The first thing he felt was breath.
Not his own — too shallow, too weak, too… human. It rattled in fragile lungs that could scarcely hold air.
Alaric Kaelthar opened his eyes. The world above him was not marble ceilings or burning light, but wood beams, cracked and mold-stained. The scent was not incense and gold, but straw and damp.
He lay in a bed too small for his body, though his body itself was smaller than it had been. His hands were pale, thin, more bone than flesh. The rings of kings were gone. The calluses of war absent. His voice, when he spoke, came as a rasp:
"…Pathetic."
Yet in that whisper was iron. The room quivered. A spider skittering across the beams froze, its legs twitching. The boy's lips curled. Even here, even in this shell, his words reached further than they should.
The King of Kings still lived.
The Law of Desire
Power, in this world, was no gift of birth alone. It was the marrow of will, the fire of belief sharpened into reality. Men called it many names — blessing, curse, miracle — but the scholars of old wrote of it as the Law of Desire.
It was simple, and cruel.
Every soul held within it a single truth: its deepest hunger, the one thing it would bleed for without hesitation. When that hunger grew fierce enough, when desire turned to obsession, it bled through the veil of the world and reshaped reality itself.
Most men never touched it. Their hearts were shallow, their dreams weak. They prayed, but prayer without fire is only breath wasted on the wind.
But those few whose desire burned bright enough carved miracles into the world.
A mother whose only dream was to shield her child might awaken a power of barriers unbreakable.
A knight obsessed with speed might blur until his form outran arrows.
A tyrant who longed for eternal control could command chains that bound even the free will of others.
Desire was the root. Reality was the fruit.
And Alaric? His desire had never been hidden.
The world itself had bent beneath him once. And when the gods struck him down, his final words had not been surrender, but a vow:
"I will return. I will be divine."
And so his power was not shield or sword, nor fire or shadow.
His was Decree.
Where others begged the world to change, he did not ask. He declared.
And reality obeyed.
If Alaric Kaelthar said the sky was red, then the sky bled crimson.
If he decreed that silence should fall, no man could speak until he willed it broken.
If he demanded a man's knees buckle, the man knelt, spine shattered or soul torn, but kneeling all the same.
A king's word had always been law.
Alaric's word was law to creation itself.
He pushed himself upright, examining the frail body he had taken. His reflection caught in a warped bronze plate showed the face of a boy — no older than fourteen, with bright blonde hair matted to his skull and crimson eyes too large for his thin cheeks.
Soft hands. Soft frame. Yet the eyes… the eyes had something. They were not wholly dull.
Memories rushed like a tide. A boy's life unfurled within him — the name Caelum Deythar, youngest son of House Deythar, a noble family famed for its devotion to the Faith of Aurelion, the Sun God.
He smirked. The irony was sharp enough to cut. To think he, the one who spat in the faces of gods, would awaken in the line of their most devout servants.
The boy's life had been miserable. Born weak, a constant shame to a family of devout warriors and priests. His siblings shone like stars — one a knight blessed with flame, another a priestess hailed as touched by divinity. Caelum had nothing. No blessing. No strength. Only whispers in the halls and pity in the eyes of servants.
The bastard is weak because his faith was always shaken. He envied power but doubted the gods.
A perfect vessel. Forgotten. Overlooked.
"Your life is mine, your desire is mine, and through me, you shall become what you were too small to imagine."
The door creaked. An older woman, a maid in plain garb, entered with a tray of broth. She froze when she saw him sitting upright.
"You… you're awake? Thank the Sun, young master, I'll fetch the priestess—"
Alaric raised a finger.
"Stop."
The word was soft. But the tray rattled, broth sloshing over the rim. The woman froze in place, limbs locking as if bound. Her eyes widened in terror.
Alaric studied the effect with satisfaction. His Decree was weak in this vessel, the echo of his true might dimmed — but it was there. Even in this shell, his word carried weight.
"You will say nothing," he whispered. "Not of my awakening. Not of this moment. Do you understand?"
The woman nodded, tears streaming down her face, though her body could not move.
"Good. Leave."
She turned, stumbling as the Decree released her, and fled the room.
Alaric leaned back against the headboard, lips curving into a thin smile. His body was weak. His power dim. But the essence of his divinity endured.
And that was enough.
He considered his options.
To rise too quickly would draw attention — not that he feared it, but it would waste time. The gods had struck him once, and the fools of this age would surely call it justice. They would send their champions, their priests, their so-called "chosen."
Let them. But not yet.
For now, he would let them believe this boy was nothing. A fragile, overlooked shadow in the house of zealots.
Not out of fear. Not out of shame. But because it amused him to see the world mock what they could not comprehend.
When he rose, he would not rise as a spark easily snuffed out. He would rise as a blazing inferno.
And when the gods looked down again, they would see not a boy, not a mortal, but the shadow of the throne that even heaven could not unseat.
"Let them think me weak," he whispered. "Let them sneer. I am not hiding. I am waiting. A king does not rush to kneel before cattle. He lets them graze… until the butcher's blade falls."
His laughter filled the small room, cold and low, and the beams overhead seemed to creak in fear.
The memories of Caelum's life painted the path before him. In a year's time, the boy was to be sent to the Aurelion Academy, the training ground of the Faith's chosen and the empire's noble heirs.
It was there the children of lords honed their powers, their Desires sharpened by rivalry and ambition. It was there the church's influence wrapped like chains around the necks of the young.
A perfect nest of arrogance, faith, and pride.
And a perfect place for Alaric to begin again.
He would not creep in shadows. He would not skulk. He would walk into that academy as a weak and insignificant flame.
And slowly, surely, he will turn that flame into a firestorm.
Every sneer, every whisper, every prayer they raised to their absent god — he would turn to laughter when his Decrees made their miracles look like parlor tricks.
The gods had punished him once. He will make them bleed for this infamy.
They will understand…
His decree was, is and will always be reality.
For now, Alaric Kaelthar closed his eyes and let the frail boy's body rest. His time would come. Soon the world would learn that a king does not die. He waits, and when he rises, the heavens tremble.
And in the silence of the room, a single thought lingered like a curse and a promise:
If gods rule the skies… then I will build a throne higher still.
What is a god… to a king reborn?