empire, your glorious name would be written with a golden quill in our books.
"You will die at the peak of your legend… untouchable by any scandal, immortalized in gold."
"The Strongest Exalt of the Era of Dusk."
Remiel's fingers curled on the carpet, blood continuously dripping from his orifices, staining the blue carpet crimson.
He clenched the carpet, wanting to say anything, but his throat was in intense pain.
"Guards!" "Someone! Help!"
Cyrus shouted as his entire demeanor changed, trying to make this seem accidental.
He knew Remiel had no chance of surviving anymore. And now, it all depended on his acting, which was something he was very proficient at.
He suddenly looked down, noticing that Remiel wanted to say something.
He crouched down, supported Remiel's collapsing body as he leaned in closer to him. "Go ahead, Remiel, say your last words. I give you my words as a future king, that I'd honor your words to my fullest extent."
Remiel bit down his lips, swallowing the extreme pain, as he pushed out the words from his throat with a rare smirk tugging down his lips.
"No wonder Father chose me, you fucking snake."