The flames had long since died. The ruins still smoked. But across the continent of Arth, the echoes of Count Brussel’s obliteration were louder than ever.

  Death toll: 89,900. Survivors: 100. Method: Anis Twaggel. Weapon: Everything.

  And the world?

  The world watched in silence.

  Because the once-mocked, long-exiled fifth prince had just erased a noble’s domain in a single night—and did it with music.

  High Forge Council, 600 feet underground.

  “He enchanted a tank to cast fireballs?”

  “And gave it a name. L. Destroyer.”

  “He even added rune-conductive treads. For style.”

  “We invented artillery!”

  “He invented sassier artillery.”

  “...Send him an invitation. And a keg. And ask how he made the metal hum like that.”

  Forest Conclave, high atop the Moonwood Canopy.

  “He leveled a city without asking the trees.”

  “He didn’t pause to quote poetry before destruction.”

  “He wears mortal clothing. I bet it’s synthetic.”

  “He’s dangerous. We must write an epic about it.”

  “He destroyed a city. With tact. How infuriating.”

  Underwater litigation chamber.

  “The surface world has again upset the leyline salinity.”

  “And he destabilized oxygen ratios in coastal magic.”

  “We are suing.”

  “Again?”

  “Yes. Triple lawsuit. For atmosphere theft, rhythm-based trauma, and unauthorized coastline reshaping.”

  Senate floor. Three hours of yelling condensed into summary.

  “He vaporized our count.”

  “He saved the slaves that count was selling.”

  “He didn’t fill out a conflict form!”

  “He sent a musical execution!”

  “I propose we summon him to a summit!”

  “I second it—with an official scroll and maximum side-eye!”

  “WE CHALLENGE HIM TO HONOR DUEL!”

  “He’ll melt you mid-introduction.”

  “Then I shall die with valor. Polishing my shinplate.”

  “He is efficient. Dangerous. Charismatic.”

  “We must kill him.”

  “We must marry him.”

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  “Do both. He will understand.”

  “He was born under a cursed moon.”

  “And married a woman who collects skulls and antique guillotines.”

  “Our king turned into a chicken the day he was born.”

  “Exile another bird. We must restore balance.”

  “He’s our boy.”

  “We pirate. He out-pirated piracy.”

  “He’s invited to the Chaos Cruise next week.”

  King Vaelric stared at the war scroll.

  The room had fallen silent.

  He whispered, “He did... what I would’ve done. Had I not worn a crown.”

  Queen Elenwynn quietly folded the scroll. “Send him our support.”

  Count Brussel did not die.

  He screamed in the church ruins, bound to a velvet chair.

  And every time he blinked too long—

  He heard the same melody.

  The one played by Siralyn’s maids.

  A cheerful lullaby stitched with psychological hexes, illusions of screaming coins, and subtle memory rot.

  He would never sleep again.

  The war tower was quiet.

  Just me and Siralyn.

  I stared out the window, watching soot spiral toward the morning sky.

  “Why didn’t you kill him?” I asked.

  She turned, perfectly composed, sipping from a skull-handled teacup.

  “You said it best,” she replied softly.

  “What better punishment... than letting him live to watch everything burn?”

  I exhaled.

  The words hit harder than any blade.

  “I’ll never truly understand you.”

  “And yet, you kissed me anyway.”

  Her smile was soft. Slightly wicked. Entirely mine.

  We sat in quiet. Fingers brushing.

  For once, no kingdom loomed over us.

  No war. No duties.

  Just... her and me.

  “You really thought I was an archvillain in disguise, didn’t you?”

  “Still do.”

  I chuckled.

  She leaned close.

  “You built death robots and a kingdom of orphans and smugglers. Of course I fell for you.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “You’re worse.”

  We kissed.

  The air shimmered.

  If feelings had spells, that moment was Tier 6.

  The door exploded inward.

  Peter faceplanted with a datapad. Michael stepped over him, completely unbothered but covered in cake flour.

  “Were you spying?” I said, blinking.

  “Monitoring.”

  “Supervising.”

  “Panicking,” Peter added, dusting crumbs off his soul.

  “I see. Very tactical.”

  They froze.

  I smirked. “You’re both dancing. Victory dance. Choreographed. Before sunset.”

  Peter shrieked.

  Michael stared into the void. The void blinked back.

  Siralyn sipped her tea. “I shall conduct. With bells.”

  A new scroll arrived.

  Sealed in gold.

  Signed by the Loranic Republic.

  “To the King of Darneth—

  Your actions have alarmed the world.

  You are hereby invited to the International Summit of Arth.

  To explain yourself.

  And to face... the united court of judgment.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  Peter translated the subtext:

  “They’re terrified, but pretending they aren’t.”

  Siralyn whispered, “Shall I prepare the plague robes or the seductive ones?”

  I sighed.

  Narrator (gleeful):

  “Oh, darling reader…

  This wasn’t a war.

  This was a harvest.

  And now the world comes to dine.”

  End of Chapter 13. Next: A royal seat. A thousand glares. And one exiled king who gives exactly zero damns.