Chapter 23: Drake II

"Good." She turned away, walking gracefully toward the door. "So work hard. Make me proud." She paused at the threshold, not even looking back. "Massage my shoulders when I return. My nerves are frayed from cleaning up your mess." Then she disappeared down the hallway. Drake remained frozen on the floor, knees weak, sweat running down his temple. His hands trembled as he stared at his reflection in a shattered shard of the broken mirror. "I will work hard, Mother..." he muttered, his voice barely holding together. "Just keep them away from me..." Because if the elders from the Ragos Dukedom got tired of waiting, he knew exactly what they’d do. Replace him. Just like that. A whisper in the dark. A slip of poison in his wine. A letter forged in his name confessing to high treason. The Ragos family didn’t groom heirs—they carved them from marble, mercilessly discarding any statue that cracked. Drake sat in silence for a long time, the ticking of the gilded clock echoing like war drums in his skull. The once-luxurious chamber—now more a velvet prison—felt like it was closing in on him. His fingers curled into fists. Fenric... That weakling worm had turned the tables. Humiliated him in front of the entire court. Took his knights, his duties, his future. And now the bastard was living in peace somewhere, reading books, while he, the Fourth Prince, heir to one of the deadliest noble bloodlines in Eldoris, was locked away like a disgraced dog. "I’ll rise again," he whispered, voice trembling with a cocktail of fear and fury. "And when I do... Fenric better perish at the poison—because if he doesn’t, he’ll wish he had. He’ll be groveling at my feet, begging for death like a dog under my heel." The broken mirror shard in his hand cracked further as his grip tightened. Blood trickled down his palm, unnoticed. His eyes—once filled with entitlement—now gleamed with the raw, desperate glint of a cornered beast. "I’ll learn everything. Politics. Warfare. Espionage. Even magic, if I must. I’ll become the perfect Emperor—so flawless even the elders won’t dare replace me." A bitter grin tugged at the corners of his lips, twisted and hollow. "And then, when the world kneels to me... I’ll make sure he sees it. Every moment. Every crown placed on my head. Every cheer that echoes his irrelevance. I’ll erase him from history... as nothing more than a footnote." The wind outside his sealed window howled—a distant storm rolling over the capital. *** "Achooo!" Far across the royal grounds—inside the hushed grandeur of the Royal Library—Fenric blinked and sniffled, half-buried under a mountain of ancient scrolls and language manuals. "...Huh?" he murmured, rubbing his nose as another shiver passed through him. "Wasn’t I healed? How the hell do I still get a cold?" He looked around suspiciously, then glanced at his arms. Not a bruise, scratch, or ailment in sight. His physique was refined—lean muscle, healthy skin, clear mana flow. Even his Mana Sea, vast as a great lake, was swirling with vitality and power. And yet— "I’m now at Soldier rank..." he muttered, frowning as he leaned back in his chair. The table before him was scattered with notes on Dragon Tongue Magic, a harsh, ancient dialect of elemental command. He had just finished deciphering the syllables for "Raen Drath"—Fire Strike—when the sneeze had ambushed him like a stealth attack. He glanced toward the ceiling. "Is this, like... a magical allergy? Did one of these tomes get sealed with dust from the Great Demon War era?" Another pause. He coughed. Just once. "...Okay, that one might’ve been psychological." Fenric rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. His eyes wandered toward the tall window at the far end of the study, where the last blush of sunset faded into indigo. The moonlight began to spill through the lattice panes, casting silver patterns across the floor. "Guess my body’s demanding rest now," he muttered, voice low and tired. His fingers brushed the side of the table, lingering over the worn edges of the ancient books he’d spent the whole evening poring over. With practiced ease, he began tidying up. The language scrolls, the annotated dictionaries, and the half-deciphered Fairy spellbooks were all carefully rolled and stacked. As for the Dragon Tongue Spellbook, he held it a moment longer—its leather binding faintly warm, as if responding to his mana. "Back you go." He raised his hand, and a faint shimmer of verdant light surrounded his fingers. The Fairy Ring, now nestled on his right index finger, pulsed gently. No longer just an artifact, it had bonded with him completely—responding to his will and spirit. A ripple of spatial distortion flickered across its gem-like surface, and the tome vanished from his hand, pulled effortlessly into the Fairy Ring’s internal realm. Unlike a typical storage artifact, the Fairy Ring was something far more potent. Its internal dimension was vast—nearly endless—and its magic was subtle, graceful, and ancient. It could store weapons, books, scrolls... even living beings, provided they were willing and had a soul signature attuned to the ring bearer. It was not just a vault. It was a king’s sanctum. A remnant of the once-glorious Fairy Kingdom, crafted from the very essence of the fallen Fairy King. Fenric flexed his fingers, feeling the weightlessness of the grimoire now nestled within the hidden sanctuary of the Fairy Ring. With a faint breath, he turned back toward the central pedestal of the Royal Library—his expression unreadable, but his mana pulsing with quiet command. A flick of his hand, and the ancient runes embedded in the marble floor shimmered back to life. The arcane seals reactivated with a low hum, glyphs of warding folding into place like a lock being whispered shut by the world itself. The doors to the Royal Library—his domain now as the appointed Royal Librarian—clicked with a final, magical thud. Fenric stepped out into the dim corridor, where shadows stretched long under moonlight filtered through stained glass. Waiting a few steps away were the ever-dutiful Roman Kaiser and Myria Bloodrose. "Library’s sealed," he said casually, adjusting the sleeve of his cloak. The two Royal Knights nodded in perfect synchronicity. "Understood, Your Highness," Myria said, her tone neutral but her eyes, as always, keen. "We’ll retire to our assigned quarters within your estate," Roman added, gesturing politely before taking the opposite corridor.