Prologue
The palace was silent.
Not from peace—but from absence. Months had passed since Lelouch vi Britannia and Nunnally were taken as hostages to Japan. Their names still echoed in the halls, but they were long gone. Forgotten by the throne. Forgotten by their father.
But deeper within the estate, in a private medical wing few ever entered, another child of Britannia stirred beneath bloodstained bandages.
He had survived the attack. Barely. Terrorists had stormed the palace. Fire. Gunfire. Screams. A single bullet had struck a lamp—insignificant, until the flames roared to life. And in the middle of it all, a 14-year-old boy, too slow to escape, was burned, broken… changed.
Now, he lay in a hospital bed. His skin raw beneath linen wrappings. His lungs ravaged by smoke. A mechanical breathing mask hissed with every inhale. Machines kept him alive. But what burned hottest wasn't his wounds.
It was his hatred.
His siblings came and went, faces full of guilt and pity. He stared through them. If she—his mother—had been alive, it would be different. She would've held his hand. She would've made them listen.
But she was dead. And the world kept turning.
He rose from the bed one morning, body aching, breath shallow. He dragged himself to the bathroom, each step a silent rebellion against weakness. The marble tiles were cold. Clean. Fake.
He caught his reflection in the window.
Bandages. Mask. Hollow eyes.
His fist clenched.
This is what they left me.
Father. The court. The empire. Even Lelouch.
He struck. The glass exploded in a cascade of shards. Blood smeared the sill.
He didn't flinch.
Back in his room, a book sat waiting. Something the doctors had left—something "educational."
He flipped it open, ignoring the pain. Pages turned. Pictures. Creatures. Then—he stopped.
Snakes.
One page in particular.
The cobra.
Patient. Calculating. Venomous.
A predator not of strength, but of strategy.
Not of fear—but of domination.
He read. And read. Until something in him shifted.
The weak boy—the discarded prince—began to fade.
In his place, something else took root.
They will remember me.
They will fear me.
Not as a son. Not as a number in the royal ledger.
As a force.
He reached for a pen and carved a word into the inside cover of the book:
COBRA.
A whisper of a name. A future forged from ash and steel.