7th day of Midas’ Win, nine months into the year 983.

A finger pointed at the end part of a contract. “... a signature right here and the transaction will be completed, my Lord.” Ixtal, trying to not look at the regent’s face, bit his lip. Searching for courage, his shaky voice continued. ”Just…remember to bring the goods as uninjured as you are abl…” His dwindling tone sank to nothingness as he noticed a building mana pressure.

“You doubt my capacity for restraint, black merchant?” The cold of the northern winter was warmer than these words. The poison in those also added to the sickening smell of the mana.

“I…never, I would never dare to, my lord!” He tried to jump to a kneeling position but found his legs frozen, his body not daring to sweat.

“Then do not talk.” Freed, Ixtal took a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. He jumped again as the regent continued. “Same place as always?”

Ixtal nodded, not daring to utter a response. ‘Dark Cave’ His thoughts, more brave, went to the place where black merchants such as he dropped the cargo in this barony. After a few seconds, adrenaline shot his system, making him think he had heard no response. A few minutes later, hours for him, he mumbled, “My Lord?”

“Dismissed.” Not daring to look, he almost darted out of the room. Bowing at the door, doing his best to not let his legs tremble, he let his head drop ninety degrees before leaving the throne room. What Ixtal had missed was the regent moving his left arm to let his head rest on it, an old habit.

His glare was fixed on Ixtal’s back as he ran away. Terrified. As if he had been talking to a demon. A monster. Flashes of common people, both young and mature, overlapped. ‘“He is a monster.” “Never look at him.” “Please…please, spare me…”’ With a slow blink, he made the acrid images banish. But his mind was in a playful mood, and made his eyes turn to look around.

Her…no. His throne room, if it could live up to the glory that name carried, was empty. Wholly empty. A simple. bare bones room made out of dark granite. The throne, of the same rock, was placed upon a small stand, making him appear taller than what he felt. No furniture. No banner. No beautiful statues. Not even torches, for fuel was a commodity he could not partake in. Not that he would appreciate light. There’s a reason it did not have windows anymore. But it was not the light that breathed life into his ghosts. “Pointless.” His voice muttered.

For someone treated like a monster, it seemed like a joke that family debt was the thing that had turned the castle into simple walls. And it did not matter at all. Nothing he had done, sold, or sacrificed had been enough. The petty of big crimes, the corrupt dealings with merchants, the infighting, the purges, the frugality. They all had proven unremarkable. His efforts had been unremarkable. The only thing he had for show was a reputation. One he had been glad to have, now, a stark reminder of his personal failures. Of the little impact he had had on the barony beyond mindless, pointless cruelty.

Slowly sinking into a nostalgic mood, he continued to look around. Taking in the sights of his “glorious” throne room. He had sold the carpets meant to stave off the cold. He had grown accustomed to it after all. No gems to flaunt their bloodline nor their barony, for he knew that pride was of little value. No heirlooms nor trophies. He could not bear to look at them.

No nothing. Bare rock. All possessions of value that had been in this castle long sold by himself to try and feed the people he had sworn to protect. ‘And how did they repay me? With a plot to puppet me and my sister. When that failed, they rebelled, bringing war to the lands they had fancied to rule. An important lesson for myself I had learned, watching the fire engulf both people and buildings. No powerful person is worthy of trust. An iron fist is necessary.’

And what a fist it has been. His armour rubbed against the rock as he reclined against the throne. The throne he had sworn to protect for his sister in front of his mother and father. As a knight. Not as a lord.

Not minding the time spent, or not wanting to start the job he had, he turned his attention towards the past. Maybe he really was stalling for time. Or maybe to dwell in his misery? Or to try and heat up the embers of fury, now turned into tiredness? He was unsure, but he still remembered. Flashbacks of him, gloriously riding a great wolf into battle, with righteous fury as he inflamed the spirit of his troops. The honour turning into hate as traitor after traitor revealed themselves. Of men dying under his command, unable to save them. As men died at his commands, forsaking forgiveness and picking murder. A dark smirk came to his face, even if his gaze was empty. ‘They deserved the dungeons.’ The usual justification came in.

The smirk didn’t hold for long. Some were alive indeed. In his dungeons. The heads of the snakes. The ones who had come under the guise of help, only wanting to take the throne for themselves. His body moved in the throne, uncomfortable, as he remembered the sins that followed that war. The paranoia, the hired swords. Picking those who he could manipulate. The greedy, the foolish. How he murdered the rest. Merchants, landowners, influential religious figures. How nobody had cared, only using his crimes to further their own political gains. Knowing smiles. His blood boiled at the memory. His right hand cracked the armrest.

When he and his sister had been left orphans after an orchestrated peasant revolt, the only people who had come to help them had been the schemers themselves. His anger flared, completely hiding the regret of knowing that to be partially false. ‘They had only come to further their goals, their egos. They were laughing as we thanked them! As we acted like cute little puppets. Why should I forgive? Why should I forget? Why should I be any different!? Nobody cared when I was facing tyranny, pain, what right do they have to complain about the one I inflict now? I gave them everything I had, twofold! My pride, my honour, my prestige, my possessions, even my sleep! And now, when I am the puppet master, now I am the monster. So be it. I will be what they so desperately want to think I am. First thing, the final payment of the debt.’

The echo that Ixtal had made after closing the stone doors was long gone, only the stillness of the fool air of the castle remained to watch as Noct raised from his throne, his heart a raging storm of emotions. Mostly hate and fury masking self contempt. A small part of himself, still fearing the path he was choosing to travel, made his hands dust his attire.

It was something you wouldn't be able to pinpoint. Not the common fashion of a noble but the bastard fusion of the clothes of a common thug, a necromancer and a disgraced knight melted into one. A long, black cape with the end worn out, full of cuts and holes that showed a lifetime of combat. Heavy, black leather boots embedded with black steel plates, revealing their echoey presence with every step taken. Black brigandine armour for both pants, chest and arms, interwoven with enchanted black steel threat. Black steel finished his arms too, adding two clawed gauntlets. Lastly, spiked metal shoulder pads that pierced the black coat which hid most of the armour.

If functional, the principal purpose of it was hiding the real shadows with black colours, making bending in the darkness way easier for a necromancer. The wear and nicks of the metal continued the show of a military career.

He started to walk, now being the one making echoes in the throne room. Gazing at his pocket, where the contract had unconsciously been stored. Reading her name evoked her birthday, when he had reassured her mother that he would take care of her. Stopping as he opened the door, he turned a guilty gaze towards the throne. The shadow of her mother sat there, a silver crown in her head and her daughter at her right, in a smaller throne. The hugs when Court was finished, the pats. He had never taken offence at being left out of the ruling of the barony. He had considered it too much for him.

He had enjoyed playing knight for her, and the chuckles of her mother laid only in the past. His gaze turned to the front, leaving the painful memories behind the closing door. The guilt was way harder to abandon. Had he started to desire the power, the position of a ruler? He could but ask himself as he walked the hallways amidst more memories of a happy childhood. There would have been more flashbacks if he had not had the furniture either sold or stored.

He shook his head, doing his best to chase the flashbacks away, even if something inside was flaring an alarm, refusing that order. As if trying to stop an action he could not take back. Another memory as he arrived at the stairs. Kids games, he was playing with the sword and making Soral laugh. A misstep. He fell. His father broke the fall, and a few bones along with it. The bruises had hurt less than their worried faces.

He growled. It mattered not. He was far too gone. He could not be forgiven nor did he deserve it. Only this road remained. He would turn into a tyrant, destroy the last thing that reminded him of the old times, and play puppet of the Empress. That way he would do what he wanted. Finally, he would be respected through fear. No longer would he need to remember those stupid bedtime stories he once had told.

Entering the dormitory wing of the castle, doing his best to ignore his clenched fists and the thumpering of his heart, he pressed on with a feverish walk. A day of winter, of cold, playing in a nearby stream of water. A little river. A funny fall. Laughter. Worry when sickness settled in. Fury and guilt. No medics available. Sleepless nights. He had been the one who wanted to go out, as he was leaving for the Cap…

His daydreams were cut short. He had arrived. In front of him, the last clean wooden door of the castle. An engraved silver plate with a name. Soral of the Ashen. He had reached his destination. Now, he could overpower her, repay the Household’s debt and be free. That’s what he wanted, right? Yet he stood still, waiting.

His eyes didn’t leave the silver plate, his hand approaching but not daring to touch it. He had frozen himself with that question. What did he want?

He stopped, and searched inside. He detested ruling, for he was not good enough to not need cruelty and fear to be effective at it. He was, honestly, tired of fighting. While the emotion of combat was a high, and he revelled in causing despair, those were just…shields. Yes, a shield for himself. Letting out a snicker, he shook his head and knocked on the door.

There was no response of course. Their relationship had deteriorated past animosity and into hate, as he was the closest thing to a jailor for her. She had no contacts, no power and most had forgotten about her. She was free to leave, but couldn’t go anywhere. It had not always been like this. Even at the start of the regency, he had tried to make time for her. Until the betrayal. After that, he had been too unstable to dare see her. His fears had been right and he had stopped altogether. He had made food, provided books and educational materials, protection and that was it. ‘She really would have been better if I had never been here.’

He knocked again, this time louder. Anger was rising like always, but he just waited until her response was evident. It would be so easy. To let his impulses take over. To end the illusion of control he maintained. To finally have a life he could call his own. No more last wills. No more living for his deceased parents. For his sister. For his experiments.

Another one, one which nicked the wood. This one had a response.

“What do you want.” Soral greeted, poison evident in her words and half closed door. “Aren’t you too busy destroying my barony?”

Noct’s gaze stopped on her. Anger. Fury. And fear. And it hurt. And how he wanted to destroy that reflection, the disappointment in her eyes, the same way he had broken the mirrors of the castle. But he couldn’t. As his heart calmed down and his hands loosened up, he realised what he wanted to do.

He gave up. No more playing tyrant. No more trying to rule. No more trying to fix things nor try to be forgiven. No more twisted games. He was the problem, not the ones who feared him. If he had been found evil it had been for his own actions, which he had known to be evil too, even if he tried to justify them. His old self had been killed by Noct himself, and he realised it now, as seconds passed, as he gazed at Soral’s eyes. His had only sadness now. The anger consumed and turned to ashes. He swore to himself to return everything to how it should be, and then disappear from their lives.

Taking a step forward, forcing Soral to open the door and to let him pass, he started, “I expect your studies to be at a good level, as you have little else to do.”

That kicked the fear out of Soral, who’s hands started to tremble, “And why do you think that is so?! What gives you the right to lecture me about the things you took from me?!”

Ignoring her, Noct scanned her desk. Several books piled on it, some opened, some for recreational purposes. “Your coming of age ceremony is next year, and I need to see your progress.”

Soral closed the door with a bang, her following words drowning the noise, “If you have come here to just play out one of your sick jokes I swear to Elenia I will mur…!!”

“Silence.”

At that simple but cold word, Soral’s passion dwindled into apathy. She had accepted long ago what her fate would be. She had no friends, no family, no loyal vassals. Nobody would miss her. As nobody would miss him. Noct sighed, realising both the reality of Soral’s life being a mirror of his, and how she had still maintained her moral compass. Tiredness and a feeling of utter defeat dropped his shoulders. Soral stood still, not really believing how human Noct felt that moment.

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“You have two choices.” Continued Noct, in quiet words as he pulled out the contract from his pocket and neatly laid it on the table. “You either walk to the address in this paper or I grant full clearance to start practising your official duties. That includes meeting with vassals, organising the castle and the guard. The rest I will train you or supervise you.”

“What’s,” Soral voice lost power as she saw the document. “What’s the trap?”

“There’s none.”

“And if I just walk away?” Asked Soral, still not believing him.

“That was always an option.”

“I don’t believe you.”

In response, Noct, tyrant regent of Alpin, kneeled in front of her. One of his rights lighted up in a green shine, creating new shadows in the torch-lighted room. With his finger, he focused on creating a magic circle around his figure, not minding the rapidly changing expressions of his sister as she realised what spell he was carving. “I vow before my future Baroness,” His hand never stopped, showing remarkable skill with each touch, trailing numerous equations and figures. The lines showered the room in a blue light, overtaking the torches. “I swear by Oath to rescind my regency onto you, as well as face proper punishment for the misgivings you may have.”

The light banished together with the circle. Under his right gauntlet, the very same magic circle carved itself into his hand. And, despite being now bound by oath magic, he felt freer than in any day of the last decade, as if a weight was lifted from his shoulders. As if he had proven to the world that he could try to be better.

The green eyes of her sister didn’t leave his right hand, knowing full well that he had casted the “sacrament” spell. Remembering that there was a lot to do, he rose to his feet.

“Did I make myself clear?”

Soral nodded weakly, doubt still in her gaze.

“Now that you have chosen, I have readied for you an escort. Go take a walk. I will have ready the yearly reports of the barony for you to start learning the economics of the city.” As he turned around, he added, ”Do not talk to the guards I send.” Giving up control. Was it always this liberating? He felt like he could do anything.

His fate was sealed, nothing could break the magic used in the oaths of the Phoenix Corps. He will die next year. He would leave everything as prepared as he could for her sister, the rightful ruler.

Halting as he crossed the door, not looking back, he heard himself mutter. “Goodsbye, Soral.” And he closed the door.

…….

“So it’s a dark moon, huh.” Noct whispered to the wind, travelling from the inner ring of the city towards the middle one.

The city itself, called Bonfire and capital of the barony of Alpin, had two sets of walls. An older one that separated the old centre of the city, and a newer, secondary one that surrounded the leftovers. Nowadays, the city had experienced more growth due to immigration, creating a third area that was unprotected.

The inner ring was home to the castle, main square, the merchant city and the households of richer families. The middle ring had the majority of the infrastructure needed for the city. Taverns, cooking places, crafting districts, and housing for the common people. The outer ring, or slums, colder and lacking defences, was for the poor and unfortunate.

Travelling under the moonless night, Noct had no problems seeing in the dark, as no light was present. Farols and lamps weren’t a luxury the city could spend oil on, even the rich and blue blooded could not spurge with winter nearing its cold head. Only the sky full of constellations, some covered with clouds, were there to shine as he crossed the first gate without so much as a word from the guards. They knew better than to interrupt his march, for questioning the regent was a fools endeavour, nor were shieldbearers necessary.

After a few hours of calmly walking, he reached an old house in the middle ring, near the northern wall. A few seconds of preparing himself, he knocked.

“Comin’, comin.’” The voice sent him to a better past, as the sounds of an old man descending the stars while muttering under his breath got closer. Making Noct jump slightly, the door was opened by an aged old man, a body home to many scars visible under the night clothes and a heavy coat. Once well toned muscles of a veteran warrior, now only a shadow, nay, a testimony to his past glories. Still, old habits die hard, as a sword hastily tied to his waist revealed,

“...Noct?” Half asleep still, the old man rubbed his eyes, nor knowing if this was a dream or a nightmare. When the third choice settled in, his rugged voice continued, hand crawling towards the blade, “What in the Nethers are you doin’ here?...Why are you here?” His gaze turned steel, he corrected his posture and backed a step, as if having turned into a wolf mother defending her pups.

“Andras.” Not caring, Noct nodded once as he entered by the now open and clear door into the house, not waiting for an answer. Minging neither the killing intent at his back nor the ominous sound of the door being closed, Noct followed the map in his memories and arrived at the kitchen, sitting on one of the three chairs in it.

Andras could badly comprehend the situation, rushing into the kitchen after a momentary freeze. Seeing the man he had once called a friend sitting as if nothing was wrong in his kitchen, he could not stop himself.

“You are not welcome here!” Andras spat, the sound of steel resounding in the house as he unsheathed the sword. “How dare you invade the privacy of my home after threatening the life of my child! What is your angle, recruiting me back into the battalion which you expelled me from? You forgot to snatch a medal given to me in the service of a duty older than you?” He lowered the end of the sword, fully ready to run it through him. “To make true of your threats of before? Because that's what someone like you would do. To simply stroll into the house of the man you are going to kill without remorse. Just to see their reactions. But this time I won’t give you the satisfaction. Either return to your castle and never return, or you will never return!”

Noct, having crossed his legs while Andras went on prattling on, had rested his head on a hand. Seeing the hate of Andras always felt both right and an illusion. The man he had always hated and blamed, and whom he had taken for both teacher and best friend, hating him? That’s what he had always wanted, yet once it happened it hadn’t mattered the way he had wanted. It mattered not now either. The kitchen now in silence, Noct broke it by placing an Imperial Medal, the third highest honour on the Northern Dukedom of the Empire, on the kitchen table he sat by its side.

That gesture made Andras snap, who darted forward and tried to stab Noct. The sword collided against armour, pushing the regent out of the chair and into the table, which broke upon receiving the weight of two adult men.

“That sword won’t pierce.” Noct said, matter of factly, from the ground he had been forcibly sprawled.

With a grunt and a push, Andras gave up trying to force the old sword in. “Do you revel in hammering the nail in?” Mumbled Andras, now just tired after his outburst. “Ï never took you for a sadist, but neither a traitor and here I am.” Grabbing a second chair, he sat on it while Noct casually got up from the wooden floor.

“You could have aimed for the face. I know your skill, it would have been easy.” Noct said as he picked up the medal.

Andras just looked at him. His reply of “As if you would have let me.” died in his eyes as he finally looked at Noct, seeing him for the first time of the night. His residual anger died as he heard himself ask, “What are y….”

“There’s none, Andras. No plan. No hidden agenda. Nothing. I came here to return your belongings and to ask of you to return to military service.” Noct didn’t sit on the third chair. He knew for who it had been. “Not under my command, but the Baroness’. She is to be crowned next year and she lacks underlings.”

Andras’ old habits coming back, he barked. ”That’s not what I was going to ask, Noct.”

“And I do not care.”

“I call bullshit. If you didn’t care you would have sent a vassal or your sister.”

Andras didn’t miss the smallest twitch upon her mention. “There’s nothing to discuss, High Commander to be.”

Now a different kind of anger, Andras moved as the wind, placing the sword on Noct’s next with enough force to taint the sword red. Filled with killed intent, he readied himself to push. Noct did nothing, simply looking at him with those sickly green eyes. Andras didn’t notice they were lightly shining.

“Are you done?”

“Why?!” Andras screamed. “You dare to destroy my life and have the nerve to expect me to do your dirty work?! To murder my old friend, if I could even call you that?! I don’t understand. Is this a trick, a plot? Magic?” He retracted the sword, his right hand cleaning his cheek. His tone turned defeated. “What cruelty would drive you to this demon’s plot?”

Noct looked away. “None, Andras. I am letting you behead me right now, curse my magic, my lineage, and everything I have built or destroyed, because you deserve it. I can never atone nor repay what I have done nor caused to you.” Noct chuckled darkly. “And I know that, if I were to fall by your blade today, you would take upon yourself to care for my sister, as you once did for myself. See? I have not changed, nor am I able to. End me, hear me or ignore me. Nevertheless, I will return what I once took. It is the only thing I can do.”

The emptiness in those eyes chilled Andras, even if he hated that he still cared. “But I would manipulate you once more, High Commander, for you are trustworthy and I would employ you for the baroness to be.”

“You could do that.” If those eyes had chilled him, now they terrified him. Shining stronger, filled with hate focused only on himself. Andras did not remember this glare.

“Can I? You know well enough that I rule by fear and violence. I destroyed and killed when I could have talked. Betrayed when trust would have sufficed. I have built the worst heritage I could have left as a regent, one that will collapse once I am gone. And you would put me back there? The monstrous one of us two? You place on me trust I do not deserve.” Noct looked away again, letting Andras exhale the breath he had held. ”You were wrong back there. I am not fit to rule. The future baroness is. I will, of course, try and clean up the mess of a barony I made a… Enough of this bambling already.” Noct’s voice regained strength. “If you want to take my head, do so already. As I have said, you will be a better regent.”

Noct pulled out a military uniform with several medals on it and a signed document and threw them on the pieces of the kitchen table. Once that was done, Noct was out of the house before Andras could get out of the chair.

“Wa…” Andras, half sitting half standing, let the word die in his lips. This chat had confirmed what he had long feared. Both the Noct from his memories, the soldier, the comrade, the one with honour, and Noct the regent had been the same person. But this…this was just a husk waiting to die. He had seen it before.

Biting his lips, Andras looked at the uniform. A storm had turned his heart upside down. Old regrets flared up. He had not been enough to save the young Noct. New hates doubted he had deserved to be saved. Maybe he was too far gone. His hand trailed a scar he had taken blocking an arrow for his old friend. His eyes trailed the medals he had ripped from him, the threat he had made. ‘Disappear or be disappeared along with your family. You are no longer needed.’

He still remembered it as clearly as yesterday, but he had not gone away from the city. He had called the empty threat. Or maybe it had been a bluff. He caressed the uniform that had come to his hands.

He had already made a choice. He feared it would be the bad one. But he had come to realise he had made plenty of those already.

……….

Noct’s night stroll couldn’t stop here, even as the night turned old. The ‘Hands’’ hated being let down on a contract after all. This would be the first cleaning up operation he would do. Betraying his last allies and even friends he had left.

Noct smirked. ‘Old habits die hard, after all.’ Exhaustion being switched by excitement, he grabbed the hilt of his sword and let his back hit the stony wall of the alley. His smirk turned into a smile as he slowly fussed with the shadows on the wall, phasing to his underground forge. He would have to summon his experiments after all.

………………..

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence, m’Lord?” Ical, leader of the local “Hands” outpost on Bonfire, twirled his wine glass in honour of Noct. “Did the little rascal run away from you? Or is it another job for your right hand?” He could not stop himself from reclining on his silk couch, trusting Noct fully. He had been nothing but loyal and effective, after all. The rewards for his job had shown it.

“I do have a job. Are you all ready?”

“Well, I have had them on high alert. I knew you would have something after all these calm weeks.” Ical could not keep a smirk off. “Only a few teams on the inner ring, dealing with some of those pesky blue bloods.” He inched forward. “Is it that big?”

“So big it will end our careers.” Noct rested the wine glass on the table, poker face almost not holding in the evil smirk.

Ical saw through it nonetheless. “Ohoho. How much?” Ical appeared to be on the edge of falling from his seat.

“Everything.” Without a warning, Noct pointed at Ical. His gauntlet glowed green as a spell circle became apparent and a ray of grey mana in the form of green energy was launched at Ical.

Honouring his reputation, Ical managed to unsheathe a hidden dagger and block the magical strike, which withered as it took in the necrotic energy. Drawing another two daggers from Gods know where, he threw one while darting forward with the intent of stabbing with the second one.

Noct slapped the first while grabbing the second with two fingers. His right hand made a copping motion and the magic circle shone again. Copying the motion, a blade of green energy chopped Ical’s arm by the elbow, rotting the arm in a way that no blood came out.

As Ical backed away, Noct simply dropped the dagger behind him, guiding his gaze onto the two guards he had in the room. Two of his warriors, they were engaged in mortal combat against two skeletons who appear to have come out of the shadows of Noct couch. Focusing through the pain, he also heard sword fighting in the lower floors.

Holding in the confusion and the betrayal, he grabbed his last dagger and strengthened his legs with magic to add more force behind his charge.

Noct, still sitting on the couch, was smiling, excitement evident in his gaze. Hate flaring, Ica jumped in, his blade finding Noct’s stomach. Ical’s gaze followed the remains of his enchanted dagger, broken upon impact against a magic shield. Noct made a motion with two fingers, chopping his head off with another wave of green energy.

With a merciless voice tone, Noct staterted to talk to the corpse. “Attacking a mage with a dagger, I thought of you as smarter.” His eyes traced the now bleeding corpse. “But be happy, Ical, your work ends today. And I do remember your drunk talks, I know you hate feeling alone. You trusted me with that and I will deliver. You won’t die alone.”

Getting out of the couch, he turned to look at the two skeletons, which had also finished their duels. “Clean them all up. Purge the Hands out of this barony and bring me their heads. My tyranny is not yet over.”

Noct turned to the enormous window Ical had built in his office, the undead tongue coming easier than the Imperial one. “Let us enjoy this night.”

……….