I was born to dirt. My earliest memories were of blistered hands digging into the soil, hoping the gods would bless us with enough harvest to last the winter. My family lived on the outskirts of the kingdom of Valtheris, far from the towering castles and bustling cities of the nobles. The only thing I inherited from my father was his name, Valdran, and a sense of duty to those who relied on me. I had nothing else.

But I dreamed. I dreamed of something more, of rising above the muck and the toil. When the kingdom called for soldiers, I saw it as my chance. At sixteen, I left the farm behind, carrying nothing but a dull blade and the hope that loyalty and courage would be enough to make me more than just a farmer’s son.

I wasn’t wrong—at least, not at first.

**

The Bonds of Brotherhood

My first days in the army were a trial by fire. At sixteen, I was nothing more than a scrawny farmer’s son with a stubborn will. My boots blistered my feet, my arms ached from swinging a sword that felt twice my size, and every night, I fell into my bunk too exhausted to dream. The others mocked me at first. My accent marked me as a countryside boy, and my hands, though strong from farm labor, betrayed my inexperience with a weapon.

But I endured. While others complained about the grueling marches or the harsh drills, I kept my head down and pushed forward. For every insult, I offered grit. For every bruise, I repaid my tormentors with a stronger swing the next day. Slowly, the mockery turned to grudging respect.

It wasn’t long before I found comrades who would become my family in the years to come.

There was Jarek, a hulking man from the northern mountains with a laugh as loud as his battle cry. He had a penchant for trouble, always stealing rations or sneaking ale into the barracks, but he had a heart as big as his frame. In battle, he was a shield—unmovable, unbreakable.

“Stick with me, Illiad,” he’d say, slapping me on the back with enough force to rattle my bones. “No one messes with the guy next to Jarek.”

And for all his bluster, he was right.

Then there was Tessara, a sharp-eyed archer with a tongue sharper than her arrows. She came from a merchant family ruined by debt and joined the army out of necessity, but her wit and skill earned her a place among the best marksmen in the regiment.

“Illiad,” she once said, sitting by the campfire as she fletched her arrows, “you’re too honest for your own good. If you’re not careful, that’ll get you killed.” She smirked, but there was a hint of warning in her voice.

At the time, I thought she was teasing.

And finally, there was Renar, the quiet tactician. While the rest of us lived for the rush of battle, Renar lived for strategy. He was the one who taught me to see the battlefield as more than chaos, to find patterns in the bloodshed.

“You’re strong, Illiad,” he told me once, moving small stones across a crude map he had drawn in the dirt. “But strength is only useful if you know where to apply it. A single blow in the right place can end a fight before it begins.”

Together, we survived the trials of war. The early years were brutal—endless marches, skirmishes against raiders, and bitter winters where the cold killed more men than the enemy. But we endured, and with every battle, our bond grew stronger. We weren’t just soldiers; we were a family.

It was in those years that I learned the true meaning of camaraderie. Jarek once risked his life to drag me from a battlefield when I’d been wounded, his massive frame shielding me from arrows. Tessara saved us all more than once with her keen eyes, spotting ambushes before they could spring. Renar’s plans turned hopeless situations into victories, his calm intellect balancing Jarek’s brute strength and my stubborn determination.

But beyond my comrades, there was Loryn Avaris, my captain and mentor. Loryn was everything I aspired to be: strong, disciplined, and respected. He saw potential in me when others saw a simple farm boy. Under his guidance, I learned not just how to fight, but how to lead.

“Strength alone doesn’t win wars, Illiad,” he told me during one of our countless drills. “Discipline, strategy, and loyalty—that’s what makes a soldier.”

Loryn’s lessons shaped me. He taught me to think beyond the immediate battle, to see the larger picture. He showed me how to inspire loyalty in others, not through fear or intimidation, but through trust and example.

Over time, I became his second-in-command, leading smaller units in skirmishes and earning the respect of the men under my command. My name began to carry weight, not because of noble lineage, but because of deeds.

As I rose through the ranks, my bond with my comrades deepened. We celebrated victories together, mourned the fallen together, and shared the same firelight on countless cold nights. The army wasn’t just a place for me—it became my purpose, my family, and my pride.

And at the center of it all was House Rithane. Their banner flew over every battle I fought, their orders dictated every mission I carried out. I believed in them. I believed that I was part of something greater than myself, that my loyalty to them was loyalty to the kingdom itself.

Looking back, I see the irony. The very people who inspired my faith would be the ones to shatter it. The family whose banner I had carried into battle so many times would one day use that same banner to strangle me.

But at the time, I was blind to their flaws. I only saw the honor I believed they represented. And I gave them everything.

**

Twenty Years of Devotion

The day I swore my oath to the army, I promised to serve with all my heart. I wasn’t just pledging my loyalty to the kingdom of Valtheris; I was dedicating myself to the ideals I believed it stood for—justice, honor, and unity. And for twenty long years, I poured my soul into fulfilling that promise.

At the forefront of my service was House Rithane, one of the most powerful noble families in Valtheris, second only to the royal house itself. The Rithanes were held in high regard for their military leadership, their wealth, and their supposed dedication to the kingdom. Duke Cedrin Rithane was a figure of legend, known for his cold precision and unmatched cunning. When I was assigned to serve under his command, I took it as the greatest honor of my life.

The Rithane crest—a silver griffon clutching a sword—became more than just a sigil to me. It became my guiding star. Every battle I fought, every order I followed, I did so with the belief that I was part of something greater.

In those early years, I was young, eager, and perhaps a little naive. Duke Cedrin commanded with an air of authority that left no room for doubt. His strategies were meticulous, and his victories on the battlefield were celebrated throughout the kingdom. He spoke little, but when he did, his words carried weight.

“Duty above all,” he told me once when I had the rare opportunity to speak with him directly. “The strength of a kingdom lies in its soldiers’ loyalty.”

I took those words to heart.

Then there was Lady Elara, Cedrin’s wife, and the true architect of House Rithane’s political power. Where Cedrin ruled the battlefield, Elara ruled the courts. She was brilliant, calculating, and utterly ruthless when it came to advancing her family’s position.

I remember one incident early in my career when whispers spread through the camp about a rival noble house that had fallen out of favor with the king. Within weeks, that house was stripped of its lands and titles, their patriarch imprisoned for treason.

I later learned that it was Elara who had orchestrated their downfall, using forged letters and false witnesses to implicate them in a plot against the throne. At the time, I dismissed it as the necessary cost of maintaining order.

“Elara Rithane protects the kingdom,” Captain Loryn had said when I expressed unease. “Sometimes, doing what’s right requires dirty hands.”

I believed him.

And then there was Veylor, Cedrin and Elara’s son and heir. Groomed from birth to inherit the power and influence of House Rithane, Veylor was everything his parents had shaped him to be—arrogant, entitled, and cruel.

From the first moment I met him, I knew he looked down on me. I was a commoner, a pawn in his family’s game of power. But I didn’t resent him then. I saw it as the natural order of things. I believed he was destined to lead, that my role was to serve.

I’ll never forget the day he first entered the battlefield, surrounded by an elite guard. While others cheered his arrival, I noticed the way his hands trembled as he gripped his sword. He had the Rithane name and the best training money could buy, but he lacked the strength to truly lead.

Even then, I defended him. When men whispered about his failures, I shut them down. “He’ll grow into the role,” I said. “We just have to support him.”

How blind I was.

The years passed, and the wars never stopped. If it wasn’t a border skirmish with Tharion, it was a rebellion in the western provinces or a pirate raid along the southern coasts. I fought in countless battles, each one leaving its mark on me.

With every victory, my reputation grew. I became known not just as a capable fighter, but as a leader who inspired loyalty. Men followed me because they trusted me, and I never took that trust for granted.

I earned medals, promotions, and the respect of my peers. But what meant the most to me was the acknowledgment from Captain Loryn.

“You’re one of the best I’ve ever trained,” he told me after a particularly grueling campaign. “If I ever fall, I know you’ll carry the banner forward.”

Those words stayed with me.

Over time, though, cracks began to form in the image of House Rithane. I started noticing things that didn’t sit right—merchants arriving in the dead of night to deliver unmarked crates, soldiers disappearing after overhearing the wrong conversation, noble allies suddenly falling out of favor without explanation.

There was one moment that stands out even now. During a campaign against a rebel force in the western provinces, I discovered a group of captured rebels begging for mercy. They claimed they had been hired by a Rithane agent to stir up chaos, giving the Duke an excuse to tighten his grip on the region.

I brought this information to Loryn, but he dismissed it. “Lies from desperate men,” he said.

I wanted to believe him. I told myself that House Rithane was above such schemes. But the doubt lingered.

Despite these doubts, I remained loyal. I convinced myself that whatever wrongs I saw were outweighed by the good House Rithane did for the kingdom. When Cedrin gave an order, I obeyed without question. When Veylor demanded my presence, I came.

I justified their actions as necessary sacrifices. “Duty above all,” I repeated to myself, clinging to the Duke’s words like a lifeline.

I didn’t realize then that I wasn’t just serving them—I was helping to build the very foundation of their corruption. Every battle I fought, every life I took, every victory I delivered brought them more power, more influence, more control.

Looking back now, I see how blind I was. I had given them twenty years of my life. Twenty years of sweat, blood, and sacrifice. And in the end, all I was to them was a tool to be used and discarded.

But in those twenty years, I also became something they underestimated. I became a soldier forged in the fires of war, a leader respected by those who served under me, and a man who knew the true cost of loyalty.

They thought they had broken me when they betrayed me. But those twenty years taught me resilience. They taught me how to fight, how to endure, and how to rise again.

And this time, I would rise with a purpose far greater than their banners.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

**

The Crown Prince’s Doom

When Crown Prince Eryndor of Valtheris rode into the war camp, the air shifted. Even the hardened veterans stood taller, their armor gleaming just a little brighter under the sun. The prince was a beacon of hope, a symbol of the kingdom’s strength and unity in the face of the Dominion of Tharion’s relentless assaults.

I remember the first time I saw him: a young man of twenty-two, clad in polished steel and blue-and-silver, the colors of the royal house. His golden hair glinted in the sunlight, and his sapphire eyes carried a quiet intensity that seemed to draw everyone’s attention. Eryndor wasn’t just a figurehead; he was a leader who inspired loyalty.

I believed in him, as did the soldiers under my command. He wasn’t the kind of royal who stayed behind the lines, issuing commands from a gilded throne room. He was there with us, riding into battle, sharing in our hardships. His presence bolstered morale, and his words ignited a fire in our hearts.

For weeks, the tide of the war seemed to shift in our favor. But beneath the surface, something darker was brewing—something I didn’t see until it was too late.

The Dominion forces were in retreat, or so it seemed. Scouts reported that they were regrouping in the Valley of Mourning, a narrow pass surrounded by jagged cliffs. The terrain was treacherous, the perfect place for an ambush.

I expressed my concerns during a strategy meeting with Captain Loryn and Duke Cedrin Rithane.

“The valley is a death trap,” I said, tracing the map with my finger. “If the Dominion forces are waiting for us there, they’ll have the high ground. We’ll be slaughtered.”

Loryn nodded, his brow furrowed in agreement. “Illiad’s right. A direct march through the valley would be reckless.”

But Cedrin dismissed our concerns with a wave of his hand. “The enemy is fractured and desperate. If we press them now, we can end this war before the next harvest. Delay is not an option.”

There was a finality to his tone that silenced any further objections. Orders were orders, and questioning them wasn’t just insubordination—it was treason.

On the morning of the march, I led the prince’s vanguard. The air was heavy with tension, the soldiers’ chatter subdued. Tessara, my trusted archer, rode beside me, her sharp eyes scanning the cliffs.

“I don’t like this,” she murmured. “Too quiet.”

I nodded, my own unease growing with each step. The valley narrowed, the cliffs towering over us like jagged teeth. The shadows deepened, and the soldiers’ footsteps echoed unnaturally against the stone walls.

And then, the first arrow fell.

It struck one of my men, the shaft buried deep in his throat. A heartbeat later, the sky darkened with a rain of arrows, and the enemy surged from hidden paths in the cliffs.

“Shields up!” I bellowed, but the ambush was perfectly orchestrated. The enemy had cut off our escape, their numbers far greater than our scouts had reported.

Amid the chaos, I saw Prince Eryndor fighting valiantly, his sword a blur of silver. But he was overwhelmed. An arrow found its mark, piercing his chest, and he crumpled to the ground.

“No!” I roared, fighting my way through the throng of enemy soldiers. But by the time I reached him, it was too late. His lifeless eyes stared at the sky, his blood pooling beneath him.

**

The Betrayal Revealed

As the enemy closed in, reinforcements from House Rithane arrived. At first, I thought they had come to save us - blood on the battlefield, the prince lying dead at my feet, and the enemy forces closing in on every side. Even amidst the din of clashing swords and dying screams, I felt a strange stillness in my mind, a focus sharpened by desperation. My only thought was to save what remained of the prince’s retinue and retreat to safety.

Reinforcements arrived from House Rithane, their banners fluttering against the smoky sky. Relief surged through me. We were saved. Or so I thought. As their banners unfurled, something in their formation struck me as strange. They didn’t charge the enemy; instead, they surrounded my remaining men and me, their weapons drawn.

“Lieutenant Illiad,” one of their captains barked, his voice cutting through the cacophony. His face was grim, but there was no trace of pity in his eyes. “You are under arrest for high treason and the murder of Crown Prince Eryndor.”

The words didn’t register at first. I stared at him, my bloodied sword still in hand. Around me, my soldiers froze, confusion and fear etched into their faces.

“What?” I finally managed to regain myself, my voice rough with exhaustion.

“Drop your weapon,” the captain ordered, his tone cold and impersonal.

“What are you talking about?” I demanded, my voice hoarse with disbelief. “I fought to protect him! I—”

“Silence!” he snapped. “Your betrayal has been uncovered. Witnesses have testified that you conspired with the Dominion forces to lead the prince into this ambush.”

My heart pounded in my chest. Witnesses? Testified? None of it made sense.

Then I saw him: Duke Cedrin Rithane, sitting atop his black warhorse, his cold eyes watching the scene unfold. He didn’t speak, didn’t move. But his silence spoke volumes.

It was a setup.

I lowered my sword, not out of compliance, but out of sheer disbelief. My mind raced, trying to make sense of what I was hearing. Treason? Murder? None of it made sense.

“I fought to protect the prince,” I said, my voice firm despite the chaos around me. “I gave everything—everything—for him.”

The captain didn’t flinch. “You led him into the ambush. Witnesses have testified to your collusion with the Dominion forces. Your guilt is undeniable.”

Witnesses? Collusion? I turned to my men, the ones who had fought alongside me, the ones who had seen my every action during the battle.

“Tell them the truth!” I shouted. “Tell them I fought to save him!”

But before any of them could speak, more Rithane soldiers stepped forward, leveling their blades at my comrades. The message was clear: silence or death.

**

A Courtroom of Shadows

I was dragged back to camp in chains, my protests ignored. The journey felt surreal, each step weighed down by the enormity of the accusations against me. By the time we arrived, word had already spread. The soldiers who had once saluted me now averted their eyes. Whispers followed me like shadows: “Traitor,” they murmured. “Murderer.”

The trial was a farce. Held in the grand tent of House Rithane, it was presided over by Duke Cedrin himself. The other nobles and officers in attendance sat in a circle of polished steel and velvet, their expressions ranging from feigned neutrality to outright disdain.

The evidence was damning, though none of it was true.

Witnesses—handpicked by House Rithane—testified that they had seen me conspiring with enemy soldiers in the days leading up to the ambush. They claimed I had falsified reports, deliberately leading the prince into the valley knowing it was a trap.

One man, a minor officer I barely recognized, even swore he had overheard me negotiating with a Dominion spy. “He said the prince would die, and the Dominion would grant him lands in return,” the man declared, his voice trembling with theatrical conviction.

Every word was a lie, but it didn’t matter. The stage had been set, and the players knew their roles.

I pieced it together during the sham trial that followed. The ambush had been orchestrated, not by the Dominion, but by House Rithane. They had fed false intelligence to our scouts, ensuring we marched straight into the trap.

Eryndor’s death wasn’t a tragic loss in the chaos of war—it was a calculated move. With the Crown Prince gone, the line of succession would shift to his younger brother, Prince Kaelion. Unlike Eryndor, who was principled and strong-willed, Kaelion was weak and pliable, easily manipulated by those around him.

House Rithane had spent years cultivating their influence over Kaelion, grooming him to become a puppet king. With him on the throne, they could tighten their grip on the kingdom, wielding power from the shadows while maintaining the illusion of royal authority.

But they needed a scapegoat. Someone to take the blame for Eryndor’s death, to draw attention away from their own machinations. And who better than a commoner-turned-soldier? A man whose loyalty they had exploited for decades?

I turned to Captain Loryn, my mentor, my rock in the chaos of war. He was seated near Cedrin, his face pale and lined with unease.

“Captain,” I pleaded, my voice breaking. “You know me. You know I would never betray the prince, the kingdom, or my comrades. Tell them the truth.”

For a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes, a crack in the iron facade. But then he lowered his gaze and said nothing.

“Loryn!” I shouted, my chains rattling as I struggled to stand. “You know I’m innocent! Speak!”

He didn’t.

That silence hurt more than any blade.

Duke Cedrin stood, his imposing figure casting a long shadow across the tent. His voice was measured, his words deliberate.

“The evidence is clear,” he declared. “Lieutenant Illiad Valdran conspired with the enemy, led the Crown Prince to his death, and jeopardized the stability of this kingdom. For his crimes, he is hereby sentenced to death by hanging, to be carried out at dawn.”

His eyes met mine as he spoke, cold and unyielding. It was in that moment I understood the full scope of his betrayal. This wasn’t about justice or truth. This was about power.

With the Crown Prince dead and me scapegoated for the crime, Cedrin’s plan would fall neatly into place. The second prince, Kaelion, would ascend as heir, and House Rithane’s influence would grow unchecked.

As dawn broke, I was dragged to the gallows, the noose already waiting for me. The soldiers I had fought alongside, the men who had trusted me, stood in the crowd, their faces a mixture of anger and sorrow.

I searched the sea of faces for Jarek, Tessara, or Renar—my truest comrades—but they were nowhere to be found. Had they fled? Were they silenced? I would never know.

Duke Cedrin and Lady Elara watched from a raised platform, their expressions calm and composed. It was just another day for them, another move in their unending game of power.

As the noose tightened around my neck, I shouted my final words, my voice hoarse but unwavering.

“You think this will silence me? You think this will absolve your sins? I swear by the gods, your house will fall! I will see it burned to ash, and your names cursed for generations!”

The platform beneath me gave way, and darkness claimed me.

But even in death, my vow remained unbroken.

**

The Gods’ Judgment

Darkness consumed me after the noose tightened around my neck. I expected pain, an endless void, or perhaps nothing at all. But what greeted me was not oblivion—it was something far greater, more terrible, and awe-inspiring than I could have imagined.

When my eyes opened, I stood in a place that defied comprehension. The sky was a swirling expanse of endless stars and cosmic storms, a boundless realm where time and space bled together. The ground beneath me was made of polished obsidian, reflecting my confused and broken form. In the distance, towering monoliths glowed faintly with ancient runes, their meanings just out of reach, whispering truths I wasn’t meant to fully understand.

I was not alone.

Before me loomed three colossal figures, each radiating an aura of divine power that made my knees buckle. Their forms were indistinct, shifting between shadow, light, and a thousand other shapes that my mortal mind could scarcely fathom.

The one on the left spoke first, its voice like the deep groan of the earth splitting open.

“You died with rage in your heart,” it said, the sound reverberating through my very bones. “You seek vengeance against those who wronged you.”

The second figure, whose presence burned like an unyielding sun, leaned forward. Its tone was neither kind nor cruel, but laced with curiosity.

“Vengeance is a heavy burden, mortal,” it intoned. “It consumes the soul and leaves only ashes. Are you prepared to carry it?”

I clenched my fists, my voice rising despite the overwhelming presence of the gods. “They betrayed me. Used me. Cast me aside like I was nothing. I gave them everything—my loyalty, my life! They took it all and stained my name with their lies.”

The third figure, silent until now, stepped forward. Its form was the most alien, shifting like liquid mercury. Its voice was a whisper, soft yet echoing endlessly.

“Revenge will not come without cost. Do you accept the price?”

“What price?” I demanded, though I already knew it didn’t matter. My answer was the same.

“To return,” the second figure said, its blazing form dimming slightly, “is to defy the natural order. The threads of fate will bind tighter around you, and their weight will grow heavier with every step you take toward your goal. The more you unravel the web, the more it will seek to consume you.”

The first figure spoke again, the deep rumble shaking the ground beneath me. “To defy death is to carry its mark. You will be hunted—not just by men, but by forces beyond mortal comprehension. The gods do not grant favors freely.”

The third figure whispered once more, its tone almost tender. “Will you endure the suffering? The sacrifices? The loneliness?”

I thought of my comrades, those who had stood beside me in battle. I thought of the prince, who had trusted me with his life. And I thought of Cedrin and Elara, their cold, calculating eyes as they condemned me to die for their ambition.

“I will endure,” I said, my voice steady despite the storm raging around me. “No matter the cost.”

The three figures seemed to exchange an unspoken agreement. The air grew heavy, and the obsidian ground beneath me began to glow with intricate patterns of light, weaving into a web that encircled my body.

“You shall have your chance,” the first god said. “We will return you to the moment before the path diverged.”

“But know this,” the second god warned. “You must walk this path alone. The vengeance you seek will not bring peace, only justice—or ruin.”

The third god reached out, its fluid form flowing toward me. As it touched my forehead, a searing pain shot through me, but I didn’t flinch. “This is our gift and our curse: the power to see the truth and the strength to act upon it. Use it wisely… or let it destroy you.”

The world around me shattered, the divine realm collapsing into shards of light and shadow. My body was torn apart, and yet I felt myself being rebuilt, reforged like steel in a furnace.

When I awoke, I was gasping for air, my heart pounding like a war drum. Sunlight streamed through the small window of a familiar room—my childhood home. My hands, once calloused and scarred, were smooth and unmarked. My reflection in the cracked mirror showed a younger version of myself, barely fourteen years old.

I staggered to my feet, memories of the gallows and the gods’ judgment still vivid in my mind. My head throbbed with the weight of two lifetimes, the pain of betrayal as fresh as it had been in my final moments.

The gods had kept their promise.

But they had not lied about the cost. As I stared into my own eyes, I saw something that hadn’t been there before: a faint, shifting mark on my left iris, glowing faintly with an otherworldly hue. It pulsed in time with my heartbeat, a constant reminder of the pact I had made.

And then the whispers began. Faint at first, like the rustling of leaves, but growing louder as I stood there. They were fragments of thoughts, truths hidden in the cracks of the world, secrets that pressed against the edges of my mind.

It was both a gift and a torment. I could see through lies now, feel the threads of deceit woven into words. But with every revelation, the whispers grew louder, threatening to drown me.

I clenched my fists, the weight of the gods’ gift settling over me like a second skin. The memories of my betrayal burned brighter than ever, and the faces of Cedrin and Elara loomed large in my mind.

This time, I would not be their pawn. I would rise, claw my way up from the dirt, and seize the power needed to bring them down.

“This is not mercy,” I whispered to the empty room, my voice filled with grim determination. “This is justice.”

And justice would be mine, no matter the cost.