He woke to the smell of blood, mold, and cold stone.
For a moment, he remained still. His body did not feel like his own-too light, too stiff. His hands, resting on the arms of a throne he did not remember sitting in, were narrower than they should be. Younger. Paler.
Above, the crumbling ceiling filtered light through a thick film of soot. Rubble littered the throne room floor like bones at a feast.
He moved his fingers. No pain. He was alive.
Memories began to crawl back, jagged and raw.A convoy. A war. A mortar blast. A quiet, blood-soaked moment in a burned-out church.
And then... silence.Now: this.
He stood slowly. The throne groaned behind him. It was cracked-one leg uneven, the wood eaten by time. He surveyed the room like a battlefield. The stone hall was once regal. Banners, long since bleached by sun and dust, hung limply. Cracked stained glass cast fractured colors across the floor.
A man knelt nearby. Silver-haired, clad in black and blue robes. Old but unbowed. He looked up with a face carved by duty.
"Your Majesty," the man said.
The title sat heavily in the air.
"I am alive?" the king asked. The voice was younger than expected. The accent-wrong. It was not his.
"You survived," the man said, rising slowly. "By God's mercy or by sheer spite, none can say. But your brother is dead. Your council is dead. The capital is all but taken. The throne is yours."
The king examined his reflection in a shard of glass on the floor. A face unfamiliar. Sharp eyes. A faint scar on the right cheek. Hair long, black, tangled. Perhaps seventeen or eighteen. A boy's face with a man's expression.
A lifetime of war had taught him to act before asking questions.
"What is your name?" he asked the man.
"Varnhold. Steward of the Crown."
The king nodded once. "Give me a situation report."
Varnhold looked briefly surprised, then adjusted the scrolls beneath his arm. "The enemy breached the southern gate three days ago. The garrison is down to eighty men. Loyalists, perhaps fewer. The northern wall collapsed in last night's bombardment. The grain reserves are gone. The treasury was looted by fleeing nobles. Your army... is dust. What remains hides in the countryside, leaderless."
"Who commands the enemy?" the king asked.
"Duke Anselm. A former vassal. He claims regency until the Crown line is extinguished. The High Priests have blessed his banner."
"Has the city surrendered?"
Varnhold shook his head. "They expect it to fall within the week. We are told they await your corpse."
The king turned to the broken throne and ran a hand along the splintered wood. "Then disappoint them."
He descended the steps. A soldier stood at the far end of the room-half-starved, armor loose, one eye blackened, the other ringed with desperation. He knelt when the king approached.
"Bring me a sword," the king ordered. "Not ceremonial. Real steel."
The soldier hesitated, then rose and disappeared down a corridor.
Varnhold said nothing for a time. Then, in a low voice: "You do not seem like the boy I once knew."
The king glanced sideways. "Good. He died. I will do better."
They assembled the court within the hour.
It was no court-just thirteen men in worn finery, half of whom had already packed for flight. They came to the shattered hall like vultures. Hoping to confirm the death. Hoping to scavenge the crown.
He stood before them wearing no armor, no crown. Just black fatigues and boots borrowed from a corpse in a past life. The sword in his hand was chipped. The hilt was wrapped in linen.
"You expected me dead," he said. "That disappointment has consequences."
The room stirred. A fat man stepped forward-Lord Bremel, if the steward's whispers were accurate.
"Your Majesty," he said, voice oily. "We are grateful you live. But the city falls. Let us parley. Lay down the crown. The Duke may yet spare you-"
The king did not wait.
He drew the sword, stepped forward, and buried it in Bremel's chest with a clean, practiced thrust. Blood splashed across the flagstones. The man twitched, mouth opening to protest. Then he fell.
The hall went still.
The king wiped the blade clean on the corpse's robe and spoke over the silence. "Anyone else want to negotiate with traitors?"
No one replied.
He turned to Varnhold. "Seize every noble estate. Arrest those who flee. Hang those who resist. Issue a call to arms. Press every able-bodied man into service."
Varnhold hesitated. "We have no coin to pay them."
"We pay them in food. If they refuse, they go to the gallows."
"The people will riot."
The king met his gaze, cold and steady. "Then make an example. Riot control begins with one corpse in the street. It ends with none."
Varnhold nodded slowly. "As you command, Your Majesty."
By midnight, four nobles were dead. Ten had fled the city. The baker's district was burned to the ground during a looting attempt. Thirty-three peasants were hanged in the square.
The king stood on the balcony above it all, watching the smoke rise.
A young soldier approached. He was maybe sixteen. Barely out of the farm. His sword hand shook. His uniform hung on his frame like borrowed skin.
"You're afraid," the king said, not looking at him.
"Yes, sire."
"Good. Stay afraid. Just never let it stop you from obeying an order."
The soldier nodded and swallowed hard. "Y-Yes, Your Majesty."
The king turned back to the smoke. "Tell the blacksmiths to melt every gate, lock, chain, and fence. I want weapons. Spears. Pikes. Clubs. If they can hold iron, they're useful."
"Yes, sire."
"And tell Varnhold-begin preparing evacuation plans."
The soldier blinked. "Are we fleeing the capital?"
"No," the king said quietly. "We're going to burn it ourselves if we lose. No spoils for traitors. Nothing left for them to rule."