Level Up Legacy

As they left the frantic energy of the throne room behind, Zas turned to Sier, the frown still marring his spectral features. "I still don't understand," he confessed, "You spent years in exile, plotting… and then you simply waltz in here and demand your crown back. Why the change?"

Sier's steps faltered for the briefest of moments, a flicker of vulnerability betraying the calculated facade. "Yalen fell," he said, his voice low and laden with a bitterness honed during his absence. "And with its fall, my reasons for exile vanished."

"Revenge?" Zas pressed, there was no accusation in his tone, merely the seeking of answers only a long-term companion could demand.

Sier's smile was sharp, devoid of any warmth. He said nothing, but the answer hung in the air between them, thick as the tension that had gripped the palace.

"Arthur Netherborne," Zas spoke the name as if it were a curse, "He unseated an Empyrean. Our alliance with him was always a risk, but…" his voice trailed off, the unspoken implications clear. Sier's silence was his confirmation. He had struck a devil's bargain with the outsider, and now he reaped its grim rewards. "They cannot know," he said finally, his voice a chilling testament to the ambition now burning within him. "One hint of my hand in this, and those vultures circling overhead wouldn't hesitate. I'd be an exile once more… or worse."

The two of them walked on, the sounds of a palace preparing for a coronation a chaotic echo of their own thoughts. Rumors of a returning prince had already begun to spread, and Sier knew his father was the source. A desperate bid for allies, a warning to their enemies that Yalen was not yet leaderless.

Hours turned into a blur of preparation and calculated deceit. The Empyrean's death couldn't be hidden forever. A hastily arranged funeral was the best they could manage, a mockery of the grand rites befitting a figure of such power. Yet, it was the perfect stage.

Amidst the somber dirge and displays of feigned grief, the King stood before his shattered city. His voice, once a symbol of Yalen's might, was a frail whisper against the desolate silence.

"The Empyrean of Yalen is no more," he declared, the words a death knell echoing across the ruined city. He then spoke of loss, of the fragility of power, and the uncertainty of the future. And then, a glimmer of defiance tinged with desperation sparked in his weary eyes.

"My son, Lucian Yalen," he announced, his voice finding renewed strength. "Has returned… from a perilous quest in distant lands."

The name rippled through the crowd, carrying a mix of awe, confusion, and the first sparks of hope. The once exiled prince, now returned, a symbol of defiance in Yalen's darkest hour. Sier, now Lucian, stepped forward, no longer the boy banished, but a man forged in the shadows. It was less a coronation, and more the declaration of a will to survive amidst encroaching chaos.

Despite the fallen Empyrean, the city of Yalenia buzzed with a desperate energy. Prince Lucian's return had ignited a flicker of hope. Emissaries from across the fractured Yalveran Union arrived, offering condolences while their eyes gleamed with barely concealed ambition. Yalen, its power waning, was ripe for the taking, and they wanted their share.

Lucian hated their scrutiny and how they used the name, whispered by his dying mother, as they pleased. He had been banished, labeled a failure due to his inability to be a seer– a cruelty he knew his mother had endured as well. Now, power coursed through his veins, his gaze held a cunning that sent shivers down the spines of even seasoned diplomats.

Amidst the political dance, he sought a moment of solitude. Lucian slipped away from the fawning guests, his footsteps echoing in the silence as he ascended toward his mother's chambers. Once grand, they now stood as a somber echo of a woman scorned.

He entered, the scent of dust and forgotten memories a sharp contrast to the perfumes of the court. Lucian, the once-banished failure, stood clad in the regalia of a Crown Prince. His eyes flickered over the portraits of his mother, her gentle smile mocking the harshness of his own features. And then, he froze.

A figure stood in the center of the room, regarding the faded portraits with an air of quiet contemplation. Arthur Netherborne, the outsider, had somehow infiltrated the Yalen Palace, his presence a tangible weight in the still air.

"Congratulations on your title," Arthur said, "And on your new name. Lucian..." the word lingered, a question mark hanging unspoken.

Lucian tensed. "It means light," he said curtly, "A gift from my mother."

Arthur laughed then, a surprisingly warm sound in this desolate place. He settled on an ornate chair, its worn fabric groaning in protest. Lucian bristled, but the outsider seemed utterly at ease within the palace, his presence an unsettling defiance of the natural order.

Arthur's voice dripped with a strange, mocking warmth that sent shivers down Lucian's spine. "I never knew you had another name, Sier. Lucian...Lucian...such a heartwarming name. It is only natural that I would not know it, since you were banished before I was even born."

Lucian, the newly crowned prince, watched Arthur warily. This was no congratulatory visit. The outsider wasn't here to share pleasantries, but to demand answers. The tension in his mother's chambers was a tangible force, as oppressive as the weight of the crown upon Lucian's brow.

"Why are you here?" Lucian managed, his voice a mere thread against the unsettling silence.

Arthur's smile widened, the expression a grotesque parody of human warmth. "Am I distressing you, dear prince?" He paused, and then with a lightning-fast motion, slammed his fist onto the ornate table beside him. The force of the blow shattered the wood, splinters flying across the room.

"I came here," Arthur's voice was low, a predator cornering its prey, "after hearing the news of your miraculous return as crown prince. It seems...convenient that such a joyous occasion should unfold after you cleverly directed me to Giant Garden. Almost as if you knew that I would disrupt the rotten order of your world, and you could slither in and claim your prize." Arthur's voice dripped with contempt.

"I never told you to do anything." Lucian forced composure into his voice, a mask to hide the flicker of panic within him. "You demanded to know where Oriole was. I did not lie. I used the chaos, as any capable ruler would. Was that wrong?" There was a hint of defiance in Lucian's tone, a last bastion of pride. "You always knew I coveted the throne."

Arthur's laughter was a harsh, discordant sound. "Not like this," he spat, disgust twisting his features. "Not this cowardly scheming, not this...asking your father so nicely to hand you back power!"

Lucian straightened, forcing a sneer onto his face. "I did what I had to." His voice was cold, devoid of any warmth. "Survival is not a luxury the weak can afford. And whether you wish to accept it or not, this world is built on the bones of those too naive, too foolish to seize what they desire."

Arthur watched him with a strange glint in his eyes, his gaze seeming to pierce Lucian's facade. With a disconcerting lightness, he turned and approached the faded portraits of Lucian's mother. For a long moment, he studied her image, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features.

"Did you come here to seek forgiveness from her?" Arthur's voice was quiet, devoid of the mocking lilt it had carried moments before. Lucian was silent. The memory of his mother, filled with love and a quiet strength despite being scorned and broken by the very family she'd married into, was a constant, festering wound. His heart was twisted beyond repair except for the corner that held her memory. Arthur turned, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. "You misunderstand, Prince. Or perhaps…" he trailed off, tilting his head as if regarding a particularly fascinating insect, "perhaps you understand all too well. You know deep down that the throne was never what you wanted. And it was never power, either. It was to prove your worth. To do the same thing that they did to you, and to her." The accusation hit Lucian with the force of a physical blow. His hands trembled slightly as he struggled to maintain his defiant facade. Beneath Arthur's unflinching gaze, he felt stripped bare, every shameful motive laid open for dissection.

He took a deep, shuddering breath and raised a hand. With a shimmer of power, the room was enveloped in an illusion, a barrier of privacy against the prying eyes of the world. Lucian sank onto an ornate, threadbare chair. And then, the mask fell completely. The wicked smirk, the one he'd honed over years of exile, the same smirk that had hidden his desperation from the court, returned to his face. "You're right, Arthur," Lucian admitted, his voice laced with ambition, "I am tired from playing games, too. Answer me, outsider. How about we destroy this world together?"

A slow, predatory grin spread across Arthur's face. It wasn't the cruel mocking smirk he'd worn moments earlier, but a genuine expression that transformed his usually unremarkable features. In that moment, he looked less like a man, and more like the embodiment of a storm.

"Now, this," Arthur's voice was low, a rumble of both amusement and dark satisfaction, "This is the Sier I remember."

Lucian leaned back, a flicker of relief warring with the cold determination in his eyes. Finally, the masks were off. No more pretenses, no more hiding behind brittle facades or veiled accusations. This...this was a negotiation between powers, a dance of ambition played upon a stage of a crumbling world.

"I offer you chaos, Arthur," Lucian's voice was strong now, the desperation replaced by the ruthless clarity that power brought. "Not blind destruction, but a shattering of the old order. The Empyreans, with their stolen power and their illusions of peace...they must fall." He slammed a fist on the table, his gaze burning. "And within the ashes, we can rebuild, a world where strength is its own reward, where cowards and those hiding behind false names are crushed, not exalted."

Arthur regarded him for a long moment, those black, fathomless eyes seeming to dissect Lucian's very soul. "A tempting offer indeed," he admitted, "But promises are as easily broken as they are made, Prince...what guarantees do I have of your sincerity? Your loyalty?" The last word was laced with irony, a reminder of Lucian's past as the banished prince.

Lucian's smirk returned, edged with a hint of danger. "None," he admitted, a strange honesty echoing in his voice. "Loyalty is a currency bought with power. Right now, you are the stronger of us. Until that balance shifts, consider me your...opportunistic ally."

He held Arthur's gaze, knowing that the outsider understood. This wasn't about trust, it was a transaction. They both sought the shattering of the old world order; the methods, the spoils, those details could be negotiated later.

"So," Lucian's voice was a purr filled with promises of grand schemes and a shared desire for chaotic change, "Shall we discuss how best to bring the mighty Yalen Kingdom to its knees?"