Inside the royal chamber, the air was thick with the scent of power and ambition. A young maid, her hands trembling slightly, draped the final layer of the ceremonial robe across Turik's broad shoulders. The fabric was a masterpiece of Zuran craftsmanship: heavy brocade dyed in the deep crimson, its hem lined with the rarest fur—the pelt of the legendary white wolf of Zura, said to embody courage and dominion.

"

Turik gazed at his reflection in the tall silver mirror before him. The man staring back no longer looked like a soldier or a schemer. He looked like destiny incarnate. His eyes gleamed with a hard, unyielding light.

"The day has finally come," he murmured, a faint smile curling at the edge of his lips. "Today, I shall be crowned King of Zura. And soon, Northem, Estalis, and Westalis will kneel before me. When that day comes, I will not just be king—I will be emperor."

Behind him, Gareth stood straight-backed, his armor set aside in favor of ceremonial robes of dark silk. The proud smile that crossed his face carried both loyalty and awe.

"Congratulations on your Coronation Day, Your Majesty," he said, bowing deeply.

Turik inclined his head slightly. "Thanks to your help, Gareth."

"I did little, Your Majesty," Gareth replied. "It was your wisdom—and your vision—that brought us here."

Turik's smile deepened, though his eyes hardened. He knew better than to credit fate or loyalty. It had been neither the gods nor his generals who delivered him this throne—it had been his cunning. His ability to turn chaos into opportunity. To make allies of enemies, and weapons of friends.

He gave a low hum of satisfaction. Yes, he thought. It was because I knew how to shape the world to my will.

He reached out and touched the sleeve of his robe, tracing the intricate embroidery with slow, deliberate fingers. Crimson… the color of power and blood. How many men had fallen for this moment to exist? How many oaths had been broken, how many promises buried beneath the marble floors of this palace?

He inhaled deeply. The air was heavy with incense, yet beneath it, he could still smell the faint metallic scent of the massacre just two nights before—the memory of it clinging to him like a second skin.

For years, he had worn armor instead of silk, slept in tents instead of chambers, spoken commands instead of dreams. Yet the hunger had always been there—a relentless whisper in the back of his mind. You were born for more.

Now, as he stood on the threshold of kingship, that whisper had become a roar.

He thought of Roman—the fallen king—and how easily an empire could collapse once the right thread was pulled. He was born with a crown, Turik mused. I had to forge mine with my own hands.

A faint smile crossed his lips. There was satisfaction in that truth—cold, sharp, and intoxicating.

"Emperor," he murmured, testing the word on his tongue. It tasted dangerous. Sweet. Unstoppable.

But in the depths of his reflection, something else stirred—an echo of unease. Power, once taken, must always be defended. He knew too well how swiftly loyalty could rot. Gareth's devotion, the council's silence, the nobles' smiles—none of it was trust. They bowed because they feared him, and fear, though useful, was a fragile chain.

He straightened his shoulders, pushing the thought aside. Doubt was for men who waited to be crowned. He was beyond that now.

When the trumpets sounded, he would walk through those gilded doors not as a man who seized the throne, but as one who deserved it.

For the first time, Turik truly felt it—not just the weight of the robe on his shoulders, but the weight of destiny itself pressing down, whispering in his ear:

Rule, or be devoured.

Turik stepped out of the king's chamber, the polished floor echoing softly under his boots. Across the corridor stood the Queen's boudoir—its gilded door closed, silent, yet heavy with memory. The sight of it drew him back, unbidden, to the night two evenings past.

When King Roman had entered the side chamber to meet with Lara, Turik had entered another world entirely—the queen's.

Miranda, radiant and young beside her middle-aged husband, had embodied everything Roman no longer deserved: beauty, grace, and a quiet pride that made her seem untouchable. It made Turik burn with envy.

He remembered her poise, the calm defiance in her eyes when he had tried to charm her, to remind her that power would soon shift. If she were willing, then she could be his concubine. His advances, however, were met with frost; her every word was sharpened with contempt.

That refusal had burned him.

"This is for your own good, and yet you refuse to see it," Turik hissed, his voice low but trembling with anger, his fingers curled around her slender neck.

Queen Miranda met his glare without flinching. "Take your hands off me, you beast—traitor!" Her words cut sharper than a blade. She struggled against him, but when her strength faltered, she did not yield. Instead, she spat at him—one final act of defiance.

Turik froze. The air between them seemed to shatter. Slowly, he wiped the spittle from his face, his expression turning to something cold and terrifyingly calm.

"I gave you a chance," he said, his tone almost gentle. "You should have cherished it. Then let me show you what a beast looks like."

What followed was chaos, and then a silence that seemed to swallow the room whole. When it was over, the queen lay still, her proud eyes dimmed but unbroken in death, a dagger on her chest, and a single tear hung suspended on her eyelashes.

Turik's jaw tightened as fragments of that night flickered in his mind—the confrontation, the anger, the sound of her voice laced with fury.

Now, standing before that same door, Turik felt no guilt. Only the faint echo of what he had already accepted: power was never taken without consequence.

He exhaled through his teeth, a faint trace of irritation in his voice as he muttered, "Foolish woman. She chose ruin over reason. Mira was still the wisest of them."

He exhaled slowly, straightened his robe, and turned away. The corridor ahead gleamed like a blade in the torchlight, leading him toward the council hall—and the crown that would sanctify everything he had done.