The grease from the roasted boar was the only thing Archibald had claimed as his own in seventeen years. It coated his cracked hands, a stubborn film that no amount of lye or cold well-water could truly strip away. In the bowels of the Palace of Aethelgard, the air was a thick soup of steam, roasted fat, and the rhythmic, metallic clink-clink-clink of the scullery.
Archibald was scrawny—a collection of sharp elbows and protruding ribs held together by a tunic that had been handed down through three generations of servants. He wasn't built for the sword. His wrists were thin as dry kindling, and his lungs wheezed if he carried the heavy copper cauldrons too quickly. But as he scrubbed, his eyes often strayed to the high, narrow windows that looked out toward the training grounds.
There, he could see the Grim Ledger in action.
When the knights sparred, he could see it—the faint, shimmering haze of red mist that clung to their shoulders. It was the mark of the Slain. In Aethelgard, power wasn't just inherited; it was harvested. The more men a warrior killed, the denser their Ledger became, granting them unnatural speed, skin as hard as boiled leather, and a presence that could make a commoner's heart stop from across a courtyard.
"Don't look at 'em, Arch," muttered Old Hobb, the head cook, splashing a bucket of gray water into the trough. "Those boys are born with steel in their hands. You were born with a rag. Stick to the rag, or you'll end up in someone else's Ledger before the moon sets."
Archibald didn't look away. "The King has a count of four thousand, doesn't he?"
"Four thousand two hundred and twelve," Hobb whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of awe and terror. "A man like that doesn't walk; he bends the air around him. Now, scrub. The Prince's feast won't clean itself."
Archibald dipped a plate into the water. He didn't want to kill. The thought of a sword piercing flesh made his stomach do a slow, nauseating roll. But he wanted the respect. He wanted to be the man who stood beside the throne, not the boy who scrubbed the floor beneath it. Specifically, he wanted to be seen by Princess Elara.
She was the twin to the crown prince, Valerius. Where Valerius was a storm of gold and violence, Elara was a quiet flame. She was the only noble who didn't look through Archibald as if he were made of glass. Once, while he was cleaning the soot from her fireplace, she had offered him a sweetmeat. He had saved the wrapper for three months.
A sudden, jarring boom shook the kitchen.
It wasn't the sound of a falling pot. It was a deep, tectonic shudder that rattled the teeth in Archibald's skull. Dust rained from the ceiling, graying the freshly cleaned silver.
"The hell was that?" Hobb growled, reaching for a meat cleaver.
The kitchens went silent. Then came the screaming. It started high in the upper spires—the sound of hundreds of voices cut short by the wet slap of steel.
The heavy oak doors at the top of the servant's stairs burst open. A man tumbled down the steps, his throat opened so wide his head hung at an impossible angle. He hit the stone floor with a sickening thud. Archibald stared. Hovering over the dead man was a faint, dissipating wisp of red smoke—his life force, his "count," being sucked toward the doorway.
A figure stepped into the light of the kitchen fires.
It was a knight of the Royal Guard, but his white cloak was stained a muddy, dark crimson. His eyes were wide, glowing with a frenzied, predatory light. Behind him stood Commander Malakor, the High General of the Aethelgard Armies. Malakor was a mountain of a man, his Ledger so dense it looked like he was draped in a cloak of literal blood. His count was in the thousands, and the sheer pressure of his presence made Archibald drop to his knees, his breath hitching.
"The King is dead," Malakor's voice boomed, calm and terrifyingly cold. "The era of the bloodline ends tonight. From now on, the throne belongs to the strongest. To the Ledger."
"General?" Hobb stammered, holding the cleaver with trembling hands. "What are you—"
Malakor didn't even look at him. He made a slight flick of his wrist. A shockwave of pure force—the condensed power of four thousand kills—ripped through the kitchen. The heavy stone prep table split in half. Hobb was thrown back into the roaring hearth, silenced instantly.
"Kill the servants," Malakor ordered his men. "Leave no witnesses to the old world. I go for the Prince."
Archibald was paralyzed. He was tucked in the shadows of the wash-trough, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The rebel knight moved with terrifying speed, his sword humming as he decapitated the pastry chef.
Archibald knew he had to move. If he stayed, he was a corpse. If he ran, he was a target.
He scrambled backward, his hand slipping on the greasy floor. His fingers closed around a heavy, cast-iron frying pan—the one used for the heavy steaks. It was thick with cold lard.
The rebel knight turned, spotting Archibald. The knight grinned, his Ledger flickering. To him, Archibald was a "zero"—a meaningless kill that wouldn't even add a spark to his count.
"A rat in the scullery," the knight sneered, raising his blade. "Die quietly, boy."
The knight lunged.
Archibald didn't move because he was brave. He moved because he slipped. His heel hit a patch of spilled oil from a broken lamp. His legs went out from under him, and he fell backward with a pathetic yelp.
The knight's sword whistled through the exact space where Archibald's neck had been a millisecond before. The momentum of the knight's heavy strike, combined with the lack of resistance, pulled him forward.
At the same time, Archibald's arms flailed wildly as he tried to catch his balance. The heavy cast-iron pan swung in a desperate, unintentional arc.
CLANG.
The bottom of the pan caught the knight squarely in the temple with the sound of a church bell. It was a one-in-a-million shot. The knight's head snapped sideways, his helmet denting inward. He crumpled like a sack of grain, his sword clattering across the floor.
Archibald sat on the floor, gasping, the pan still clutched in his white-knuckled grip.
A tiny, singular wisp of red smoke—the knight's modest count of fifty-two—floated toward Archibald. It touched his chest and vanished. Archibald felt a sudden, jabbing heat in his veins, a spark of stolen strength that made his vision sharpen.
I just killed a knight, he thought, his head spinning. With a frying pan.
But there was no time to celebrate. The screaming was getting louder, and the palace was beginning to burn. He had to find the Prince. Not because he was a hero, but because the Prince's chambers were the only place with a reinforced exit to the secret tunnels.
Archibald scrambled to his feet, grabbed a kitchen knife to go with his pan, and ran toward the royal wing, dodging shadows and flames.
He rounded the corner into the Great Hall and skidded to a halt.
There, surrounded by twenty rebel soldiers, stood Prince Valerius. The Prince was a vision of fury, his twin golden swords dancing, his own Ledger—a count of nearly three hundred—glowing brightly. Beside him stood his siblings: Elara, clutching a short-staff, and young Julian, who looked paralyzed with fear.
They were being pushed back toward a balcony. The soldiers were closing in.
"Yield, Highness!" one of the rebels shouted. "Malakor holds the crown!"
"I yield only to the Grave!" Valerius roared, but Archibald could see the Prince was flagging. His movements were slowing. A soldier raised a crossbow, aiming right at the Prince's unarmored side while Valerius was busy parrying two others.
Archibald didn't think. He saw a heavy decorative tapestry hanging from a loose iron rod directly above the crossbowman.
Archibald threw his kitchen knife. He didn't aim for the man. He aimed for the rope holding the rod—a shot he would miss nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a thousand.
The knife wobbled through the air, completely off-target, but it struck a polished shield on the wall, ricocheted at a sharp angle, and sliced clean through the frayed hemp rope.
The iron rod and three hundred pounds of velvet tapestry collapsed.
It didn't just hit the crossbowman; it fell onto four soldiers, tangling them in a mess of gold fringe and heavy fabric.
Valerius seized the opening, spinning in a whirlwind of steel and ending the three men in front of him. He turned, eyes wide, searching for his savior. He found Archibald standing there, shivering, holding a greasy frying pan.
"You?" Valerius gasped, his chest heaving.
"My Lord," Archibald squeaked. "We... we should probably leave."
The Prince didn't have time to process the absurdity of a scullery boy holding a frying pan in a massacre. A roar echoed from the corridor behind them—the sound of Malakor's heavy infantry, their armored boots rhythmic and relentless, like the heartbeat of a dying kingdom.
"Move!" Valerius commanded, grabbing Julian by the collar of his tunic. "To the Solar! The hidden passage is behind the King's bust!"
"Wait!" Elara cried out, her eyes darting to the fallen tapestry. "The Guard? Where is the rest of the Royal Guard?"
"Dead or turned," a new voice spat. From the shadows of the vaulted ceiling, a knight in gleaming silver plate dropped down, landing with the grace of a predatory cat. This was Sir Kaelen. His Ledger was a sharp, vibrating violet-red, a shimmering aura that spoke of a hundred and fifty lives taken with clinical precision. He looked at Archibald for a fraction of a second, his lip curling in a sneer that didn't even acknowledge the boy as a human being.
"Highness, the North Wing has fallen," Kaelen reported, his sword already wet. "Lord Vane is holding the Lion's Gate with thirty men. We have a window, but it's closing. Why is this... stench... following you?" He gestured with a blood-slicked chin toward Archibald.
"He saved my life, Kaelen," Valerius said, his voice tight. "Barely."
"A fluke," Kaelen dismissed, already turning to lead the way. "A rabbit can trip a wolf if the moon is right. It doesn't make the rabbit a warrior. Come. Now!"
They ran.
The palace was no longer a home; it was a labyrinth of smoke and screams. Archibald trailed at the back, his heart hammering so hard it felt like it would crack his ribs. He still held the frying pan. It felt heavy, a grounding weight in a world that had gone mad. Every few yards, they passed bodies—men Archibald had served breakfast to only hours before. The red mist of their Kill Counts hung in the air like an unbreathable fog, slowly being drawn toward the invaders.
As they reached the King's Solar, the massive oak doors were already splintered. Standing there, silhouetted by the orange glow of the burning library, was Chancellor Vane.
Vane was the man who had managed the kingdom's coin for forty years. He was thin, elegant, and had always been the King's most trusted advisor. He stood with his hands tucked into his silken sleeves, looking perfectly calm amidst the carnage.
"Chancellor!" Julian cried out, a sob of relief breaking from his throat. "They killed Father! We have to go!"
Vane didn't move. He looked at the young prince with a cold, detached pity. "The King died because he was a relic, child. He believed that a crown was a matter of birth. Malakor... Malakor understands the Ledger. Power belongs to those who take it."
The air in the room suddenly grew heavy. Sir Kaelen stepped forward, his sword rising. "Traitor. I'll add your soul to my count before the minute is up."
Vane smiled thinly. He slid his hands out of his sleeves. He didn't carry a sword. Instead, his hands were stained a deep, permanent crimson—the mark of a High Arcanist of the Ledger. "I have presided over the executions of ten thousand criminals in this city, Sir Kaelen. Do you really think your little hundred-and-fifty can stand against the weight of ten thousand?"
Vane clapped his hands.
A shockwave of sheer, pressurized blood-lust erupted from him. It wasn't physical wind, but a metaphysical weight that crushed them all to the floor. Archibald felt as if an invisible giant had placed a foot on his chest. Valerius dropped to one knee, his golden swords scraping against the marble as he tried to stay upright. Even Kaelen was pinned, his armor groaning under the pressure.
"Malakor wants the Prince alive for the public execution," Vane said, walking slowly toward them. "The girl and the boy are optional. And the servant..." He looked at Archibald, who was sprawling on the floor, his face pressed against the cold stone. "The servant is an insult to the eyes."
Vane raised a hand, and the red aura around him condensed into a jagged spike of energy. He aimed it at Archibald's head.
Archibald's eyes were wide. He saw a loose marble tile beneath Vane's heel—one he had been meaning to report to the masons for weeks because it sat unevenly over a steam pipe.
"Die, nothing," Vane whispered.
At that exact moment, the fires in the library below reached a pressurized pocket of gas in the heating vents. The palace groaned. The "loose" tile didn't just shift—it exploded upward as a jet of superheated steam hissed out.
The sudden blast caught Vane off-balance. His foot slipped, his elegant robes tangling in his legs. The spike of red energy intended for Archibald's skull fired wild, striking the heavy chandelier chain above.
The massive iron chandelier, holding a hundred lit candles, groaned and snapped. It didn't fall on Vane. It fell on the doorway behind him, right as a squad of Malakor's elite soldiers was rushing in. The crash was deafening, blocking the entrance with a mountain of twisted iron and fire.
The pressure of Vane's aura flickered for a second as he scrambled to regain his footing.
"Now!" Archibald screamed, his voice cracking.
Valerius didn't hesitate. He lunged forward, not at Vane, but at the secret lever behind the King's bust. The wall groaned open, revealing a dark, downward-sloping tunnel.
"Kaelen, get them inside!" Valerius roared.
Kaelen grabbed Elara and Julian, shoving them into the blackness. Archibald scrambled after them. As he passed the threshold, he looked back. Valerius was locked in a desperate clash with Vane, his twin swords sparking against the Chancellor's shimmering red shields.
"Go, Valerius!" Elara screamed from the tunnel.
The Prince threw a heavy glass decanter of wine at Vane's face—another distraction—and dived into the tunnel just as Vane's energy blast tore the King's bust into gravel. Archibald slammed his shoulder into the hidden release mechanism on the inside.
The stone door ground shut, sealing them in total darkness.
For a long moment, the only sound was the heavy, jagged breathing of the five survivors. The smell of damp earth and ancient dust replaced the scent of blood and smoke.
"Is... is everyone alive?" Julian's voice was small, trembling in the dark.
"I am here," Elara whispered, her hand finding Archibald's arm in the dark. He froze, his heart leaping into his throat. Her touch was warm, a stark contrast to the cold fear in his gut.
"I live," Kaelen snapped, the sound of his armor clanking as he stood. "No thanks to the scullery rat. You nearly got us killed with that outburst, boy."
"He saved us again, Kaelen," Valerius's voice was grim. A torch sputtered to life—the Prince had found one in a wall bracket. His face was streaked with soot and blood. He looked at Archibald. "The steam. The chandelier. You have the devil's own luck, Archibald."
"I... I just noticed the tile was loose, My Lord," Archibald stammered, shrinking back from Kaelen's murderous glare.
Valerius looked down the long, dark tunnel. "It doesn't matter. We are out of the palace, but we are not out of the city. Malakor will have the gates closed by now. We have thirty loyalists waiting at the end of this tunnel in the slums. Thirty men against an army of thousands."
The Prince looked at his sister, then at the scrawny boy with the frying pan. His expression hardened.
"We are going to the Outer Rim," Valerius declared. "We will go from village to village. We will find the men who still remember my father's name. And if we cannot find an army, we will build one from the dirt up."
"With what?" Kaelen asked mockingly. "We have no gold. No supplies. We have a Prince, a traitorous Chancellor hunting us, and a servant who fights with kitchenware."
"We have the Ledger," Valerius said, his eyes glowing in the torchlight. "And we have Archibald. If his luck holds, we might just live long enough to see Malakor's head on a pike."
They began to move, descending deeper into the guts of the city. But as Archibald walked, he felt a strange, pulsing warmth in his chest—the single 'kill' he had claimed in the kitchen. The knight's count of fifty-two was small, but to Archibald, it felt like a sun burning under his skin.
He didn't know it yet, but the Ledger didn't just record kills. It recorded intent. And for the first time in his life, Archibald didn't just want to survive. He wanted to win.
Behind them, a muffled boom echoed through the stone. The door was being forced.
"They're coming," Julian whispered.
"Let them come," Valerius said, though his hand shook slightly on the torch. "The hunt has begun."