Absolute Sovereignty-Chapter 2: The Prince Of Ashes

All tragedies begin with a man who believes himself the hero.

Kaelen remembered the smell of wine first.

It clung to his sheets—sour, stale, a familiar stench from a lifetime of drowning his failures. But now it made him sick. He sat up, sweating and shaking, his fingers scrabbling at his unbroken chest. Moonlight streamed through the arched windows, casting silver streaks over paintings of wheat and rivers—the symbols of a Caldris that had not yet burned.

"This is a dream," he croaked. "Another trick of the Voidwell."

But the cold stone floor beneath his feet felt real. The distant laughter of guards, the creak of Vernal Keep's ancient timbers—all real. He stumbled to the mirror and braced himself for the scarred monster he had become: cracked skin, void-black eye, a crown of thorns fused to his skull. Instead, a gaunt, hollow-cheeked boy stared back.

Seventeen again. Unbroken. Unmarked. Alive.

A fist pounded on the door. "Prince Kaelen! You in there or did you drown in a wine barrel?"

Kaelen's breath caught. That voice—boisterous, irreverent, alive—was one he hadn't heard in decades. Garron. His oldest friend, who had died choking on blood and jokes during the Siege of Vernal Keep.

He yanked the door open.

Garron leaned against the frame, a wineskin dangling from his fingers and a grin plastered across his face. His auburn hair was a mess, his emerald doublet unlaced to show off a stolen silver amulet. "Gods, you look like a corpse," he said. "Nightmares again? Or just another brothel sprint?"

Kaelen didn't answer. He grabbed Garron's shoulders, his fingers digging into the warm, solid flesh of a man who should be dead.

"Ow! Easy, princeling—save the manhandling for the tavern girls." Garron frowned, tilting his head. "You're... shaking. What's wrong?"

Everything. The Shadows. The Voidwell. The crown.

"Nothing," Kaelen lied, forcing a smile. "Just a new flavor of nightmare. Too much wine."Garron grinned and tossed him the wineskin. "Well, drink up. The real nightmare's in the throne room. Your father's called a council meeting. Again."

King Alden Verath slumped on the Ash Crown's seat, a wooden throne carved with brambles to humble its ruler. Once broad-shouldered, he had withered under years of ridicule. His beard had turned gray. His eyes dulled like tarnished coins.

Around him, Caldris' council festered: simpering nobles, greasy merchants, and the weasel-faced Spymaster Orvin—whose betrayal had sold the kingdom to the Shadows.

Kaelen's fingers twitched.

I could kill him now. Slit his throat, let the Voidwell feast—

"Ah, the prince graces us," drawled Duke Malrick, a bloated leech whose vineyards monopolized Caldris' trade. "Did you stumble here from a brothel, or do you finally care about your people?"

Laughter rippled through the room. Kaelen met Malrick's gaze and for a heartbeat, the duke flinched—as if he saw the rot beneath the prince's skin.

"Enough," King Alden muttered. "We've received word from Xarnis. They're demanding an increase in grain tithes. Twenty percent."

The council erupted.

"They'll bleed us dry!"

"We can't refuse—they'll send their earth-mages!"

"Caldris is a joke—"

Kaelen's voice cut through the noise.

"Refuse."

Silence.

King Alden blinked as if startled his son had spoken.

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"Xarnis is bluffing," Kaelen said coolly, stepping forward. Memories of his first life surfaced—Duke Vorian's sneer, the famine plot, the coded letters. "Their earth-mages are too busy propping up mines in Kethra. They won't risk a war over grain."

Not until...

Spymaster Orvin stiffened. "And how would you know that, Prince Kaelen?"

Because you told them. In another life.

Kaelen shrugged. "I have my sources."

Laughter rippled through the room—all but Orvin, whose beady eyes narrowed.

"Enough theatrics," King Alden sighed, rubbing his temples. "We'll... consider the prince's advice. Council dismissed."As the nobles filed out, Malrick pushed past Kaelen. "Careful, boy. Play at strategy too hard and someone might think you're a ruler."

Kaelen grinned. "Pray they don't, Malrick. I've heard rulers execute traitors."

The duke paled and scurried away.

That night, Kaelen visited the dungeons.

The System's interface flickered on his wrist, text sharp as a blade:

[Host Corruption: 0.0%]

[Soulcraft Stage: Husk (0/100)]

[Objective: Consume one soul to progress.]

He had picked carefully: a bandit captain scheduled to hang at dawn for murdering a village. The man sneered as Kaelen entered.

"Want a song, princeling? Or just to gawk?"

Kaelen unlocked the cell. "I came to offer you a choice. Serve me or feed me."

The bandit charged, knife flashing.

Kaelen didn't flinch.

The Voidwell surged in his veins, cold and ravenous. He caught the bandit's wrist and pulled.

A scream.

The man collapsed, empty as a gutted deer. Power poured through Kaelen, sweet and sickening. His vision sharpened; he could count the cracks in the dungeon stones, hear the heartbeat of a rat in the shadows. But beneath the euphoria, something tore.

[Corruption: 0.1%]

[Memory Lost: Your mother teaching you to dance at the Harvest Bond festival.]

Kaelen stumbled, clutching his chest.

"Prince Kaelen?"

He spun around. A young guard stood in the entrance, torch raised. Lyrin—Garron's cousin, who had died defending the granaries.

"I... heard noises," Lyrin said, staring at the body. "Everything okay?"

"He tried to escape," Kaelen said flatly. "I handled it."

Lyrin's eyes lingered on the body. No wounds. No blood. Just a hollow shell. "Of course, my prince."

As the guard backed away, Kaelen gazed at his shaking hands.

This is the cost. This is the way.

He smiled, hard and cold.

Worth it.Malrick found him at the Broken Scythe, the dirtiest tavern in Caldris. The prince sat alone, a half-empty ale in hand, shadows wrapped around him like a cloak.

"Since when do you drink in silence?" Malrick slid onto the bench. "Where's the fun in—?"

"Sit."

Malrick raised an eyebrow. "You're... different. Did you finally find someone to—?"

"Malrick is selling our grain routes to Xarnis."

Garron froze. "What?"

"He's meeting their envoy tomorrow. Midnight. At the old mill." Kaelen swirled his ale. "Bring your sword."

"How do you know—?"

"Do you trust me?"

A pause. Then—

"Always."

Kaelen nodded. "Then tomorrow, we remind Caldris what fear tastes like."