I am Ren Drakemore, age 5, and I am the unwanted second prince of the kingdom of Arcadia.

"Good morning, young master. Time for breakfast."

Lady Willow's voice is as gentle on my ears as my silken pillow is against my head. I slowly open my eyes to find a visage of serene beauty, with brilliant blue eyes and flawless porcelain skin, smiling down at me as she sits at the edge of my bed.

I smile and pause for a moment, taking in the graceful sight of Lady Willow before sitting up. Her lavender scent drifts toward me.

This is a pretty good way to wake up.

"Good morning," I mumble through a yawn, stretching my arms above my head. As comfortable as my bed may be, its allure is nothing compared to what today promises.

Today is the day I've been waiting for.

I eagerly dress myself and skip down the spiral staircase to the second floor of the tower, where Lady Willow has placed breakfast on the large dining table. Most days, I find eating alone at a banquet table built to seat guests I'll never host… depressing. I usually carry my meals to the couch and bury my thoughts in a book rather than face the vast emptiness of that grand table.

Why do we even have a table this size, when we both know I'll never have company?

But today is different. Today is exciting and new. Today, Lady Willow is finally letting me leave the castle with her.

She has never allowed it before. "For your own safety," she always says. More than once, I've tried to run for it, sprinting through the castle halls like a bird that just discovered its wings. But it never lasted. It's impossible to outrun someone with inhuman speed and an uncanny sense of exactly where I am at all times.

I excitedly scarf down my plate of sausages, eggs, and toast. I know we aren't leaving until later, but I rush through my routine anyway, as if moving faster will somehow make the time pass more quickly.

Lady Willow sits beside me with her usual regal posture, watching with an amused smile. As always, she's immaculate, her gown unwrinkled, her silver hair perfectly in place. But there's no plate before her. I don't think I've ever seen her eat.

I assume the fae don't eat human food.

"Thank you for breakfast, Willow!" I say, pushing my empty plate away and hopping to my feet.

"Of course, young master," she replies with a small nod, her voice as melodic as harp notes.

I wipe the remnants of the meal from my lips with my sleeve, the savory taste of Willow's cooking still lingering on my tongue. She silently nudges my napkin a little closer.

Her cooking is surprisingly good for someone who doesn't eat.

"You are very welcome," she says, folding her hands neatly in her lap. "Now, please begin your studies. You'll have less time today because of our errands, but that is no excuse to slack off."

"Yes ma'am," I said as I down a glass of water and rush down the staircase to the first-floor workshop.

The first floor is a single, large circular room with the spiral staircase at its center. Every inch of the walls is lined with shelves stuffed to bursting with books, thousands of them, stacked not just on the shelves but also in haphazard piles on the floor. The furniture is an eclectic mix of tables, chairs, couches, and cabinets, each seemingly plucked from a different time and place. There's no rhyme or reason to their placement; it's as if someone simply dropped them into the room at random. On the tables and desks are even more books, along with magical tools, strange bits of equipment, and crafting materials. At first glance, it looks like complete chaos. And it is.

The cluttered nature of my workshop is the result of Lady Willow's tireless efforts to tutor me across an overwhelming range of subjects: magic, alchemy, history, anatomy, and even military strategy. Each discipline has claimed its own corner of the room. The scattered tables are like islands in a sea of knowledge, each one dedicated to a different field of study or experiment.

Much like my education, the workshop is a work in progress.

I cross the room to one of the couches. Resting on the faded cushions is my wooden, Ren-sized puppet, sitting motionless with its limbs slightly askew. I kneel beside it and place my hand over its chest, my palm pressing against the cool, polished wood. Taking a deep breath, I focus my mind on the spell Lady Willow painstakingly taught me—the mind transfer enchantment.

The incantation is unspoken, but not wordless. I recite it mentally in the ancient arcane tongue, the words forming clearly in my thoughts like etched runes. A pale blue light begins to flow from my hand, swirling like a warm, steady breeze of concentrated mana. I feel the familiar pull as the magic anchors to the puppet's core, linking us.

As the spell completes, the puppet's head lifts. Its blank face tilts toward me, and though it has no eyes, I can feel its awareness.

A wave of fatigue crashes over me. This is the most advanced spell I've learned, and it drains a significant portion of my limited mana. The puppet begins shifting its weight and moving its limbs, as if testing its range of motion.

"Good?" I ask rhetorically as I take my seat beside him.

The puppet silently nods in affirmation as it accepts the large leather-bound book I hand it, titled Ancient Farming Methods. Meanwhile, I retrieve my own book, Medical Herbology, which I had left on a side table the night before. Both volumes are marked at our respective stopping points. We settle into our routine, reading at a steady pace.

I know my ability to read and retain information is far beyond what's normal for a child my age. Lady Willow has pointed it out more than once.

"Your ability to absorb and remember information is rare among your people," she once said with a wry smile, her tone lightly teasing. By "your people," she means humans. It's one of her small amusements, casually dropping the pretense of being human when it's just the two of us.

My rapid learning isn't purely natural talent. Lady Willow told me she is partially to blame. Each morning, long before I wake, she casts two spells on me: Thought Acceleration and Advanced Recall. These spells are designed to sharpen focus, improve memory retention, and speed up the processing of complex information. They're common among scholars preparing for exams or mages deep in research, but their effectiveness depends heavily on the magical capacity of the caster.

And Lady Willow is anything but average. I don't know exactly how powerful she is, but I suspect she operates on a level far beyond that of most mages in Arcadia. Her version of these spells doesn't wear off after a few hours; they remain active throughout the day, seamlessly woven into my waking thoughts.

The truth is, I've been under these spells for so long, I barely remember what it feels like to think normally. She warned me to be mindful of the pitfalls of using this magic long-term.

"Intelligence is not wisdom, and cleverness is not maturity. Know your limits blah blah blah."

She means well, but I think I'm handling it just fine.

Reading about the precise methods for preparing potions with specific herb combinations doesn't hold my attention. My mind drifts. The text is methodical, overly detailed, and, to be honest, dreadfully dry. Lady Willow has already guided me through the actual process, step by meticulous step. I've measured, chopped, boiled, and stirred under her watchful eye until the techniques are burned into my memory.

So why keep reading? Because I'm a completionist. Leaving a book unfinished feels like leaving a door half-closed, an itch I can't ignore.

Still, as my eyes moved across the carefully inked diagrams of herb combinations and potion grades, a significant part of my brain was already elsewhere. Specifically, it was imagining what lay beyond the tower's windows.

Lady Willow and I have spent several days mixing healing potions using herbs she had collected out in the nearby countryside. We had managed to produce 100 small vials of green healing potions and 50 small yellow grade 5 poison curing potions.

All of these are now packed securely in Lady Willow's magical storage bag. The bag is one of her most fascinating tools. Though it appears to be an ordinary leather satchel, it can hold far more than its modest size suggests. It's enchanted to completely negate the weight of its contents, making it invaluable for transporting large quantities of goods.

Her plan is for us to take the potions and sell them at the local apothecary. I asked why we're selling potions in the first place. After all, Lady Willow is a fae of immense power. Surely she doesn't need coin.

She explained it with her usual blend of practicality and sharp insight.

"I don't need coin to survive. But you… certainly do," she says, a slightly dark expression flickering behind her sweet smile. "Your dear father cut you off from the royal family's coffers and left you to fend for yourself."

Father of the century right there…

"If you are going to survive the politics of noble society you are going to need money." Willow continued. "A lot of it."

My father's actions weren't neglect, they were strategic. He wanted to make sure that I never gained any kind of political power or influence. Leaving me penniless and failing to acknowledge me publicly are his way of ensuring that.

Why he kept me around at all remains a mystery to me.

According to Willow and her thousands of years of experience, selling these potions is the most effective way for us to leverage our skills and time to build wealth and influence. In her words, "money will provide options for building allies, and allies provide safety."

Everything for my safety, she really does have a one-track mind.

I am lost in those thoughts when I hear her familiar footsteps approaching. I look up to see Lady Willow standing at the base of the staircase, her blue cloak draped gracefully over her shoulders and the magical bag hanging at her side. She carries herself with her usual calm, every movement deliberate and composed.

"Ready yourself, young master, It's nearly time."

My puppet and I simultaneously closed our books, marking our places for tomorrow's studies. I take the puppet's book from its hands and carefully place both volumes onto the side table. A moment later, the enchantment ends, and the puppet slumps over on the couch. At that same time I feel my mind fill with new memories of everything my puppet had spent the last few hours reading. I can now clearly recall a mind-numbing multitude of ancient, non-magical farming techniques.

"Ren?" Willow calls from the door.

"On my way Lady Willow." I say, rushing to collect my traveling cloak and join Lady Willow.

She holds the door open for me, her elegant figure framed by the dark hallway beyond. This is it. My cage has been flung open, and I've been granted clemency. For the first time, I step through this door a free man.

We exit into the west wing of the castle and make our way down long stone hallways, past countless rooms, around several corners, and down two staircases toward the main entrance. Along the way, we pass the maids' quarters. I glance inside. The room is sparse, lined with uncomfortable-looking cots.

This is how my family's servants live?

As I continue down the hall, I spot two figures approaching. They appear to be maids, elves judging by their long ears. Both are young women carrying bundles of linens, and I catch the crisp warmth of freshly laundered fabric in the air.

Shadows linger beneath their blue eyes, and their thin frames speak of long days with little food or rest. As we pass, they step aside and lower their gazes to the floor, avoiding our eyes.

Why don't they eat?

Heavy-looking metal collars hang around their necks. Thick iron bands, engraved with runes. Willow has taught me about these, but this is the first time I've seen them up close, so I crane my neck as we pass. These are slave collars. In addition to clearly marking one's servitude, they are enchanted to prevent the wearer from disobeying their owner and suppress their ability to use magic. This ensures they have no means to resist. Even attempting to disobey or run results in pain or even death.

The necks of the two maids are red and raw where the collars have chafed. It seems as if they were designed specifically to cause suffering.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

My stomach churns with disgust. This is what my family allows?

I hate that my family treats people so cruelly. I've read that slavery is common in Arcadia, but seeing it in person is far more disturbing. It sickens me. We have no right to strip these people of their freedom and dignity.

It's also hard not to notice that our tower sits in the same wing as the servants' quarters, laundry rooms, and storage spaces. It's the part of the castle where they tuck away everything the nobles don't want to see.

We step into the great hall leading to the castle's courtyard, laughter echoing off the stone walls. Ahead, four boys burst into view, only a little bigger than me, caught mid-uproarious reverie. One of them has a flurry of golden hair and a face I've only seen from a distance. He and I both freeze in shock as he spots me. His hazel eyes fix on mine, and his laughter dies instantly. His three friends, Eric, Yuri, and Nathan, take a few more steps down the hall before turning to see what has caught Charles's attention. They join him in his confused stare toward me.

Charles's brow furrows as if trying to solve a puzzle. I feel like I should say something, but I have no idea what. Hey, I know we've never met, but I'm your brother. Which, I guess, just makes us strangers. Did you know about me?

"Who are you?" Charles demands, his six-year-old voice sharp and commanding despite its high pitch.

I guess not.

"I am Ren… Drakemore."

"Drakemore?" Eric, the tallest of the group, looks at Charles in confusion. "You have a brother?"

"That's a lie! You're a liar!" Charles roars. "I don't have a brother!"

He looks really angry.

"Then who are you really?" Yuri asks.

"An imposter… or an intruder!" Charles shouts, his voice rising to a shrill pitch. "Guards! Guards!"

This is not going well. Willow, please do something.

Two guards stationed at the castle entrance hurry into the hall, responding to Charles's frantic cries. Lady Willow stands behind me, watching them approach with calm indifference. A stark contrast to the heart trying to beat itself through my ribs. What do I say?

How do you prove who you are to someone who never even knew you existed?

"What seems to be the issue, Lady Willow?" one of the guards asks, glancing between Charles and us with a puzzled look. Both wear blue uniforms trimmed in gold, their bodies encased in heavy plate armor. Their greaves strike the stone floor with solid weight as they come to a stop between us.

He clearly knows who Lady Willow is. So, he must know we are not intruders.

"Remove these intruders now!" Charles demands, his small frame trembling with rage.

"Intruders?" The guard frowns and turned to Lady Willow, seeking clarification. "Lady Willow?"

"It seems the young prince doesn't recognize me or his brother, Prince Ren," Willow says, her voice calm and measured. Her piercing blue eyes locked onto the guard's, and for a brief moment, they seem to shimmer faintly, almost glow.

The guard's expression slackens, eyes unfocused for a moment. He blinks, then turns to Charles. "Yes, young master, this is your brother, Prince Ren," he says with certainty.

Charles gawks at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "No, he's not!" he shrieks. "You're lying! He's not my brother! He's a fake! You're letting them get away!"

Ignoring the tantrum erupting behind us, Lady Willow gestures for me to keep walking. The guards stay behind, trying to calm the irate six-year-old prince, who refuses to accept their explanation. His cries echo through the hall, but Lady Willow's unwavering composure soothes my frayed nerves.

As we stepped into the courtyard, the chaos behind us gradually faded into the background. I glanced at Lady Willow, who meets my gaze with a knowing smile. Whatever enchantment she'd used to sway the guard had worked flawlessly.

The guard clearly recognized her. He might have even known who I was. Did she really need to enchant him? This is the first time I've seen her interact with anyone other than me. It feels strange to see her manipulate someone's mind over a minor misunderstanding. Maybe it's just habit, a reflex. Maybe her nature as a fae makes that kind of control second nature.

Perhaps she should have used it on my brother.

The castle courtyard is even more breathtaking up close than it ever seemed from my window. The sweet fragrance of blooming flowers fills the air. In the garden, I spot a small shrine marked with intricate carvings, nestled beneath the canopy of a cherry blossom tree. As I walk beside Lady Willow, my eyes scan the area, trying to take it all in. I'd love to explore the courtyard, but I'm even more excited to finally see what lies beyond the castle.

I want to run ahead, to see it all now. I want to touch that grass and chase that bug. I am shaking with barely restrained excitement.

We step outside the castle onto a wide cobblestone road lined with grand, elegant manors. Each is unique in design, with sprawling, well-tended gardens and intricate stonework that speaks of wealth and prestige. For a moment, I'm struck by the sheer display of prosperity. Many of the homes have their own stables and carriages. I've never been in a carriage before. I bet it's fun.

At first glance, they are an impressive sight. But as my gaze lingers, I begin to notice details that temper my awe. Gardeners trimming hedges and maids hanging linens wear collars like those in the castle. So many of them, and my mental tally grows with each manor we pass. Thousands, maybe more. Most are non-human, and all wear the same expression of quiet sorrow. I don't like looking at it. It feels dark, cold, and uncomfortable.

Slavery isn't just accepted here. It's woven into the fabric of Arcadia's noble culture.

"These homes belong to the kingdom's nobles who hold minor titles but have not been granted lands to manage," Lady Willow explains, her calm voice cutting through my thoughts. She must have noticed my scrutiny of the manors.

The line of manors leads to a wall and a large gate, guarded by two men in a small watchhouse. Beyond the gate feels like stepping into another world. Bright colors fade into dull, dingy tones, and the air carries the stench of filth. The homes lining these streets are simple, closely packed three-story structures that seem to house several families in very humble conditions. Refuse and human waste litter the road.

Is this the same city?

Far worse than the visible signs of poverty are the desperate conditions of the people themselves. In the narrow alleyways between dilapidated apartments, thin, dirty, and sickly figures huddled in the shadows or lay motionless in the grime. These are the truly destitute—the ones who couldn't even afford the meager shelter the others call home.

As we walk, we pass people wrapped in ragged, threadbare clothing, sitting on the streets with their backs against cold stone walls. Some hold out chipped wooden bowls or rusted tin cups, their hollow eyes silently pleading for mercy. Their despair is palpable, a heavy weight pressing down on the air.

My heart aches at the sight of their suffering. A pang of guilt twists in my chest, sharp and unforgiving. How often have I lamented my own fate? How many times have I cursed my solitude, my lack of freedom? Yet compared to these poor souls, my life is a paradise. I have never gone without food. I have never faced a night without a roof over my head. What right do I have to complain when I've been spared the depths of this misery?

We come upon a man slumped against the wall of a group home, his face ashen and drenched in sweat. Blood seeps through the crude bandages wrapped haphazardly around his torso, the soiled fabric stained and discolored. The stench of infection hangs in the air, mingling with the grime of the street. His breathing is shallow, and his glazed eyes stare at nothing, a silent testament to the agony he has endured.

I freeze at the sight. He's clearly delirious, likely from blood loss and untreated wounds. How long has he been like this? How many others are suffering just as he is, unseen by those who could help?

"Lady Willow, wait." I can't just walk past and let this man die when I have the power to save him. "Please, hand me one of the potions."

"Young master," Lady Willow says cautiously as she reaches into her bag, "we don't have enough potions to heal them all. And you still need some to sell."

"We can spare a few," I insist, determination hardening my voice. "I can't just walk away. These people need help."

Lady Willow sighs but complies, pulling out five potions and handing me one. I kneel beside the injured man, his chest barely rising with shallow breaths.

"Here, sir. This is a healing potion," I say, holding the bottle out to him.

The man doesn't react. His eyes remain unfocused, his body too weak to respond. I hesitate for a moment before uncorking the potion and gently pressing the bottle to his cracked lips. Tilting it carefully, I pour the green liquid into his mouth.

A faint green glow envelops him as the potion takes effect. His wounds knit together instantly. His dull, distant eyes sharpen, and his breathing steadies.

"What… what happened?" he asks, his voice hoarse but lucid.

"I gave you a potion. You're healed," I say softly, a hopeful smile tugging at my lips. "Do you feel okay?"

The man looks down at his torso, his hands brushing over the places where his injuries had been. Disbelief spreads across his face. "I… I was a servant at Lord Hurlbert's estate," he stammers. "But I was accused of stealing. He had me beaten and thrown out."

He stands slowly, testing his legs before extending a dirt-streaked hand to me. I rise to meet him, clasping his hand in mine. He shakes it with joy.

"You healed me! Thank you!" he says, his voice loud with emotion, drawing the attention of the people nearby.

"Do I… owe you for this?" he asks hesitantly. It's clear he fears I might demand payment or force him into servitude to repay his debt.

"It's free, sir," I say, feeling a twinge of nervousness as the growing crowd begins to murmur around us. "I'm just glad you're okay."

"What is your name, kind boy?"

"I'm Ren," I reply sheepishly, deliberately omitting my last name in hopes of avoiding too much attention.

"Second Prince of Arcadia," Lady Willow adds with a wide, amused smile.

Not helping.

"Thank you, Prince Ren," the man says, dropping into a bow. "You saved my life!"

"My pleasure. Now, I think we should g—" I begin, but a woman's voice cuts me off.

"Please heal me too, good prince," she pleads.

Before I can respond, more voices join hers. Five, ten, maybe more. All reaching out, begging for healing. I look around in alarm as Lady Willow sighs and starts pulling potions from her bag, handing them to the eager crowd.

"I'd usually prefer to make a trade," she mutters dryly.

"No, you will not," I shoot back.

I might need to keep an eye on Lady Willow, or she might "help" someone to death.

The crowd swells around us as Willow and I hand out potions to the begging hands reaching from every direction. Voices overlap with thanks, praise, and desperate pleas.

I spare a glance at Lady Willow, who returns a look that clearly says I told you so as she places a potion into another outstretched palm.

By the time we manage to break away, half our supply of healing potions is gone. The crowd's praises ring in my ears as we walk off, their cries of "Kind Prince Ren" and "Generous Prince Ren" echoing down the street. Thankfully, the ingrained habit of not blocking the path of nobles works in our favor, allowing us to slip away with minimal trouble.

Still, we've made quite the scene.

Once we've put some distance between ourselves and the commotion, Lady Willow turns to me, her voice calm but lacking any real concern. "You okay, young master?" she asks, her perceptive gaze already aware of the turmoil churning inside me.

"I'm fine," I lie. The words feel empty, even to me. In truth, the sight of the commons unsettles me to my core. "Why do they live like this?" I ask, my voice small but full of frustration. It doesn't feel right. It doesn't feel fair. Can you even call this living?

"These are the people your father has forsaken," Willow says softly as we walk. "The common folk make up ninety-five percent of the kingdom, yet here in the capital, they wallow in poverty while noble society thrives in excess."

Her words sting. I clench my fists as we continue down the cobblestone road.

"What about outside the capital?" I ask.

"Life outside the capital depends on which lord governs the land. There are twelve leading noble families that each control part of the kingdom. Some are better than others, but by far the worst place to be a commoner is here."

"Why is it worse in the capital?"

"There are many reasons," she says, her tone calm but laced with quiet anger. "For one, the king restricts access to the magic academy. Only nobles are allowed to study there, and only humans. Learning even basic magic opens doors to countless ways of making a living. By denying it to the commoners, the kingdom keeps them trapped."

We exit the commons and enter the bustling market street. The contrast is stark. The road is lined with colorful storefronts, lively stalls, and inviting restaurants. The air smells of fresh bread and roasted meat, a sharp departure from the acrid stench of the commons. The market bustles with both commoners and nobles, though it's clear the nobles hold dominion here. Everything is cleaner, brighter, and in far better condition.

"So by restricting access to magic," I say, trying to piece it together, "the kingdom stops ninety-five percent of its people from getting good jobs. But even if someone can't use magic, can't they still learn other useful stuff?"

Lady Willow gives me a small, ironic smile. "Most of the nobility refuse to pay commoners for manual labor."

"Why not?" I ask, puzzled.

She comes to a stop, her expression unreadable as she gestures toward a stage set between two storefronts. My gaze follows her hand, and my breath catches.

Beside the stage are two large iron cages, crammed with men and women of various non-human races. On the stage stands a rabbit beastkin woman, her head bowed, shoulders slumped under the weight of despair. She is thin, her frail frame barely concealed by a rough gray tunic. A handler stands beside her, loudly calling out bids to an audience of nobles.

"Slavery…" I whisper, the word falling from my lips like a vile curse.

I stare at the scene, my chest tightening as the pieces fall into place. "The kingdom doesn't bother providing education or jobs because they have all the free labor they need."

Lady Willow says nothing, letting the truth speak for itself. My stomach churns with a mix of anger and shame. For so long, I thought my solitude and confinement were the height of suffering. But now…

This kingdom—my kingdom—is built on the broken backs of the weak. Its foundation isn't noble ideals or prosperity for all. It's suffering. Oppression. Exploitation. A rot that runs through the heart of Arcadia, starting from the very top.

"Slavery is the cornerstone of Arcadia's social and economic order," Lady Willow says, her gaze steady as she looks at me. "If you ever hope to change that, you'd need to become king."

I freeze, her words striking a chord deep inside me.

Had she planned this? She didn't need me to sell potions. Did she bring me here knowing I would see these horrors? Did she expect that witnessing the reality of poverty and slavery would awaken something in me?

Maybe she did. Maybe it doesn't matter.

The result is the same. My mind is clear now, my purpose crystallized. I am not just going to survive. I won't accept my exile, my father's hatred, or this kingdom's injustice. I will become king. Somehow.

I don't know how yet, but I know this. If it is in my power to help these people, my people, then I should.

The apothecary comes into view ahead of us. The building is striking, a large alabaster structure gleaming in the sunlight, its ornate stonework and statues of angels offering a silent invitation to passersby. The two massive doors at the entrance loom grandly, their gilded frames catching the light. Even from this distance, it is clear the establishment caters exclusively to the nobility.

"If I did want to become king one day… how could I?" I ask, my voice quieter than I intended, the weight of the question settling on my shoulders.

"The throne is passed down by blood. However, in Arcadia, the crown can also be won by merit. Any mage who gains the support of four noble houses may challenge the reigning king in combat."

"So… I would have to defeat my father in a duel?" I ask, trying and failing to imagine such a fight going in my favor.

"Or your brother, should he succeed him," Willow says with a shrug.

"Before you even consider challenging your father, you would need allies among the nobility. More importantly, you would need to become far stronger."

She stops and turns to face me, her piercing gaze unwavering. "The reality is, the only way to ensure your safety, and to help the people of this kingdom, is for you to become king," she says, her voice carrying the weight of certainty.

Her words linger in the air, undeniable and absolute. Suddenly, everything seems to fall into place. I understand now. This has been Willow's plan all along. Every lesson, every trial, every push to sharpen my skills was part of her design to prepare me for the throne. She has been guiding me toward this moment, making sure I would one day have the strength, the resources, and the conviction to claim the crown.

That's why she brought me here today. She didn't need me to sell potions. She wanted me to see the suffering, the injustice, and the corruption that define Arcadia under my father's reign. Not because she cares for these people or despises slavery. Her concern isn't for them. It's for me. Her motivation has always been my survival.

And yet, her reasons don't matter.

After what I've seen, after witnessing the pain and injustice inflicted by my own family for their profit and power, I no longer need Willow to push me toward this goal. I know, deep in my soul, that it is the right path.

I must become king.

How I will achieve it, I don't yet know. The task ahead seems insurmountable, but I have taken my first steps. For now, all I can do is focus on what lies before me: growing stronger, and building the resources and alliances I will need to change this kingdom.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.