After Ronald and Emily departed, the room felt suddenly too large, too quiet. Marcus sat alone for a breath, his chest rising and falling with an agitation he could not soothe. The echo of siblings' laughter faded down the corridor, replaced by the pulse of his own heartbeat.
There was no time to linger.
He rose, legs still unsteady from awakening, yet instinct carried him forward. He pushed into a near-sprint, robes whispering against polished floors as he raced through the corridors of Halgrave Castle. The route to the throne room was etched into him from years of dutiful habit, but now each familiar turn seemed heavier, as if the walls themselves remembered what awaited him.
He reached the monumental doors and did not hesitate. He pressed both hands forward and forced them open, their smooth weight gliding apart. The throne room welcomed him with a familiar stillness, yet today it felt foreign, colder, sharper.
He stepped inside.
Despite being the seat of the kingdom's highest authority, the chamber carried no ostentation. There were no golden statues or gems to flaunt wealth. Every feature seemed carved for meaning instead of display. Towering pillars of pearl-white stone rose on either side, guiding him toward the dais like a silent procession. Their brilliance reflected thin bands of sunlight that seeped through narrow windows above, painting quiet streaks of silver across the floor.
A carpet of deep black stretched along the center, drinking in the light. Its simplicity was almost severe, a deliberate void meant to draw every eye forward. Even the walls were muted, allowing nothing to distract from the crown's true seat.
Only the throne broke the monochrome. It sat atop a modest dais, blooming with roses that clung to the frame in living arrangements. Vibrant crimson petals curled along the armrests and back, tender in appearance. But among them rested thorns that glinted with cold clarity, tracing the silhouette of power. Every thorn was deliberately exposed. It was a gentle reminder that sovereignty was never a comfort. It cut, whether one bled or not.
Marcus barely registered the artistry. His gaze moved past stone and roses and focused solely on the man who sat upon the throne.
King Halgrave.
To the world, he was a jovial monarch. He laughed too loudly, embraced too often, and seemed to stumble his way through history as though the crown were a trinket rather than a burden. He was the kind of king who spoiled his children, played the fool, and never raised his voice.
That was the face the kingdom adored. But before Marcus stood the truth.
The king's facade had fallen entirely. His posture was relaxed, even lazy, yet nothing about him felt soft. He did not need a sharp gaze or stern brow; the quiet pressure radiating from him was enough to make the pillars seem smaller. His aura, now partially unmasked, hummed with calm authority. It reminded Marcus of a deep lake that hid its cold undercurrents beneath a glassy surface.
Newly awakened, Marcus could finally sense the danger beneath that stillness. It made him realize how blind he had been before.
Gemma stood near the throne, composed as always. Her expression did not waver when Marcus reached her side, though her fingers were folded tightly behind her back. The subtle tension betrayed that she, too, felt the weight of the moment.
Only once Marcus arrived did the king speak.
"I suppose it is time I reveal the truth to you both." His voice remained light, almost casual. He did not shift from his relaxed position, leaning against the throne arm as if recounting a story instead of altering the futures of his children.
"First, the matter of why I so desperately required a strong heir."
He raised a hand dismissively, as though brushing aside dust.
"To put it simply, our kingdom is approaching turbulent times. A month ago Mikail and Marcus brought this to my attention. Their observations were correct. The timing has never been worse."
Marcus and Gemma exchanged a glance. Neither interrupted.
The king rose then, descending the steps of the dais with lazy, measured strides. He did not wear a crown. He did not need one. His presence alone signified that he was king.
"I am certain you know how I claimed this throne," he continued. "I did not inherit it. I took it. I struck down my own father and tore the crown from his cold head. History tells that much truth."
He stopped when he reached them. For a long moment, he simply looked at his eldest children. His gaze lingered on Marcus's eyes, the white pupil, violet iris, and black sclera.
A storm of unreadable emotion flickered through him.
"Yet the old texts omit what came after." His voice lowered, though not in volume, only weight. "They do not mention the wound I received. One that has never healed."
Marcus felt a slow chill crawl inside his chest.
"To speak plainly," the king said, tone flat and unflinching, "I have perhaps five years before the injury claims me."
Silence pressed in. Gemma's composure faltered for the briefest moment. Her lips parted, then closed again, restrained by training. Marcus felt something in his stomach twist, but the sensation was fleeting. His mind did not crumble. It simply shifted. Five years. Not long. But not nothing.
The king continued.
"During that time, Gemma must ascend to the throne. She is my successor. That will not change."
Gemma bowed her head once, acknowledging the truth before her. Marcus noticed that her hands trembled slightly behind her back. The king turned his gaze to Marcus.
"But now, because you have awakened, your role has changed."
Marcus lowered his head slightly. He did not speak.
"Your worth is no longer tied to strategy or observation. You must pursue strength."
Those words resonated inside Marcus like iron striking stone.
"There is a tournament one month from now. It is held for the freshly awakened. You will enter and take first place."
Marcus felt no need to ask why. The answer followed immediately.
"The victor receives a relic. You will need it." The king lifted a hand in idle gesture. "Speak to Mikail for details. He has prepared the relevant information."
Marcus nodded once. A simple response. But inside, a fire stirred, quiet and hungry.
The king shifted his attention back to Gemma.
"As for you, read the political summaries Marcus has assembled. Review our kingdom's ongoing and projected relations. I expect you to understand them in full."
Gemma bowed again, this time lower.
"Yes, Father."
The king waved a hand toward the door.
"Now go."
The command carried no anger, no tension. It was simply final. He did not look at them again. He returned to his throne and sat, sinking back into that lazy posture with the same disinterested grace. The roses rustled, petals trembling around him.
Gemma touched Marcus's arm lightly. Her expression softened for just a heartbeat. They exchanged a look that held more than words could manage. Sadness. Resolve. Fear. All were present, woven together.
She departed first, leaving the chamber in a steady stride.
Marcus remained a moment longer. His eyes trailed across the room, from the towering pillars to the black carpet to the roses' blood-red hue. The image of his father seated among thorns was strangely fitting. Beautiful. Dangerous. Mortal.
Five years. Marcus finally bowed. It was a simple gesture. Respectful, yet distant. Then he turned and exited the throne room. As the heavy doors closed, their echo followed him through the corridor, a quiet toll marking the end of one life and the beginning of another.
The weight of inheritance no longer sat upon him. That pressure belonged to Gemma now. His burden was different. He did not need to rule. He needed to win. He needed to survive.
And somewhere deep behind his eyes, the presence that watched in silence stirred again. Its whisper brushed the edge of his thoughts, content and patient.
Stronger.
Always stronger.
Marcus inhaled slowly, feeling the chill of the abyss settle within him once more. He did not fear the task set before him. He had seen something darker than death and lived to tell it.
A tournament was nothing.
He began walking, steps steady. The path ahead was uncertain, painted in violet and shadow, but he would follow it. Whether it led to glory or ruin no longer mattered.
His eyes had already chosen.