[Lavinia’s POV—Outside the Black Wall Fortress—Continuation]
The wind was colder today, Sharper and Less forgiving. As if even the air god had finally decided he no longer wished to comfort anyone in this cursed war.
The moment I stepped past the fortress gates, the noise hit me like a crashing tide—Screaming. Shoving. Grain sacks tearing open like burst veins.
The villagers—skinny, ragged, hollow-eyed—were clawing at each other in the mud for a single sack of rations.
One man slammed another to the ground. A woman ripped food from a child’s hands. Two young men punched each other until blood dripped onto the frost.
My jaw clenched.
"SEIZE EVERY ONE OF THEM!!!"
My roar echoed across the field.
Soldiers rushed forward at once, pulling the villagers apart with brutal efficiency. The moment those starving people saw me—blood-stained cloak, cold crimson eyes—they froze mid-fight, But the desperation... It still burned in their eyes.
Sir Haldor reached me and bowed. "Your Highness, according to reports, they were left starving for months while the Meren soldiers controlled this region. They barely got any rations. Fear and hunger... have turned them wild."
I stepped toward them slowly.
Dozens of villagers—men, women, and children—kneeling in the mud, shivering, some clutching empty sacks, some crying silently. Many are too weak to even lift their heads.
Pathetic. And heartbreaking.
But I didn’t show that.
I let my voice fall calm and cruel.
"It’s pitiful, truly..." I said, pacing before them, my boots splashing in the muddy grain. "You have endured so much under Meren’s rule. Starvation. Abuse. Neglect."
Some lowered their heads, ashamed.
"But now—" my voice sharpened, slicing the air, "—this territory belongs to Eloria."
Their breaths hitched.
"And if you dare fight each other like animals for food..." I stopped in front of a young man still panting from the brawl. My shadow swallowed him whole. "...I will have no choice but to kill every one of you myself."
A ripple of terror ran through the crowd.
Some cried. Some clutched their children tighter. Some pressed their foreheads into the dirt.
"Have mercy... Empress... have mercy," they begged.
I exhaled—a slow, disappointed breath.
"You will all receive rations," I said. "Every day, until the war ends and the land stabilizes. I don’t give my people empty promises."
Their trembling eased slightly.
"So there is no need to steal. No need to fight. No need to disgrace yourselves any further. Understood?"
"Yes, Your Highness! Yes—!"
"My soldiers risked their lives escorting these grains," I continued, cold and controlled. "We shed blood to protect this land. And you repay that by acting like bandits?"
No one dared speak.
My voice dropped to icy frost. "If anyone lays a hand on grain that does not belong to them—" I lifted my sword just a fraction. "—I will personally handle the punishment."
A violent shiver went through all of them.
I scanned the kneeling crowd. "Who managed law and order here before this land fell?"
A thin old man stood up slowly, clutching his cane, trembling. "I... I was the village chief, Your Highness."
I stepped toward him.
"Then continue managing it," I said. "But now under my rule. Not Meren’s. And certainly not chaos."
His knees buckled, but he nodded rapidly. "Y-Yes, Your Highness... I will maintain order. I swear it."
"See that you do," I said coldly. "If I hear even a whisper of unrest—" I leaned down, meeting his terrified eyes. "—it will not end well."
He swallowed hard. "I... understand."
I turned to Haldor.
"Begin distributing rations again. Slowly. Fairly. No one leaves without their share."
"Yes, Your Highness." His hand rose to his heart in salute.
"And place soldiers around the boundary," I added. "No one enters. No one leaves. Not until order is restored."
"Immediately, Your Highness."
As Haldor strode off shouting commands, I looked at the villagers one last time—huddled, shaking, exhausted, broken.
I wasn’t their hero. I didn’t need to be. But I would be their ruler. Whether through fear... Or through stability.
Preferably both.
As I stepped back toward my commanders, I found both General Arwin and Sir Haldor staring at me with the exact same expression:
Proud. Too proud. Suspiciously proud. I raised a brow. "...What’s wrong with you two?"
Arwin cleared his throat, failing—miserably—to hide a grin.
"Your Highness," he said, voice far too earnest, "you are... very attractive when you are a tyrant and gentle at the same time."
I blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then stared at him like he had grown a second head. Behind him, Haldor looked away quickly—ears slightly red.
"Pfft—!"
The laugh escaped me before I could stop it. I walked past them, flicking my cloak dramatically just because I could. "Saying nonsense won’t get you extra wages, General Arwin."
He placed a hand over his heart, deeply offended. "Then... did I fail?"
"Very badly," I said, smirking. "Tragic performance."
"I shall practice more, Your Highness," he said solemnly, as if this was a matter of national importance.
Haldor coughed to hide a laugh. The tense morning cracked just a little—enough for a sliver of warmth to slip through.
I exhaled softly. "Alright, We leave for the Eastern Region," I continued. "Select a few trusted colonels to remain here. The villagers need order and protection."
Arwin nodded sharply. "Already prepared, Your Highness."
"Good." I stepped toward my horse, Marshi padding behind me in silent, regal stride. "We move as soon as the last ration is delivered."
"As you command, Your Highness," they echoed.
The wind cut across the valley—cold, sharp, and ready.
Just like that...We moved toward the Eastern Region.
Where Meren’s spine waited to be broken.
***
[Meren Kingdom Capital City—Imperial Palace of Meren]
The palace should have been bright—morning sun spilling through jeweled windows, servants bustling, nobles whispering.
But one hallway... remained black. Deliberately. Permanently. A corridor where sunlight never reached.
A corridor no one walked unless summoned.
A lone Meren soldier advanced through it now—armor clinking softly, sweat sliding down his neck despite the cold. His boots echoed against stone carved with ancient sigils, each step heavier than the last.
He stopped before a tall obsidian door.
Knocked once.
Silence.
Then a voice—soft, young... and empty. "...Come in."
The soldier pushed the door open and entered. There, sitting atop a carved throne far too large for his small frame, was Prince Kaelren.
Twelve years old. Yet the room felt too small for the weight he carried.
Hair the color of scorched earth curled at his temples. Golden eyes—too bright, too sharp—glowed with a feral intelligence that felt wrong on a child’s face.
He did not look up as he cleaned a dagger with a silk cloth stained red.
"Report," he said.
Calm. Detached. Like he was asking about the weather.
The soldier fell to one knee, hands trembling. "Y-Your Highness... we... w-we lost the Black Wall fortress. And the territory has been occupied by the Elorian Crown Prin—"
SWISH—THUNK!
The soldier’s words died with him.
A dagger embedded itself deep in his chest, piercing the heart with surgical precision. The soldier’s eyes widened—shock, pain, disbelief—before he collapsed onto the floor.
THUD.
Blood pooled outwards, dark and quick.
Kaelren didn’t blink. He merely tilted his head, watching the dying twitch with mild annoyance.
"Useless," he murmured, voice soft enough to chill bone. "I don’t want news of failure."
He slid off the throne—bare feet touching the cold marble with eerie silence—and walked toward the corpse. His steps were small, graceful... practiced.
He nudged the body with his foot.
"...Disappointing." Then his expression sharpened—warmthless and predatory.
"Someone."
The door burst open immediately as two palace guards entered, both going rigid at the sight of the corpse—and the blood staining the prince’s dagger.
Kaelren didn’t even acknowledge their fear.
"Feed this trash to the wolves," he said, wiping the blade on the dead soldier’s uniform. "They haven’t eaten in two days."
The guards stiffened. Without hesitation, they bowed deeply. "Y-Yes, Your Highness."
As they dragged the corpse away, careful not to let any blood smear near the prince, Kaelren returned to his throne, sitting back with a strange, eerie serenity.
"And summon General Luke." His golden eyes glowed faintly—hungry, angry, unblinking. "We’re done playing defense."
His lips curled into a small, cruel smile no twelve-year-old should ever wear.
"It’s time," he whispered, "to hunt the Elorian princess."
***
[Later]
General Luke entered the chamber with the confidence of a man who feared no crown. Not even the crown resting on the head of a twelve-year-old monster.
He bowed—barely. A gesture closer to mockery than respect. "Your Highness. You summoned me?"
Kaelren didn’t look up at first.
"Why," he asked softly, "am I hearing news I dislike, Luke?"
General Luke straightened, expression carved from stone—unmoved, unimpressed.
"Whether you dislike it or not," he said coolly, "that is what is happening at the border. Black Wall is gone. Our soldiers are retreating. Your delays cost us the territory."
Kaelren’s jaw twitched.
Luke didn’t stop.
"And this proves," he continued bluntly, "your lack of readiness to take the throne."
Silence.
Heavy. Thick. Hostile. Kaelren’s fingers tightened around the dagger until his knuckles turned white.
His gaze snapped up—sharp enough to slice a throat. "Looks like the general," he said softly, dangerously, "has forgotten his place."
Luke didn’t blink.
"Your Highness," he replied, voice flat, "I answer only to the King. Not to a child who plays with wolves and darkness."
Kaelren’s breath stilled. His smile vanished entirely. For a moment—just a moment—the room felt colder.
As if the walls themselves recoiled.
He stepped down from the throne, small feet silent on the marble. He approached Luke until he had to tilt his chin up just to meet the man’s eyes.
But his aura—his pressure—felt monstrous.
"General," Kaelren whispered, "I tolerate your insolence because my father does."
He tapped the edge of his dagger against Luke’s armored chest—softly, gently, like a child knocking politely on a door.
"Do not mistake that for impunity."
Luke stared down at him with a soldier’s disdain.
"Just issue your command," he said. "I am here on His Majesty’s orders—nothing more."
Kaelren’s smile returned. Slow. Curved. Sinister.
"Very well," he murmured.
He stepped back, twirling the dagger with a practiced flick that was far too elegant for someone his age.
"I want her head."
Luke’s eyes narrowed. "The Elorian princess?" he asked.
Kaelren’s grin widened, golden eyes glowing with a hunger that did not belong to a child.
"Yes," he whispered. "Her head. Hanging on our border walls."
He tilted his head, tone almost playful. "Kill her. Trap her. Poison her. Burn her. I don’t care."
The dagger stilled.
"I want Elorian princess head brought to me."
He smiled sweetly. "As a gift."
Luke’s jaw tightened—but he bowed. "As you command... Your Highness."