The Morning After the Storm
Dawn crept into the East Wing—not a burst of gold, but a hush of pale radiance. Mournful and reverent, as though the heavens themselves dared not wake him too loudly.
Anya sat still beside his bed, her shawl pulled tight over her shoulders. She wondered if his breathing would change, if the spells weaving light under him were enough. The crackling braziers had dimmed to embers. Long, slanted shadows stretched across the marble floor. The runes beneath the bed—etched with light-aligned harmonization spells—flickered faintly, responding to his resting breath.
Charles lay face-down, body half-curled into the silk sheets, as if the world still weighed on him even in sleep. But his breathing was steady now. His aura, though faint, pulsed with rhythm. No more sharp spikes of elemental backlash. No more involuntary twitching from lightning saturation or qi recoil.
He had survived.
Again.
Anya's gaze lingered on him longer than propriety would allow.
So fragile once. So utterly small.
Her heart twisted, a sharp ache of memory pressing against her ribs.
It had been fourteen years ago, in the last days of winter. The frost hadn't lifted even when the sun was high. The wind had bitten through every curtain and wall of the manor—like it carried death in its teeth.
She had stood at Duchess Evelyne's bedside, trembling—not from cold, but from grief already blooming in her veins.
The Duchess, pale and frail as paper, had clutched her hand.
"Swear to me, Anya," she had whispered, each syllable cracked with pain. "Not just to serve him. Not just to feed or clothe him. Love him. Love him… like he's your own."
Anya had sobbed. "My lady, please, don't—"
"Promise me!" Evelyne had wheezed, voice laced with desperation. Her eyes—still fierce, still alight with the stubborn magic that made her feared across kingdoms—bored into Anya's soul. "He will be alone, and he cannot afford to be. He has no one. Not truly. Not even Alaric."
And Anya—once the star apprentice of a Count's alchemical academy, once dreaming of spell towers and arcane laboratories in the Imperial Capital—had bowed her head.
"I swear. I'll never leave him."
She could have returned to Velmora. Her brother, Count Jeoff Snider, had offered to bring her home, even pleaded. She could have had titles, libraries, access to cultivation resources, and a second chance at magic.
But she'd stayed.
Because Evelyne's dying words clung to her soul. Because the boy needed someone fiercely, and she needed—achingly—to matter when her dream had died with her mentor.
And so her cultivation had stalled. Her alchemy studies had gone dormant. Her spiritual veins—once resonating with such promise—had dulled. She was not weak. But she had placed every ounce of herself into raising a boy whom the world had forgotten.
And now that forgotten boy was rising—a storm unchained, raw and relentless.
A weapon. A strategist. A sovereign. Somewhere in all of that, he still clung to her—the small, wounded part of him craving her warm baths and herbal wine, seeking the solace they offered amid his many burdens.
Anya blinked away the memory and looked again at Charles—no, at Lord Charlemagne—sleeping like the war hadn't happened.
"Do you know what it costs to raise someone like you?" she whispered, her voice too soft for even the walls to catch. "Everything. It costs everything. And I would pay it again."
His chest rose and fell, steady as the tide.
The incense had long since faded, but her hands still carried the scent of Stardrop Essence and Dreamveil Elixir. Her fingertips tingled faintly from the Light Qi she'd channeled hours before, still resonating from the massage—not a healer's touch, not just a servant's duty... but a mother's vow fulfilled again.
She smiled faintly.
"You have your mother's fire. And your father's temper, gods help us."
There was a long silence. Then a rustle—the subtle twitch of his fingers curling into the sheets. He was dreaming.
She silently begged fate to grant him just one good dream.
Tomorrow, he would rise again. He would wear his charisma like armor, and ambition like a blade. He would train. Scheme. Conquer. Burn through the world like it owed him an apology.
And she would be here—quiet, ever-present. A shadow with tea. A warmth in the cold.
"I'll keep your promise, Evelyne," she whispered into the morning. "Even when he no longer needs me."
And just then, the runes beneath the bed flared—soft violet and gold—and for a heartbeat, she saw it:
A halo.
Not just around his body. But his soul.
Like a sovereign not yet crowned… but chosen.
The Crownless King Wakes
The first sound that greeted him wasn't birdsong or the clatter of the estate awakening. It was the faint scrape of a teacup on porcelain.
Delicate. Familiar.
Charles's eyes fluttered open, the world a haze of silver light and soft linen. The canopy above his bed shimmered faintly, residual light from the runic array still thrumming along the seams of the silk. His body felt... heavy. But whole.
For the first time in what felt like weeks, there was no stabbing ache in his ribs, no chi backlash coiling in his veins like barbed wire. Just a quiet, latent pressure deep in his core—like a dragon sleeping at the bottom of a storm.
He blinked. Then blinked again.
Anya sat by the open window, hair pinned in a loose braid, holding a lacquered tray of steam-kissed dumplings and rice porridge infused with golden leaf. Beside her, a cup of emerald-colored tea glowed faintly.
"Ah, the invalid stirs," she said dryly, not even looking up from her stitching. "Quick, fetch the scribes. The miracle must be recorded."
Charles groaned. "If this is the afterlife, you're doing a poor job selling it."
"Oh?" She raised a brow. "Because I distinctly recall dragging your soggy corpse out of a bath like an overboiled crab."
"I was meditating."
"You were convulsing."
He sat up slowly, wincing only once. "Same difference."
The tray floated toward him, gently guided by a flicker of Anya's Light Qi. He accepted it with a grunt of thanks, eyeing the dumplings like they were made of platinum.
"Verdantblood pork dumplings, Phoenixroot broth, and a soul-calming tea blend," she recited. "Don't ask for the recipe. You don't pay me enough."
Charles popped a dumpling into his mouth, chewed once, then sighed like a dying poet.
"Stars above… If I ever marry, it's for this alone."
Anya rolled her eyes. "Noted. I'll tell the kitchen girl she's your type."
They shared a brief silence.
A rare warmth settled between them—not loud, not saccharine. Just there.
Then Charles's gaze turned toward the window, the horizon just beginning to bloom with sunlight over the distant ridges of Zephyrland. He wrestled with a mixture of anticipation and dread for the coming days, feeling the pressure mounting beneath the fragile peace of the morning.
"We need to move soon," he said at last, quietly.
Anya didn't argue. "You've only just recovered."
"I've only just started." He set the tray aside and exhaled. "The loot from the serpent hunt is already shifting things. The East Wing's morale is rising. Borris and Wendy are ready. And I—" he touched his chest lightly, where his core now pulsed like a steady drum "—am finally stable."
His fingers flexed, testing the weight of his body. It responded with sharp readiness. The fire in his veins had tempered into something stronger. Focused.
"You're planning to break through to Core Realm soon," she said. It wasn't a question.
Charles gave a sideways glance. "The world doesn't wait for stragglers. And the next stage of this game? It's already begun. The banquet, the academy, the rebellion... Everything's in motion."
Anya rose, smoothing her dress. "Then you'll need allies. Not just servants. Not just soldiers."
He met her gaze. "Then help me find them."
"I already have." She gave a small smile. "You just haven't noticed."
A pause.
Then he laughed, low and rough.
"Still too sharp for a retired alchemist."
"Who said I retired?" she said, tossing a small crystal vial onto his lap. It pulsed with faint blue mist. "That's the last of my Stardrop Essence blend. Next time you nearly destroy your meridians, you're on your own."
He turned the vial over in his palm, brows raised. "Still hoarding miracles, I see."
"No," she murmured, voice trembling with devotion. "I'm saving them for the only fool I'd give my life for—every miracle, every last drop."
His eyes softened.
There were many kinds of loyalty in this world. The kind forged in contracts. The kind bought with gold. The kind carved in blood.
And then… There was Anya's.
Unshakable. Quiet. And deeper than most men ever deserved.
Charles leaned back, finishing his tea.
He would rest for a few more hours. Then gather Borris and Wendy. Then set plans in motion.
The capital awaited. Velmora awaited. But more than that, the future he intended to seize awaited.
But more than that—the future he intended to seize awaited.
And this time, he wouldn't arrive crawling.
He would arrive crowned.
Assembly for Departure
Morning broke like a sword drawn from its sheath—sharp, brilliant, and ready for war.
Sunlight splintered off the east-facing towers of House Ziglar's East Wing, kissing the courtyard where wind stirred the banners and tension brewed in the air like the calm before a glorious battle. Servants bustled, polishing last-minute saddles and tightening straps. Sparks of lightning crackled intermittently from the open stables, where the most fearsome mounts this side of the Davonan frontier waited to be unleashed.
Charles Alden Vale—now Charlemagne Ziglar, heir of a rising storm—stood at the center of it all, a half-cape slung over one shoulder, eyes gleaming beneath lashes darkened by sleepless planning. His presence radiated readiness, his shadow long and regal. But even he couldn't help the faint smile tugging at his lips as he watched the ragtag army forming under his command.
Knight Elmer, ever the strategist, had chosen not to accompany Charles this time. Instead, he'd sent his two most trusted men: the Twin Thorns of the North, a pair whose names alone could stir dread in tavern brawlers and beast tamers alike.
Kael, the elder by eight minutes, stood like a glacier in motion. Core Realm Rank 10. Earth affinity. His massive sword was strapped across his back like a slab of mountain iron, and his armor shimmered with embedded earth runes, the brown-gold of stormstone steel. His expression had only two modes: scowl and deeper scowl. If you asked him what joy was, he'd probably say "a sharpened blade and silence."
Karel, his younger twin and walking contradiction, was all heat and swagger. Core Realm Rank 9. Fire affinity. An archer of legendary accuracy with a composite longbow carved from Ashenflare wood and strung with phoenix-sinew, he wore a flamboyant red scarf that had no defensive value whatsoever. Beside the bow, a slim rapier hung at his waist, more a statement of elegance than function. His grin was the stuff of mischief and low-level court scandals.
"Are we escorting a noble heir," Karel drawled, "or preparing for a romance novel? Because I brought the wrong cloak if we're going for brooding hero aesthetics."
"Be silent," Kael grunted. "Or I'll bury you in your own metaphors."
Charles snorted. "If I die on this trip, it'll be from listening to you two argue."
"Wouldn't be the worst way to go," Karel said with a wink.
Next came Wendy, her Windblade Daggers strapped to her hips, her presence quiet but razor-sharp. She looked more assassin than maid now, posture straight and balanced, as if every step might become an ambush. Her wind affinity shimmered faintly whenever she moved, like air itself made room for her blade.
Behind her loomed Borris, the one-eyed former master blacksmith, now healed enough to stand proud once more. Though his cultivation was still recovering, the aura of a seasoned warrior clung to him like coal-dust to forge fire. He carried a heavy satchel filled with portable crafting tools and half-finished enchantments. When Charles looked his way, the grizzled man gave a single grunt of approval—the Borris equivalent of a war speech.
"Wendy," Borris muttered, eyes flicking toward the girl. "If you get yourself killed, I'll be pissed."
Wendy gave him a cheeky grin. "Yes, instructor."
Charles grinned, already envisioning the chaos these two would unleash on each other. He wasn't sure if they'd end up a legendary duo or burn half a province down trying.
Rounding out the group were two more of Elmer's trusted elites.
Andy, Core Realm Rank 5, berserker-type with metal affinity, looked like someone had taken a war hammer and taught it how to smirk. His arms were thick as tree trunks, and two massive great hammers were strapped across his back like overkill made manifest.
"Please let something attack us on the road," Andy muttered. "I haven't crushed anything in three days. I'm starting to dream of punching soup."
"Maybe we'll find you a squirrel," Charles offered.
"I'll make stew out of its family," Andy said, completely serious.
Beside him stood Donald, Core Realm Rank 6 swordsman, lean and disciplined. His wind-cut silver hair and long jade-green cloak made him look like a rogue noble fallen from grace. He carried a long blade with an air of serenity and rarely spoke unless needed.
"The formation's balanced," Donald said simply. "We can repel mid-tier beast waves without reinforcements."
"And look good doing it," Karel added. "Did I mention I polished my bow for this trip?"
"Your bow's the only thing that'll shine by the time we reach Velmora," Kael muttered.
Just then, a fresh roll of thunder cracked through the sky—not from the heavens, but from the stables.