The torches burned low in the corridors of the Sapphire Palace, their flickering light casting long shadows that clung to the walls like whispering ghosts. Velas walked alone now, his boots striking the marble floor with a rhythm that echoed like a war drum in the quiet aftermath of his declaration.
Behind him, Mira and Seraphina ensured the Duke's conspirators were subdued—some imprisoned, others dead. But Velas needed silence, needed time to let the weight of his actions settle.
He'd claimed no throne. Yet in the eyes of Calvaren's elite, he had stolen it.
Good, the voice inside him purred. Let them see you as king before the crown ever touches your brow.
Velas reached the Moonlight Balcony—a sweeping stone terrace overlooking the city. Below, Calvaren sprawled in opulence and rot. The gilded towers sparkled, but even from here, he could see the slums like cancerous veins choking the outer rings.
He gripped the railing.
"You played it well," said a voice behind him. Seraphina.
Velas didn't turn. "Too well."
She stepped beside him. "You shattered the illusion of safety. They'll either bow or bare their fangs."
"They were always going to bare them," he murmured. "I just gave them a reason."
Seraphina studied him for a moment. "And how do you feel?"
He didn't answer immediately. "Heavy," he said at last. "Like I just picked up a sword I can't put down."
She nodded. "Because you did."
Silence stretched between them, not awkward, but profound. The kind shared between people who had seen death and danced with it.
"You once said power was a poison," Velas said, turning to face her. "But you drink it anyway."
Seraphina smiled faintly, a bitter edge to it. "Because I'm already dying from something worse—helplessness."
Velas found her gaze, and for the first time, he let his own guard down.
"There's something in me," he said quietly. "Something ancient. It speaks to me."
She didn't flinch. "You think I haven't noticed?"
"It wants blood. It wants conquest. It wants… more."
"And what do you want?"
The question hung between them like a sword suspended by a thread.
Velas looked away. "To not lose myself."
---
In the undercellars of the palace, Mira pressed a dagger to a nobleman's throat.
"I asked you where," she hissed.
The man whimpered, trembling. "East quarter! An estate! They've been stockpiling arms and coin—planning to flee the city if things turned sour!"
Mira nodded and knocked him out cold with the hilt of her blade.
She turned as one of their allies, a young but sharp-eyed servant named Oren, entered the chamber. "We've confirmed it. Several high families are already gathering at that estate. Carriages being loaded. Mercenaries paid in gold."
Mira's eyes narrowed. "Then we cut them off before they slither away."
---
Hours later, the estate blazed.
Screams echoed through the eastern quarter as Velas's forces—small but precise—descended like judgment. There was no mercy for traitors. No whispers in the shadows. Only fire, steel, and retribution.
Velas stood among the flames, watching the banners of House Sareth burn. Once the city's wealthiest arms dealers. Now ash.
He hadn't even needed to speak. The people watched.
From balconies, alleys, and rooftops, commoners stared at the man who moved like fire and struck like a god.
"He's not like the others," someone whispered.
"He's not afraid."
"He's… ours."
That night, the people of Calvaren began to murmur a new name.
Incubus King.
Not because he wore a crown.
But because he hadn't needed one.
---
Later, in the stillness of the royal gardens, Mira found Velas sitting on a stone bench near a reflecting pool. His coat was scorched. His knuckles still bloodied.
She sat beside him without asking.
"You burned a noble house to the ground today," she said softly.
He said nothing.
"And the people cheered."
Still, no reply.
"You're scared," she said, more statement than question.
Velas turned toward her, weary. "I'm not scared of war, Mira. I'm scared I'll enjoy it too much."
She looked into his eyes—the black and gold of something not entirely mortal. "Then let us remind you what you're fighting for."
A pause. A heartbeat.
He reached out, gently, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. She didn't pull away.
"Will you stay?" he asked.
"I've followed worse men," she said with a smirk. "And they never looked at me the way you do."
---
Elsewhere, in a chamber of silver mirrors, a woman robed in white lace stared into the glass. Her eyes were crimson, her smile serene.
"The boy stirs the world," she whispered.
Beside her, a monstrous servant bowed low. "Shall we intervene, mistress?"
"No," she murmured. "Let him rise. Let him burn. We'll greet him when he believes himself unstoppable."
She turned, her voice like honeyed venom. "The Incubus King may be awakening, but the gods never left. We only stepped aside... for amusement."