"Prince Althurd, the rebels are advancing toward the last noble district!" the commander snapped, breathless.
Althurd's jaw clenched. "Deploy every available knight to the palace walls. Hold them there." The commander bowed and was gone like a shadow.
Fuck. Too soon. He needed time — at least enough to open a line to Tartagalia, to call in favors, to buy the Empire a breath. He moved through the marble corridors toward the throne room with a pace that was all urgency.
A voice slid into his skull, silky and smug. It's because you never listen.
"Shut up," he muttered under his breath.
You think you're tough now? Remember, you are nothing without me.
Althurd's knuckles whitened. The parasite inside him was always there, a second thought that never slept.
"I never said I was," he breathed.
He entered the throne hall and immediately felt the wrongness: it was too still. Fewer guards than usual. He bowed out of habit, head lowered before the Emperor's seat.
"Your Imperial Majesty — the rebels press close. May I be permitted to use our magic?" he said formally.
Silence pooled. The Emperor did not answer.
"Your Imperial Majesty?" Althurd's voice came again, steadier this time, and he drew his gaze up.
The world tilted. The Emperor's throat had been slit. Eyes glassy, mouth stained with blood. A dark, slow river poured from the wound.
"Father!" Althurd cried, sprinting forward, hope and denial in every step — and then a cold, absolute emptiness. He was too late.
"Who would dare—" He stumbled, fury tasting like bile.
Was it an assassin from the rebels? he hissed, then the parasite amusedly taunted: Why so agitated? He's going to die anyway.
Althurd forced a smile that felt like paper over a fracture. Whoever had done this had cleared a path for him—if he could make it to the throne, the crown would be within reach. For a heartbeat he could almost believe it.
Then the world folded.
A dizzy bloom unfurled behind his eyes; the marble ribs of the throne hall spun as if the floor under him had become water. A metallic tang flooded his mouth, sharp and bright, like biting a coin. He spat without thinking; the warm spray left a copper smear across his palm. Heat flamed up his neck and then was suddenly replaced by a hollow cold that hollowed his limbs, as if the blood itself had turned sluggish and treacherous.
His breath came thin, each inhalation scraping. The edges of his vision went soft and mottled, colors bleeding into gray. Words thinned out, smeared at the margins of his thoughts; a pointless tautness seized his fingers until they shook. When he tried to steady himself, the floor pitched beneath his feet as though the palace had become a ship on a storm-tossed sea.
You've been poisoned, the parasite said, clinical and cold, and the sentence fell into him like ice.
"Then why didn't you tell me?" he cried, voice sharp and ragged, fingers clawing at the carved armrest as if it might anchor him.
Whoever made this knew I was in you. The draught was tailored for a host like you, the voice purred. It was meant for someone with me inside.
Althurd's thoughts ricocheted back to the tea — the still cup that reflected nothing, the polite laughter undercuts of that morning. The realization was a physical thing: not merely danger, but desecration. Betrayal burned a slow, poisonous brand into his gut.
"No way…" he whispered. The words came out thin, already distant; energy drained away like tide.
"Do something!" he snapped into the silence in his head, panic flaring.
There is nothing to be done. It has spread. It is too late, the parasite replied, bored cruelty in every syllable.
He laughed then — a cracked, animal sound that scared even him. Limbs trembled, and color leeched from his face. When he placed a hand to his mouth, a cold sheet of sweat slicked his skin; the copper taste returned, thicker now, ink-dark and absolute.
"Don't be impertinent. You should die by my hands."
The sound of parasite was still in his skull when another voice, casual and slow, cut through the hall like a blade sliding through silk. Althurd looked up. In the far doorway lounged the third prince: one hand resting on his sword, heterochromatic eyes like a pair of knives — fixed on him with patient, amused hunger.
"What…?" Althurd managed, every syllable an effort.
The prince's mouth curved. "Oh. So my younger brother knows," he said, as if inspecting an insect he had only just noticed.
Zejidiah did not move from the doorway, yet his presence pressed heavy against the chamber, as though even the silence leaned toward him. Across from him, Althurd's knees threatened to buckle, his chest heaving in ragged bursts. The poisoned fire in his veins blurred his sight until Zeji's outline wavered like smoke.
"Since when… did you know?" Althurd rasped, lips curving into a broken smile. Blood trailed from the corner of his mouth, dripping warm down his chin.
"Why?"
Zejidiah's gaze did not waver. His lips parted only enough for his voice to spill, low and quiet:
"Why did you kill our mother?"
His expression was a mask—blank, unreadable—but his question rang like iron striking stone.
Althurd's laugh, hoarse and manic, filled the throne hall. The parasite stirred in his mind.
Hey, you crazy parasite…
Don't call me that, the voice retorted, irritated but calm.
I know I'm going to die, Althurd thought viciously, so at least let me drag my shitty brother with me.
A pause—then the parasite chuckled.
Hm. I could lend you my power.
"Why, you ask?" Althurd's laughter sharpened, his pupils dilating until he looked half-feral.
He lifted his head, blood streaking his teeth as he shouted:
"Because her ideals disgust me! They disgust me so much I wish she were never my mother!"
His trembling body twisted with rage.
"That's all?" Zejidiah's voice cracked—not with weakness, but with the tight strain of fury threatening to break free. His hand clenched the hilt of his sword so hard veins bulged at his wrist and throat. His teeth grit audibly.
"You killed our mother… just because of that?" His words shook with restrained violence.
Althurd's laugh rolled louder, unhinged, echoing off the vaulted hall like the cry of a dying beast.
"Yeah, so what if I did? What's my weakling little brother gonna do about it?" He spread his arms mockingly, crimson dribbling down his jaw. "Avenge your shitty dead mother who thought her ideals were amusing? Who thought equality could exist between nobles and commoners?" His grin split wider, grotesque. "What a disgusting per—"
Steel cut the air. Zejidiah's restraint snapped. In a single blur of motion, his sword lunged forward, its arc swift and merciless.
Althurd jerked, gritting his teeth as the strike nearly drove through him. His body swayed, faltering, poison gnawing at his strength.
Hey, shitty parasite— his mind growled. If you're going to take over, now is the time!
Don't order me, the voice replied, lazy but edged with hunger.
And then—Althurd's body convulsed. His eyes darkened, his veins blackened like ink spreading under the skin. The magic surged, ripping through muscle and marrow alike.
The mage-dweller had taken control.