The summons to his father's private study felt like a trip into a void. Alexander stood before the wooden desk, the air thick with the scent of old parchment and cold ambition.
King Theron sat, steepling his fingers, while Nikolai stood at his right shoulder, a statue of smug superiority.
"The spar was… illuminating, Alexander," Theron began, his voice devoid of its usual dismissive edge. It was neutral and analytical. That was somehow worse.
He is not a father speaking to a son. He is a king assessing a suddenly unstable piece on his board, Alexander thought.
"Your performance defied expectation," Theron continued. "There was a precision there I had not anticipated. It seems I may have been… premature in my assessment of your potential following the Awakening."
The words hung in the air. An apology, in the most backhanded form possible.
Alexander said nothing, his face a carefully constructed mask of attentive humility.
He wasn't sorry for the cruelty, but for the misdiagnosis.
"A mind with even a spark of combat applicability has its uses," the King said. "Therefore, I am putting your name forward as an applicant for the upcoming Royal Tournament. Should you win your bracket, you will be a candidate for the position of a Duke."
Alexander's mind reeled. A Duke? There were only two: the strategist Lance, and…
Viktor.
"Viktor…" Crimson's voice was a low, dangerous growl. "Sounds like a worthy opponent."
The King, oblivious to the demonic turmoil in his son's head, continued. "Duke Viktor is due to return from his diplomatic mission to the Orc Warlord in two days' time, coinciding with the tournament's commencement."
The moment the name— Orc Warlord— was uttered, the presence within him jolted. It wasn't a thought; it was a visceral, psychic snarl, the mental equivalent of a wolf hearing the howl of a rival pack.
The Royal Tournament was the kingdom's brutal meritocracy in action. It was a free-for-all where the only rule was power.
Win your bracket, and you earned the right to challenge one of the current title holders: the two Dukes, the Captain of the Guard, or one of the three Executioners. Defeat them in single combat, and their title, their lands, their authority... It was all yours.
It was the a legal path for a anyone, commoner or noble to rapidly ascend, and the primary reason the upper echelons of power were occupied by the strongest, not just the oldest.
"I am honored, Father," Alexander's voice was steady despite the storm inside.
"Dismissed," Theron said with a final wave. "Nikolai, remain. Your presence is required in the war council."
Alexander turned and left, feeling Nikolai's burning gaze on his back. The moment the study door closed, his mind raced.
Duke Viktor. A noble from a sprawling, contentious house of the Orc Warlord's faction, he'd wanted no part of ruling alongside his six brothers. So he'd taken a dukedom by force a decade ago with an Awakened power of 700. No one had dared challenge him since.
The other dukedom was a revolving door; the current holder, Lance, with his power of 150, was the first to last up to two years with Viktor by relying purely on his wits.
He stopped, placing a hand on the wall. The attack from Nikolai still left him aching abit.
"We will target this Viktor then," Crimson's voice cut through his thoughts, flat and decisive, as if choosing which wine to pair with dinner.
"He'll chew me up and spit me out!"
"This Dukedom is a trifle, but he sounds like the perfect character to challenge."
The audacity of it was so staggering that Alexander forgot to think the words. "Are you crazy?!" he whispered aloud.
He froze, glancing back down the corridor. Only two guards stood at the far end, too distant to have heard. He let out a slow breath, his heart hammering.
"Quite the opposite," a gentle voice said from ahead. Alexander cringed.
Master Eldrin stood there, a tray with a steaming teapot and two cups in his hands. His kind eyes crinkled at the corners. "Talking to oneself is a sign of a active, burdened mind. I was just about to take some tea in the solarium. Would you care to join me, my boy?"
Trapped, and strangely grateful for the interruption, Alexander could only nod. "Tea would be… good. Thank you, Master Eldrin."
As he followed the old physician, he ignored Crimson.
The solarium was a burst of humid, fragrant air, a stark contrast to the stone coldness of the rest of the palace.
Eldrin settled into a wicker chair and began pouring the pale golden tea.
"Your father's summons seemed... weighty," Eldrin prompted gently, not pushing, but offering an opening.
"He's putting my name forward for the Royal Tournament," Alexander replied, the words still feeling surreal. "For a dukedom."
Eldrin's hand paused for only a second before continuing to pour. "I see. That is a significant shift in strategy." He slid a cup toward Alexander. "And which Duke has drawn your eye? The clever one, or the one who breaks clever men over his knee?"
Alexander took the cup, its warmth a small comfort. "Viktor." The name felt different now, charged with the weight of Crimson's scorn.
"A formidable target," Eldrin mused, his gaze knowing. "A man who understood that in a den of lions, it is better to be a lone wolf with your own territory. Challenging him is the boldest possible statement."
Alexander noded as he sipped his tea, the pieces of the board shifting around him. His father was making a move. Nikolai was being groomed in war councils. And he could have a chance at Dukedom.
"A bold choice. Viktor," Eldrin said, breaking the silence. "But tell me, my boy, what will you do if you win your bracket? Your display on the training ground was remarkable, but Viktor is... something else entirely."
Before Alexander could form an answer, a young page scurried into the solarium, bowing hastily.
"Master Eldrin, apologies. The King requires your presence in the war council. At once."
Eldrin's eyebrows rose in surprise, but he nodded. "It seems I am in demand today. Forgive me, Alexander. We will continue this another time." He gave Alexander's shoulder a reassuring squeeze before following the page out.
The silence Eldrin left behind was heavy. For a moment, he had felt like a person again, not a problem to be solved.
"Alone at last," Crimson's voice slithered back into the forefront of his mind, no longer a background hum. "Now, we can speak plainly. This is a trap."
"A trap?" Alexander whispered into the empty room.
"Of course. Your father does not believe in you. He believes in the what he witnessed in the spar. He is throwing you into the arena to see if the rabid dog he saw in the yard is a one-time occurrence, or if it can be weaponized. He is testing his new piece."
The cold logic of it settled in Alexander's stomach. It made perfect, horrible sense.
"So, what do I do? Withdraw?"
"Withdraw?" Crimson's laugh was a dry, scraping sound. "And confirm you are the broken thing he thought you were? No. We walk directly into the trap. But we do not play the role of the rabid dog. We play the role of the wolf he never saw coming."
"And how, exactly, does a wolf defeat a man with a power of 700 in two days?"
"Mana buffering," Crimson stated, as if it were the most obvious solution in the world.
"You're speaking in riddles."
"We will enter an instance. A pocket of untamed, wild reality. The beasts within are not true flesh and blood, but constructs of pure, aggressive mana. By destroying them, we can harvest that energy."
Alexander stared blankly. "Harvest it for what? A power boost?"
"No, you imbecile. Not for a boost," Crimson sneered. "For fueling. Your Resonance Affinity is dry. We will use the unrefined mana of these beasts like a hammer and anvil. We will pound your spiritual channels until they are wider, smoother, more efficient. You will be able to fight longer, hit harder, and perhaps... just perhaps... survive long enough against this 'Viktor' without drawing a crowd and achieve our set goals."
The idea was as brilliant as it was dangerous. Instances were normally created by high ranking Awakened using the eggs and blood of boss level beasts.
They converge and form the pocket dimension. Until the instance was cleared, there was no escape.
It's unpredictable to know how much the beasts would evolve, so, the number of instances created decreased by day.
If it were to be created, the King's permission and supervision from a ranked personnel would be required. Both of which Alexander would definitely not be given, as he won't be seen as worthy.
"Great idea! You want me to escape embarrassment by commiting suicide?"
"The choice is yours. We can go head-to-head with him and you'll lose more of your soul before even facing a real threat or we can increase your resonance without any cost."
Alexander took the last sip of tea and gently placed the cup on a stool. The pros of Crimson's idea were outweighing the cons.
"Fine," he said jumping to his feet. "Let's go create an instance."
He looked toward the palace walls, imagining the chaotic wilderness beyond. A place where a hollow prince could either shatter completely or be reforged into something new.
"Let's go get me killed!"