Alaric strode through the marble halls of the royal palace, the quiet click of his boots echoing softly against the polished stone. Behind him, the court doors had closed with finality.
Flanked by guards who felt more like statues than men, he passed murals of long-dead kings and painted victories, each a reminder of how far the throne had fallen. The silence of the corridor, thick and ceremonial, offered no comfort.
He reached his chambers at last.
The moment the door shut, Alaric exhaled. He tugged at the high collar of his ceremonial robe and pulled it off with a frustrated grunt, tossing it carelessly onto a chair. Stripped of royal pretense, he wore a simple black tunic and boots, the kind worn by a traveler, not a king. He poured himself water from a silver pitcher, walked to the balcony, and let the wind wash over him.
Below, Eldoria shimmered in the twilight. The city lights glowed like fireflies, and far beyond its walls stretched the endless beauty of the kingdom—untouched valleys, ancient forests, sapphire lakes reflecting the stars.
It was breathtaking. It was maddening.
This world was raw—untouched by the grime of modern industry, still pristine beneath open skies and untamed lands. It was still ruled by raw instincts, strength, and clever maneuvering. A place of opportunity for those willing to seize it.
And Alaric had played dirtier games in his past life.
Now, here he was again. Reborn into a world of old gods and ancient crowns. He bore the title of king, yet walked without true power—an observer in royal garb, waiting for his moment to strike.
For the past month, Alaric had done nothing but observe, learn, and plan. He'd sat through endless court sessions, smiled at false praise, and memorized every face, every ambition, every weakness.
He lit a single candle and opened the leather-bound journal on his desk. The pages had filled over the last few weeks—sketches, notes, strategies.
Tonight, he turned to a blank page and wrote one line:
"Let the curtain rise."
He dipped the charcoal and began listing names—noble houses, their lands, their armies, their connections. The council, the direct vassals, even minor knights who were overlooked.
He paused, then drew a rough emblem beside a name: House Norren. Located near the border, neighbor to the House of Vayne. Rich in ore. Known for their pride and stubbornness.
"Potential trigger," he muttered.
This world had its rules. Royalty was respected, yes—but not obeyed. The power of the crown was ceremonial. His movements, his words, his choices—they all needed the council's blessing.
Unless...
He gave them what they wanted. Ceremony. Tradition. Rituals.
He could hide behind them. Wrap every ambition in the velvet cloak of ancient custom. They wouldn't question it if he played the puppet king convincingly.
He wanted to use the army to teach them a lesson. But the royal army, as it stood, was a joke. Ill-disciplined, underpaid, unclear in loyalty. Now he wanted nothing more than to purge it and start anew.
"Then I'll have a sword of my own," he murmured.
But he needed legitimacy. Reasons. Everything had to appear clean.
Bandits. Bandits always made for a good excuse.
He wrote again:
Phase One:
Send a portion of the royal army on an expedition to clear bandits under the guise of public safety—reduce their numbers without raising suspicion.
Survey local problems.
Begin small reforms under guise of religious or royal duty.
He stared at the map pinned on his wall. It was drawn by hand—a labor of memory. His gaze lingered on each province, especially the ones that bordered other kingdoms.
A knock echoed.
He straightened. "Not now."
Silence returned.
This room was one of the few places untouched by spies and politics. The nobles, powerful as they were, rarely interfered with the private affairs of the royal family—so long as it didn't threaten their grip.
Good. He would give them no reason to interfere.
He stepped away from the desk, walking slowly to the throne-like chair that sat near the window. He looked up at the moon, full and silver.
"This world is beautiful," he whispered. "And it's going to be mine."
Not just Eldoria. Not just the throne.
Everything.
He let the candle burn low, the shadows creeping across the stone walls.
Alaric Veyron—the man who once ruled the streets—was now a king trapped by golden chains. But not for long.
He smiled.
"Let them bask in the illusion that I follow their rules."
Because soon, he would rewrite them all.