The streets of Black Hollow still echoed with the aftermath of the fight. Somewhere in the distance, the muffled sounds of laughter and music from the taverns carried through the damp night air. But here, in the narrow alley where bodies still lay bleeding into the cobblestones, there was only silence.

  Achem took a slow breath, wiping his sword clean against the tunic of one of the fallen mercenaries. His pulse had slowed, but the weight of what had just happened settled heavily on his shoulders.

  They knew now.

  The first whispers would spread before dawn—Rogar lived.

  Lysara leaned against the alley wall, stretching her arms above her head as if she had just finished a warm-up. "That went well."

  Achem shot her a look. "We were ambushed."

  She grinned. "And we won."

  Achem exhaled sharply, slipping his sword back into its scabbard. "You’re enjoying this too much."

  Lysara pushed off the wall, flipping a dagger in her hand. "Maybe. But we both know this was inevitable."

  She gestured to the bodies. "They were just the first wave. The moment word spreads, there will be more. Mercenaries, assassins, bounty hunters. And eventually?" She tapped a finger against his chest. "The Council itself."

  Achem met her gaze, his expression unreadable.

  "I know," he said quietly.

  Lysara studied him for a moment, her smirk fading slightly. "So what’s next, Your Majesty?"

  Achem looked down at the bloodied streets.

  He had been running since the moment he woke up in this world, trying to survive long enough to understand what he was.

  But survival wasn’t enough anymore.

  He clenched his fists.

  Now, he needed to strike first.

  By the time they returned to Tavian’s hideout, the former spymaster was already expecting them.

  He sat at a small wooden table, sharpening a dagger, his expression annoyingly amused.

  "You made a mess out there," he said without looking up.

  Achem pulled a chair out and sat across from him. "It was unavoidable."

  Tavian chuckled. "Everything’s avoidable. You just lack subtlety."

  Lysara plopped into a seat beside Achem, stealing Tavian’s cup of wine. "He’s dramatic," she said, taking a sip.

  Tavian smirked. "That, I’ve noticed."

  Achem ignored their banter. "I need names."

  Tavian raised an eyebrow. "Names?"

  Achem leaned forward. "You said I had two choices. Disappear, or return loudly. I’ve made my choice."

  Tavian sighed, setting his dagger down. "So you want an army."

  Achem didn’t answer immediately.

  He didn’t just want soldiers.

  He needed people who believed.

  People who hated the Council as much as he did.

  Tavian exhaled. "There are warlords in the east, but they’re only loyal to coin. Mercenaries, same problem. That leaves you with outlaws, rebels, and…" He smirked. "The ones your dear Council exiled."

  Achem’s gaze darkened.

  "Where do I find them?"

  Tavian leaned back. "The Iron Wolves control the borderlands. They used to serve under you, back when you were still sitting on a throne." He picked up his dagger again, testing the edge. "They might be willing to listen. Or they might kill you on sight. Hard to say."

  Achem nodded slowly.

  The Iron Wolves had once been Rogar’s most elite soldiers—ruthless, disciplined, feared by all who stood against them. When Rogar fell, they vanished.

  If there was a chance they still held loyalty to their fallen king…

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  "I’ll take the risk," Achem said.

  Tavian chuckled. "Figured you would."

  He reached into his coat, pulling out a rolled-up parchment and tossing it onto the table.

  "That’s where they were last spotted."

  Achem took it, scanning the rough map. A fortress in the mountains, well-hidden and hard to reach.

  Lysara sighed dramatically. "More climbing? Wonderful."

  Tavian smirked. "Try not to die before you get there."

  Achem tucked the map into his cloak.

  Then he turned to Lysara, frowning. "Wait. You’re coming with me?"

  Lysara leaned back, throwing her feet onto the table. "Of course I am."

  Achem blinked. "Why?"

  She grinned. "Because I want to see what happens."

  Achem narrowed his eyes. "That’s not an answer."

  She tilted her head. "Alright, fine. I don’t trust you to survive on your own."

  Achem exhaled, rubbing his temple. "That’s still not an answer."

  Lysara chuckled. "Look, Achem. I spent years avoiding the mess you call politics. But you?" She leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "You’re about to start a war. And I want to be there when it happens."

  Achem studied her.

  She wasn’t lying.

  But she also wasn’t telling him everything.

  Still, he didn’t argue.

  Because, whether he liked it or not—he needed her.

  The journey to the Iron Wolves’ stronghold was long, treacherous, and unforgiving.

  They traveled through dense forests, freezing rivers, and steep, rocky paths, each step pulling them further from the chaos of Black Hollow and deeper into the wilderness.

  The mountains rose before them, dark and jagged, their peaks shrouded in mist.

  Lysara walked ahead, remarkably unfazed by the cold wind biting at their skin. Achem, however, felt every aching mile in his bones.

  Achem felt the familiar weight of battle settling over him, a tension coiling in his muscles.

  The closer they got, the more he felt like he was walking toward a past that wasn’t fully his.

  Would they recognize him?

  Would they see Rogar in his face—or a stranger wearing his skin?

  Lysara didn’t say much during the journey, but she watched him.

  "You know," Lysara said casually, hopping over a fallen log, "I thought kings traveled in carriages."

  Achem sighed. "Former kings."

  Lysara smirked. "Right. My mistake."

  They camped under the stars, the fire small and cautious, the sounds of the night a constant reminder that they were never truly alone.

  Achem sat beside the fire, staring into the flickering embers.

  Lysara stretched out on the ground, resting her arms behind her head. "You’re thinking again."

  Achem glanced at her. "I tend to do that."

  She chuckled. "And what are you thinking about this time?"

  Achem exhaled. "The Iron Wolves. If they’ll even listen to me."

  She stretched out beside the fire, resting her arms behind her head. "So what’s the plan?"

  Achem exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

  "If they’re still loyal, we bring them back," he said. "If they aren’t…" He hesitated.

  Lysara arched an eyebrow. "We kill them?"

  Achem didn’t respond.

  Lysara chuckled. "That’s not very inspiring, Your Majesty."

  Achem sighed. "We’ll see."

  The mountains loomed in the distance, dark silhouettes against the night sky.

  Tomorrow, they would arrive.

  And his past would decide his future.

  The truth was, he wasn’t sure if he wanted them to listen.

  Because if they did… it meant there was no turning back.

  And war was inevitable.

  The stronghold was built into the mountains, its stone walls towering like the last remnants of a forgotten empire.

  Guards patrolled the entrance, their armor scarred and battle-worn, their movements precise, disciplined.

  These were no mere outlaws.

  They were still warriors.

  Lysara adjusted the hood of her cloak. "I count ten visible. Probably twenty more hidden in the cliffs."

  Achem nodded.

  Then, without hesitation, he stepped forward.

  The moment he entered the clearing, every weapon turned toward him.

  A dozen blades drawn. Bows nocked.

  One of the guards—a man with graying hair and a scar running down his cheek— stepped forward.

  "State your business."

  Achem pulled back his hood.

  The effect was instantaneous.

  Some of them tensed. Others froze completely, their hands trembling around their weapons.

  The scarred man’s eyes widened.

  "Impossible," he whispered.

  Achem met his gaze, unwavering.

  "You swore loyalty to me once," he said.

  The silence was suffocating.

  Then, the scarred man did something unexpected.

  He laughed.

  A cold, bitter laugh.

  "You’re ten years too late, my king."

  Achem’s jaw tightened.

  The man’s eyes gleamed with something dark.

  "We don’t follow ghosts."

  Achem exhaled, stepping forward.

  "Then let me prove I’m not one."

  The man smirked, drawing his sword.

  "Very well," he said.

  "Show us if the king we swore to is still alive."