Samuel Valorian stood on a mound of enemy corpses, his black-as-night armor slick with blood that wasn't his. The prince of Aldermere had just pulled off what no general had managed in three centuries—he'd broken the back of the heretical Crimson Order in one brutal, devastating campaign.
"Your Highness," General Titus approached, his weathered face grim beneath his dented helm. "The enemy commander requests parley. They're ready to surrender."
Samuel's lips twisted into a cold smile. At twenty-five, folks were already whispering about him as the greatest military mind of his generation. The son of a lowly concubine who'd scratched and clawed his way to the pinnacle of power through sheer brilliance and an ocean of spilled blood.
"Tell them to kiss my ass," Samuel drawled, wiping gore from his enchanted blade. "I didn't march three thousand miles to accept their surrender. I came to erase them from existence."
General Titus shifted, uncomfortable. Even after years of serving under the bastard prince, Samuel's ruthlessness still made veteran soldiers queasy. "But the King's orders were to—"
"The King's orders were to end the heretical threat," Samuel cut him off, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. "Dead heretics don't threaten anyone."
As if his words were some kind of summons, a crimson sigil flared to life in the air right in front of him. Samuel's eyes narrowed—he knew that particular shade of blood magic. Only one person in the kingdom possessed such power.
The last echoes of dying screams still clung to the wind as he wiped his bloodied dagger against his sleeve, his lips curling in satisfaction.
A timid cough broke his reverie. Then a scrawny underling with nervous eyes—approached, clutching a polished obsidian slab etched with glowing silver runes.
"M-My lord," the servant stammered, bowing deeply. "The Arcane Relay is prepared. His Majesty awaits your report."
Samuel exhaled through his nose, flicking a stray ember from his cloak before snatching the slab from the man's trembling hands. With a muttered incantation, he dragged his thumb across the surface, and the runes flared to life. A swirling vortex of blue flame erupted from the stone, coalescing into the regal, disdainful visage of King William.
"Samuel," the king intoned, his voice crackling with distant thunder. "I trust you have not wasted my time."
Samuel's grin was all teeth. "Your Majesty," he said reverently, gesturing grandly to the carnage behind him. "Behold—your enemies kneel, your borders are secure, and your enemies now lie in ashes."He kicked a fallen banner—emblazoned with the false gods—into a nearby pyre for emphasis. "Shall I send their heads as trophies, or would you prefer them mounted on pikes as a warning?"
The king's eyes gleamed, as the magical flames cast eerie shadows across his face. "Efficient as always," he murmured. "But do not forget who granted you this victory."
Samuel's grip tightened on the slab. "Oh, I never do."
The connection severed in a burst of sparks, leaving only the stench of ozone.
"There are... matters that require your attention."
Samuel's instincts, honed by a lifetime of court intrigue, screamed danger. The king's tone was too carefully neutral. "What matters?"
"Prince Marcus has been... indisposed. The succession must be secured."
Ah. There it was. Samuel's half-brother, the legitimate heir and a magical incompetent who couldn't light a candle without burning down half the palace, had finally pushed their father too far. The bastard prince's time had come.
"I'll depart within the hour," Samuel said, unable to keep the satisfaction from his voice.
"See that you do." The projection flickered and died.
Samuel turned to his officers, every last one of whom had served with him through hell and back. "Gentlemen, it appears we're going home. Titus, have the men ready to march. And send word to the quartermaster—I want our best wine broken out tonight. We're celebrating."
"What are we celebrating, Your Highness?" asked Morse, a young noble who'd earned his rank through competence rather than bloodline.
Samuel's smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "The death of the old order, and the birth of the new."
Three days later, he led his triumphant army toward the capital, singing songs of victory. banners fluttered in the wind, armor gleamed under the sun, and the rhythmic footsteps of soldiers echoed like rolling thunder. All the men roared anthems of conquest, shaking the city with the triumph.
The road to the capital was lined with villagers who cheered and threw flowers, their faces alight with admiration. The scent of crushed petals mixed with the metallic tang of weapons. Drums beat in unison, guiding the soldiers' steps, while horns blared, announcing their glorious return.
"Our men are back to us!"
"The Glory now will crown on you..."
That night, the celebration was legendary. Samuel's army, flush with victory and the prospect of rich rewards, drank and reveled with the enthusiasm of men who'd stared death right in the face and lived to tell the tale. Samuel himself indulged moderately—a few cups of wine, the sweet taste of triumph on his tongue.
It was the last night of his life.
Across the sprawling feast hall, Samuel's gaze found Evelyn, the Grand Arch-Mage of Aldermere, renowned across the realm for her unparalleled command of the arcane. More than that, she was the woman he loved, the one whose emerald eyes held the secrets of his heart. She moved through the throng, her presence like a beacon, until she reached his side. With a smile that promised endless nights of shared warmth and whispered confidences, she took his goblet, pouring him a fresh measure of wine with her own slender, practiced hands.
"To the victor," Evelyn murmured, her voice a soft melody, her fingers brushing his as she returned the cup. "To my magnificent Samuel."
He drank without the slightest suspicion, lost in the intoxicating glow of her affection, completely unaware of the subtle shimmer that clung to the dark liquid. He raised his own cup in a silent toast to their shared future, to a victory he believed solidified their unbreakable bond.
The Serpent's Kiss, a masterwork of the Autarch's alchemists, struck as Samuel slept, turning his blood to liquid fire. He awoke to agony beyond description, his body convulsing violently as the potent toxin devoured his organs like acid. Every nerve screamed, each beat of his heart a hammer blow of excruciating pain. Disbelief warped his features as comprehension dawned, a horrifying realization cutting through the haze: he was poisoned.
Who would dare? The question clawed at his mind, even as his vision blurred and his limbs grew heavy. He is Samuel Valorian! who commanded three armies, his word law to countless warriors across the realm. His strategic genius was whispered about in every court, his ruthlessness feared by enemies and respected by allies. He had just returned victorious from a campaign that had humbled an ancient enemy. His grip on power felt absolute, unchallengeable.
Then, through the haze of agonizing suffering, a chilling clarity pierced the fog. Two faces materialized in his mind's eye. Evelyn, her emerald eyes now cold as winter stars, and behind her, the Queen's serene visage, utterly remorseless. The cultured voices that had once soothed him now echoed with venomous intent.
His eyes, burning with furious certainty, snapped open as the tent flap rustled. The Queen stepped inside, her silk gown whispering against the ground, Elara at her side like a shadow.
"Surprised, my dear stepson?" the Queen's voice was honey over steel. "You always were too trusting."
Evelyn said nothing, but a faint, almost imperceptible sheen lingered on her fingertips, a ghostly echo of the poison that had sealed his cup. The woman he had loved, the woman he had shared his deepest secrets with, stood there without a flicker of remorse.
"You scheming curs!" Samuel rasped, the words barely audible, choked by the burning in his lungs. "Are you and the King plotting to murder me and secure the throne?! You all tortured me for most of life, and I repay you the glory and blood of enemies. Are you all so terrified I will dethrone all of you?!"
Evelyn finally spoke, her voice the same melodic tone that had once whispered love in his ear, now chillingly detached: "You were magnificent, Samuel. But magnificence without control is simply... dangerous."
The realization sent a fresh wave of agony through him, not just from the poison, but from betrayal. He had fought and bled for this kingdom, carved his path to power through sheer grit and intellect, only to be brought down by the machinations of those closest to him—and the woman who had shared his bed and his soul.
The irony was a bitter taste in his mouth, metallic and acrid, far worse than the poison itself. He, the unvanquished general, the military genius, was being defeated not by a grand army or a cunning foe on the battlefield, but by vipers in the shadows—women he had underestimated in the viper's nest of courtly intrigue.
His vision swam, the edges of his tent blurring, but his eyes remained fixed on his betrayers, burning with a final, defiant rage. Even in his final moments, the force of his will, the sheer magnitude of his fury, sought to tear down the very foundations of the treachery that consumed him.
"Did you truly think," she said in that cultured voice that had once charmed half the kingdom, "that we would allow my son's birthright to be stolen by a whore's bastard?"
Samuel tried to speak, to curse her with his dying breath, but the poison had stolen his voice along with his strength. He could only glare at her with eyes that burned with fury and betrayal.
"Marcus may be weak," Isabella continued, smoothing her silk gown with perfectly manicured hands, "but he is legitimate. The blood of kings flows in his veins, not the tainted seed of some palace strumpet."
The last thing Samuel saw before darkness claimed him was her smile—beautiful, cold, and utterly merciless.