Inside a grand hall, a polished oak table stretched nearly the entire width of the room, adorned with platters of sumptuous delicacies: roasted game, fresh bread, and fruits so vibrant they seemed plucked from the heavens themselves. The midday sun filtered through the stained glass windows, casting kaleidoscopic patterns across the room. At the head of the table sat a tall man, a crown perched atop his head.

Despite the bustling activity around him, the crowned man’s focus was singularly fixed on the meal before him. The roasted venison, tender and glistening with a honey glaze, beckoned to him. He carved into it with eagerness, savoring the aroma that rose with each slice.

But as much as he tried to lose himself in the meal, the noise at the center of the hall was impossible to ignore. A troupe of buffoons had taken the floor, reenacting a tale all too familiar to him—the story of howEmperor Cleon ascended to his current throne with the help of his first Kings: King Tristan, King Lance, and King Dominic.

Not only had he seen this performance countless times, but he had also lived through it as Tristan—King Tristan.

Annoyance flickered in his eyes as he watched the play. He would have much preferred to watch dancers moving gracefully across the floor. However, calling for dancers would be inappropriate at the moment. He sighed and glanced around the table. Over a dozen children and youngsters sat with him, their cheerful chatter and laughter filling the room. They weren’t his children, nor his grandchildren, nor even his great-grandchildren. They were descendants so distant that he could scarcely trace the bloodline that connected them. Yet, they bore his family name and called him "Grandpa Tristan," obligating him to act with consideration.

That was the curse of a long life. Soon, it would be a millennium since he had been given the crown he now bore. He had outlived his wife, his children, and even his grandchildren. These distant descendants, with only a fraction of his blood running through their veins, were all that remained of his family. He loved them, of course, but their presence was a constant reminder of the passage of time and all he had lost.

The buffoons pressed on with their performance, recounting the tale of Cleon the One and Only and the first kings. Tristan clenched his jaw as the inaccuracies piled up. The troupe wove a fanciful tale of camaraderie and unity that had never existed in those early days. Their depiction of Lance and Dominic as his jovial companions was laughable. The truth was far more complicated—and far less romantic. Back then, they had been rivals. Enemies, even. It was only much later, after they were crowned kings, that something resembling friendship began to take shape. And though Tristan would never say it aloud, those centuries together became some of the best of his long life.

Nostalgia initially swept over him, but it was quickly replaced by a sudden pang of anger. The bitter realization struck him: he could never go back to those days. Cleon wouldn’t allow it, and even if he did, the one person he wished to share those memories with was long gone. Dominic—his old rival, his fellow king, and eventual friend—was gone. He had been killed senselessly by a lunatic. The thought of how the witch responsible had escaped with little to no consequences ignited a dark fury that bubbled to the surface.

Tristan’s grip on his glass tightened, his knuckles whitening as rage coursed through him. His other hand clenched into a trembling fist, struggling to suppress his anger. He hadn’t realized how lost he was in his thoughts until a sharp, frightened wail shattered his reverie.

He turned to see a small child sitting beside him, no older than three, staring at him with wide, tear-filled eyes. The boy's trembling lips quivered before he burst into tears. Tristan's dark, tense expression had frightened him.

"Oh no, darling!" The child's mother—one of Tristan's many descendants—swept the boy into her arms. She cradled him close, her voice soft and soothing. "Shhh, it’s alright, sweetheart. There’s nothing to be scared of." She shot Tristan a quick look—reproach tinged with concern—before focusing on her son.

Guilt washed over Tristan. "I—" he began, but the woman cut him off with a shake of her head.

"There, there," she cooed to the child. "Grandpa didn’t mean to scare you. Right, Grandpa?"

"Yes, of course," Tristan said, his voice softest as possible.

"Grandpa was just deep in thought," she explained to the boy, her tone light and playful. "Sometimes powerful grown-ups like Grandpa forget to be gentle."

The boy sniffled, his tears slowing. His mother set him back in his chair, patting his head reassuringly. Tristan forced himself to smile, adopting an air of exaggerated gentleness to reassure the child. He pushed aside the dark thoughts that had consumed him, focusing instead on the cheerful chaos of the table.

The buffoons’ performance continued, recounting how Tristan was one of the last remaining first kings.

The troupe waxed poetic about Tristan's enduring reign and the stability he had brought to his kingdom—a subject Tristan finally agreed with. In recent centuries, kings seemed to come and go with alarming frequency. It was ridiculous how, compared to the first generation of kings under Cleon, over the past couple of hundred years, kings were so frequently replaced.

One example that came to mind was Young Alexander, whose rule barely lasted two centuries before he vanished from the surface of the land of men.

This raised the question: where had he gone? Some said he ventured into the forbidden dwarven lands; others rumored he sought the elven kingdoms. Yet another tale claimed the fool had entered that dungeon—the Voidborn Catacomb. Which of these rumors was true, Tristan did not know. But the speed with which the Emperor replaced the fool and his royal family was a clear sign that he was dead.

Foolish—truly foolish. Alexander should have stayed put. Now everything he had built for himself and his dynasty was gone, replaced by someone swift to exterminate every trace of him.

Now that he thought of it, the one who replaced Alexander had not only been quick at playing his cards but also skilled. Though Tristan had yet to see the man with his own eyes, he had heard praiseworthy things about him from various sources.

This new king, Dorian, intrigued him. Hopefully, this Dorian would do a better job than his predecessor, Tristan mused.

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

As he reached for his cup, a deep rumble echoed through the hall. At first, it was faint, like distant thunder, but it grew stronger with each passing second. The wooden beams of the ceiling creaked, and the crystal glasses on the table rattled ominously.

It didn't stop there. The ground beneath them trembled.

The laughter and chatter stilled as heads turned toward one another, confusion giving way to alarm. Plates shifted, and one or two toppled over, spilling their contents.

"What in the world—" someone began, but their words were cut off as a sharp jolt sent the table lurching slightly. Goblets tipped, wine spilling across the pristine tablecloth like spreading blood.

A child screamed, followed by another, then another, clutching their mothers’ or fathers’ arms, as panic rippled through everyone in the room. Chairs scraped against the floor as people stood, some instinctively moving toward the walls for stability.

"Stay calm!" King Tristan, seated at the head of the table, commanded, his voice steady but firm. "Everyone, remain seated!"

The trembling intensified, the chandelier swaying dangerously above. Dust trickled from the ceiling beams, and the distant sound of something heavy crashing in another part of the castle echoed, then another, then another.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Then the next was no longer distant—it was upon them, obliterating the ceiling.

The ceiling crumbled with a deafening roar.

With rapid reflexes, King Tristan activated a magical dome, protecting everyone in the room from the collapsing debris.

With a sharp, controlled motion, he drew upon his elemental power, summoning a burst of wind and lightning that surged outward, scattering the debris harmlessly to the edges of the hall.

The dust began to settle, revealing the frightened faces of everyone beneath his protective shield. Children clung to their parents, their screams piercing through the fading din, while adults stood pale and trembling, their eyes darting toward the destruction above.

"Is everyone alright?" Tristan called out, his voice steady but urgent. His gaze swept the room, noting the cluster of children sobbing in their parents’ arms and the stunned expressions of the adults. He took a deep breath. "Stay calm," he said, his tone firm but reassuring. "You’re safe now."

In that moment, one of his adult ‘grandchildren’ rushed to his side, asking, "What’s happening, Grandfather?"

"How do you expect me to know? I don’t know yet." He turned to her and the rest of their family. "Stay here." With a wave of his hand, he conjured another protective barrier around them, layering it with reinforced energy. "I’ll find out what’s causing this."

Without waiting for a response, he activated his “flight” skill, a surge of wind lifting him off the ground. He shot upward through the gaping hole in the ceiling, his eyes narrowing as he ascended into the open air.

Above the capital, the sky was a swirling chaos of frozen white clouds, unnaturally dense and glowing with an eerie light. His breath caught as he saw the source of the destruction—white meteors, streaking down from a massive magic circle etched high in the clouds. Each impact sent shockwaves rippling through the castle below.

"What in the—" Tristan began, his voice trailing off as he squinted into the distance. Something caught his eye on the northern horizon, and his heart skipped a beat.

Whales.

Not one. Not two. Not three.

Half a dozen whales, their massive forms gliding effortlessly through the sky as though submerged in an invisible sea. They moved with an unnaturally serene grace that made him initially forget what they were—monsters. No whale was that large, and no whale could fly in the sky like these creatures did.

Narrowing his eyes, he focused on the fortresses atop the giant whales’ backs, activating his eagle vision skill to scrutinize the details.

"Elves?" he muttered, his stomach twisting. "An elven atta—"

A sharp hiss cut through the air, and his instincts screamed. Tristan twisted his body midair, narrowly dodging a blinding projectile that zipped past him, close enough to sear his cheek.

"What the—!"

Before he could fully recover, another assault came, striking him squarely in the chest. The force hurled him backward through the sky, the impact rattling his bones and knocking the air from his lungs. He spun wildly for dozens of meters, struggling to regain control, until finally, he managed to halt his momentum, hovering in place.

As he caught sight of the silhouette of his assailant, his heart skipped a beat. It was a very familiar silhouette, one that, before she decided to do something no other King before dared to do, he once considered a fellow king.

"Hello, old man Tris," she greeted, her voice dripping with mockery as her gaze locked onto him. The casual tone was like a dagger twisting in his chest.

Tristan’s fists clenched, his knuckles white as rage surged through him. "You..." he seethed at the sight of the one responsible for the death of his closest friend, his voice low and trembling with restrained fury.

Arianna was smiling. A wide, toothy grin that carried no warmth, only malice. "Missed me?"

----------------------------------------

[Hex Components Harvested]

Standing over the corpse of the one known as the First King, I proceeded to tear the head from the rest of the body. Raising my gaze, I saw two elves of Argyrian descent descending upon me. It was Goblin and Aquaflora.

As they reached the ground, Aquaflora frowned and asked with concern, "Is this really necessary?"

Handing her the head despite her reservations, I brought the headless corpse to Goblin's feet for his bonded creatures to clean everything up.

"I know you think this is in poor taste. And I agree, to some extent. I’m all for respecting the remains of the deceased, but the last time I left a King’s corpse intact, it was stolen by someone."

The memory stung.

I had sent it as a message for Cleon, but it had never reached its destination. Initially, I suspected someone close to Cleon, but the more I thought about it, the more it seemed likely that the remains had ended up in the hands of some necromancer.

That thought infuriated me.

"I'd rather feed him to friendly creatures than let some random, unknown necromancer take advantage of my game," I said firmly. Retrieving the head that I handed to her, I added, "as for this, it’s for my personal collection of regal skulls."

Sighing in exasperation, Aquaflora replied, "I wasn’t even talking about this when I asked if it was necessary. I was talking about that." She pointed at the floating whales that, like modern warships, were unleashing volleys of elemental attacks upon the capital—specifically targeting anything showing the faintest hint of resistance. I had to admit, these improved whale fortresses provided by the Ferron Patriarch were highly effective.

"We’ve got aerial warships; we have to use them somehow," Goblin interjected, his tone oddly pragmatic as he withdrew his bestial summons.

"Goblin is right," I agreed. "We have to use them, even if it’s a little overkill. Why? Because it sends a message. Do you know who I want to send that message to?"

"The Emperor Cleon," Aquaflora answered.

"Exactly. And what message is it?"

"A declaration of war."

"Indeed," I affirmed. "Seizing the capital of the Dawnrealm Kingdom and slaying its king is our declaration of all-out war against the One and Only Emperor and his Kings."