Chapter 1: Prologue – The Fool Prince's Awakening
The chamber lights were harsh. Rows upon rows of parliament benches stretched before him, filled with restless murmurs, the clicking of pens, the shuffling of papers, and the stifling smell of cologne mixed with sweat. Cameras hovered like vultures at the back, broadcasting every word to millions.
"Mr. Harrington," the Speaker's voice boomed, "the floor is yours."
A tired man rose from his seat. Harrington was sixty, though his face had aged ten more years from sleepless nights and decades of compromise.
His once-dark hair was streaked with silver, his suit clung too tightly to his shoulders, and his hands trembled faintly as he gripped the podium.
The hall quieted, expectant. Some watched with respect, others with concealed smirks. He was, after all, the man who had climbed through scandals, backroom deals, and endless campaigns, only to now stand in the twilight of his career.
He cleared his throat. "Ladies and gentlemen… fellow countrymen."
His voice cracked, then steadied. "We speak of progress every year, yet our people struggle more with each passing day. Our cities are brighter, yet our streets are darker. We build towers that touch the sky, yet we have forgotten the ground beneath our feet."
A ripple ran through the chamber — murmurs, scoffs, polite applause.
He continued, stronger now, tapping the podium. Tap. Tap.
"I was not a saint in this house. I made compromises. I swallowed my pride. I played the game and what has it brought us? Corruption hidden beneath banners of patriotism. Leaders who serve pockets, not people."
A younger rival shouted: "Big words, Harrington, from a man who voted yes to every budget!" Laughter followed.
Harrington's lips tightened. He had expected that. "Yes. I did. I bled my integrity one drop at a time, believing small evils were necessary for greater good. But tonight—"
He raised his voice, echoing across the chamber, "—tonight I must speak as a man, not a politician."
The words cut through the hall. Silence settled again, heavy.
He gripped the podium, his knuckles white. "I wasted my life chasing approval. I chased influence, not justice. I measured worth by votes, not by the lives I swore to protect. I have no legacy worth remembering." His voice broke. For a moment, the old man looked naked, stripped of dignity, confessing his sins to the nation.
Gasps. Some sympathetic. Some amused. The cameras zoomed closer. His chest heaved, sweat beading on his brow.
"I only wish… I had the strength to begin again. To stand… not as a pawn in the shadows of power, but as a man who can change it."
He swayed. A hand clutched his chest. A sharp, searing pain burst through his ribs. His breath hitched.
"Harrington?" the Speaker called nervously.
The old man stumbled. The world tilted. The chamber blurred into a haze of suits and alarmed voices.
"Heart attack!" someone screamed.
The gavel slammed. "Medic! Call a medic!"
Harrington collapsed against the podium, his cheek pressing to the cold wood. The sound of footsteps, shouting, and the rush of aides blurred together. His vision darkened at the edges.
Thump… thump… thump. His heartbeat roared in his ears, uneven, failing.
As he lay there, memories flickered:
'His first campaign rally, shouting into a megaphone.'
' His wife smiling on their wedding day, then years later walking out the door.'
'The faces of children in a slum, tugging at his sleeve, asking why promises meant nothing.'
He wanted… another chance. Just one.
The light overhead fractured, brightened, and then—
—darkness.
A long, weightless silence swallowed him.
Drip.
Drip.
The sound of liquid hitting metal echoed softly in the darkness.
Harrington opened his eyes with a gasp. But the air tasted… different. Thick with perfume, wine, and roasted meats. His cheek no longer pressed against the parliament's cold wood, but instead… velvet. He blinked rapidly.
Golden chandeliers glittered overhead, their crystal pendants scattering light across a cavernous banquet hall. Long tables stretched into the distance, overflowing with steaming boar, spiced pheasants, and sugared fruits. Goblets of crimson wine clinked merrily in the hands of nobles dressed in embroidered silks.
A laugh boomed.
"Hahaha! Look at him! The fool prince has drowned himself again!"
Harrington's head throbbed. His body felt strange young, lithe, unscarred by time. He lifted a hand and saw not the wrinkled, veined skin of a sixty-year-old, but smooth, pale fingers adorned with jeweled rings.
He touched his face no sagging jowls, no greying stubble. His jaw was sharp, his hair a cascade of golden blond tied back with a ribbon.
Then he saw his reflection in a polished silver platter a servant carried past. The face staring back was not his.
"Lucian…" a voice hissed with irritation nearby.
Harrington no, the body he was in sat slumped on a cushioned chair, his tunic stained with spilled wine. Nobles snickered behind gloved hands.
"Pathetic," muttered a broad-shouldered knight with a crimson cloak. "The Fifth Prince, son of His Radiance, reduced to this."
The words echoed in Harrington's skull. Prince? Fifth son?
A sharp female voice cut through the laughter. "Lucian Von Solaris! You disgrace the royal bloodline once again!"
His eyes darted toward the dais. There, beneath a canopy of golden sunbursts, sat the King and Queen.
The King — Alaric Solaris, if the whispers matched memory was a towering man, his beard streaked with silver, his eyes like blazing coals. Beside him, the Queen Seraphina sat with regal poise, though her lips pressed in visible disapproval.
Harrington's pulse raced. Von Solaris…? This name… It's me?
A hand seized his arm. A stern-faced knight in ornate armor loomed over him.
"Stand, Prince Lucian. You shame us with this display."
The hall was buzzing with whispers now.
"Fool prince."
"Good-for-nothing drunkard."
"He'll never sit the Council."
Harrington staggered to his feet, wine dripping from his sleeve. His mind spun, half in disbelief, half in clarity. Somehow… impossibly… his soul had been reborn.
And not into just anyone.
But into the body of the infamous Fifth Prince of Solinara.
The very prince everyone dismissed as a clown.
A younger noble chuckled, raising his goblet. "Come now, let the fool dance for us again! We need some entertainment."
Laughter roared.
Something in Harrington the man who had lived through sixty years of humiliation, compromise, and regret snapped.
His lips curled into a cold, controlled smile.
"…Dance?" His voice rang clearer, deeper than the prince's usual drawl. "No." He let the silence stretch, the nobles blinking in surprise at his sudden sobriety. "Not tonight."
The knight holding him stiffened. The Queen's eyes narrowed. The King leaned forward, intrigued.
Harrington now Lucian straightened his back, meeting the hall's laughter with steel in his gaze. For the first time in years, he felt… alive.
And behind his eyes, he sensed it two souls, his own and Lucian's, merging like molten metal in a forge. Their thoughts overlapped, their emotions collided. The laziness and foolishness of Lucian fused with Harrington's seasoned cunning, his hunger for redemption, his political instinct.
He could feel it. Strength. Focus. Clarity. A second chance.
He whispered under his breath, unheard by others:
"…I will not waste this life."
The hall quieted, unsettled by the sudden change in their "fool prince."
---
The banquet hall's laughter still lingered in the air when a thunderous CLANG shook the chamber.
The great bronze gong at the far end of the Aurum Hall sounded, its deep tone rippling through the crowd. Every noble stiffened, conversations cut short. The velvet curtains parted, and heralds dressed in white and gold strode forth, their voices booming:
"His Radiance, King Alaric Solaris, Summoner of the Dawn, Keeper of the Radiant Throne!"
The musicians fell silent. The courtiers dropped to one knee. Lucian, however, stood awkwardly in place, wine still staining his tunic. His heart hammered not with fear, but with something sharper.
The King rose from his seat, his crimson cloak trailing behind him as he stepped down the golden dais. The floor seemed to quake beneath his armored boots. His eyes, fierce as burning suns, swept across the gathered nobles before settling on Lucian.
"Lucian." The name was spoken not as a greeting, but as judgment.
Every gaze turned. Nobles leaned closer, whispering like crows. The fool will be punished again. Perhaps flogged. Perhaps sent away.
Lucian met his father's gaze and to his own surprise, he did not falter.
"Yes, Father."
The King's brow arched. Even that simple answer was not what the hall expected. Normally Lucian would be slurring excuses, begging to leave, or cracking some crude joke. But now, his tone was calm. Controlled.
"You humiliate our house before lords and vassals," King Alaric said, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. "Wine upon your chest, a vacant gaze in your eyes. What excuse do you offer this time?"
Whispers hissed through the court like serpents.
"Let's hear the fool's babble."
"He'll say the wine attacked him."
"Or perhaps he tripped on his own stupidity."
Lucian inhaled slowly. Harrington's political instincts whirred within him. This was no ordinary scolding. This was a stage. A test. A chance.
He bowed slightly enough to show respect, but not groveling. His voice carried clear through the hall:
"My King, my Father , I will not offer excuses."
Gasps. The nobles blinked. Some even chuckled nervously.
The King's eyes narrowed, but he did not interrupt.
Lucian continued, his voice steady, measured. "You are right. I have shamed myself. I have shamed the Solaris blood. Tonight, I opened my eyes to what I have been a jest, a mockery. But…" He straightened, letting the silence stretch. "What is a fool, if not a man who has yet to learn?"
The hall went utterly still.
Lucian's words weren't loud, but they carried weight. Not drunken rambling but rhetoric, sharpened like a blade. The politicians and schemers in the Solar Council leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
From the side, his eldest brother
Prince Dorian sneered. "Words are wind, brother. You've spoken prettier lies before, only to return to your filth the next day."
Lucian turned his head slowly. Dorian's jaw was tight, his knightly posture perfect, his silver armor polished to a mirror's shine. The very image of the Crown Prince.
Lucian smiled faintly. Ah… the classic first-born. Dutiful. Unyielding. And insecure about the throne.
"I would not expect you to understand, Brother," Lucian said, voice smooth as silk. "After all, you were born with duty carved into your flesh. You have never known failure. How could you understand what it means to rise after falling?"
A ripple spread through the nobles. A murmur. The fool dares…?
Dorian's face flushed red. He stepped forward, hand clenching his sword hilt. But the King raised a hand, silencing him.
The Queen, elegant and unreadable, watched Lucian with sharp interest.
King Alaric studied his son, his booming voice finally breaking the tension:
"…You speak boldly, Lucian. Yet bold words without deeds are nothing but smoke."
Lucian bowed again, deeper this time, but not submissive theatrical, precise, like a man playing chess with gestures.
"Then I ask for a chance, Father. A chance to prove my words with deeds. A chance to shed this mask of folly."
The hall erupted in murmurs. Nobles whispered like wildfire.
"Is this truly the Fool Prince?"
"He speaks as though reborn…"
"Or is this yet another trick?"