NOVEL NEXT Chapter 111: Greed.
Lan's voice was low, almost casual, when he asked, "What do you mean by that?"
The duke, seated rigidly at the head of the long banquet table, exhaled as though releasing a weight he had carried for too long. His jeweled fingers tapped against the polished wood, each beat like the toll of a funeral bell.
"The kingdom has betrayed us," he said, his tone sharp with scorn. "Not only did they refuse to send reinforcements despite knowing of your arrival—they withdrew every regiment stationed here. Every sword, every shield, taken from Verdelane. We were abandoned, left to die at your hand."
Lan studied him in silence, pale grey eyes unblinking.
The duke pressed on, the bitterness in his voice cutting deeper. "Tell me, Prince Lanard, what loyalty do I owe to a crown that abandons its own? To a king who cares not whether his people live or die? No—I have no interest in serving such a man."
His gaze steadied, and there was a strange gleam in his eyes now, part agenda, part resolve. "So I am willing to submit. Verdelane will accept your rule. We will recognize you as the new king."
The room fell into silence, the words hanging like smoke after a fire.
Lan stared at him a long while, then rose slowly. His movements were unhurried. The room seemed to contract around him as he crossed the floor with quiet steps and came to stand by the tall, arched window.
The light traced his outline, and when he spoke, his voice was detached, distant.
"How easy it is," Lan murmured, "for a man to fall to greed. Even a man like me."
The duke frowned, uncertain, as Lan's reflection in the glass tilted its head faintly, like a killer considering.
"Before I came to this city," Lan continued, "my intentions were simple—to plunder and destroy. To ravage Verdelane, strip it of every jewel, every treasure, every drop of wealth that made it shine. Burn it to ash and leave nothing but silence in its walls."
The duke shifted uneasily. Miller, watching from the shadows of the room, did not move, his face unreadable.
Lan's lips curved faintly, though his eyes were as cold as winter steel. "And some might wonder, why? Why would a man destroy what he seeks to rule? Why tear down the very kingdom he intends to claim?"
Miller's mind drifted back, recalling the words Lan had spoken to venom when they first seized Ranevia. His voice then had carried the same strange fire it carried now.
"Because beyond the slaughter and destruction," Miller repeated what Lan had said, "there is a pending beauty that lingers. It is only from the blood of the old that something truly new can be born."
Lan's smile deepened, almost a whisper to himself. "Yes. Exactly so."
He turned from the window, the light cutting sharp angles across his face. His tone hardened, like a blade sliding free of its sheath.
"That is why Solaris must burn. Only from its ruin can I build something worthy. But even so…" His eyes narrowed, flicking to the duke. "I cannot afford to waste resources. Not when the game has only begun. Cities such as this… are useful."
The duke leaned forward, hope flaring in his features. "So you will spare us?"
Lan laughed—a soft, amused sound that was more unsettling than comforting. He stepped closer, shadows gathering around his frame.
"No," he said, voice low, laced with cruelty. "I will spare them. You, on the other hand…"
He moved in an instant. One heartbeat he stood across the room, the next his hand shot forward, reaching for the duke's throat. The air crackled with his killing intent.
But before his fingers closed, something stopped him.
A hand—firm, unyielding—gripped his wrist.
Lan's head snapped sideways, his grey eyes narrowing as he turned to see who dared. A figure stood beside him, draped in a dark cloak that glowed faintly as though woven with night itself. The man's grip was iron, his presence heavy with power.
The duke's lips twisted into a sly smile. "Did you think I would sit idly and let you end me so easily? No, Prince Solaris. I am a rich man, and the rich do not die so cheaply."
The cloaked figure raised his free hand, and in it, golden light sparked into being. A hammer, massive and radiant, formed in his grasp. With a roar of force, the man swung.
The hammer crashed into Lan's chest with thunderous impact. The air exploded, dust and shards of wood scattering as Lan was hurled across the chamber, skidding back across the marble floor until he stopped inches from the far wall.
The duke rose from his seat, triumphant, his jeweled fingers trembling with excitement.
"I paid this kingdom's yearly revenue to bring him here," he declared, voice ringing through the chamber. "All this province taxes, wealth—poured into one purpose: to ensure you do not leave this hall alive!"
Lan rose slowly, brushing dust from his shoulders, his expression calm, though his pale eyes glinted with an edge of malice. His gaze fixed on the cloaked figure, measuring him, weighing him.
At the banquet table, Miller exhaled through his nose, almost weary. Without hurry, he pulled out a chair and sat down, folding his hands before him as though preparing for a meal rather than a battle.
The duke's head snapped toward him.
"Won't you go help him?"
Miller's eyes, dull as storm-grey stone, lifted briefly to meet the duke's before lowering again to the table. His voice was flat, certain, like a hammer sealing a coffin shut.
"Help Who? The man you hired?" Miller said. "Not even the gods can save him now."
The duke stiffened, confusion flashing across his face. He turned back toward the center of the room.
Lan's lips curved into a slow, razor smile as he straightened fully, his aura beginning to seep out like a tide of blood, thick and oppressive.
Shadows writhed at his feet, stretching long and sharp. His grey eyes burned with cold fire as they fixed on the cloaked figure, who stood ready, golden hammer raised in defiance.
For the first time, the room felt too small, as though the weight of two storms had been forced into one space.
Lan tilted his head slightly, his voice calm, almost amused. "A year's revenue huh?... then don't disappoint me."