The Prince Of Ashes

"All tragedies, begins with a man who believes himself the hero" 

— — —

The first thing Kaelen remembered was the smell of wine.

It clung to his bedsheets, sour and stale, a familiar stench from a lifetime of numbing himself to the rot of his kingdom. But now, it made his stomach lurch. 

He bolted upright, sweat-drenched and trembling, fingers clawing at his unbroken chest. Moonlight streamed through the arched windows of his chamber, painting silver streaks over the paintings of wheat and rivers—the symbols of a Caldris that had not yet burned.

"This is a dream," he told himself, voice raw. "Another trick of the Voidwell."

But the cold stone floor beneath his feet felt real. 

The distant laughter of guards on patrol, the creak of Vernal Keep's ancient timbers—all real. He stumbled to the mirror, half-expecting to see the scarred monster he'd become in his first life: 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 his door. "Prince Kaelen! You alive in there, or did you drown in a wine barrel?"

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

He yanked the door open.

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

Kaelen didn't answer. He grabbed Garron by the shoulders, 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 said, forcing a smirk. "Just a new flavor of nightmare. More wine than usual."

Garron chuckled, tossing 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 sat slumped on the Ash Crown's seat, a wooden chair carved with brambles to humble its ruler. His once-broad frame had withered under years of ridicule, his beard streaked gray, his eyes dull as tarnished coins. 

Around him, Caldris' council festered like wounds: 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 of a man whose vineyards monopolized Caldris' trade.

"Did you stumble here from a brothel, or do you finally care about your people?"

Snickers rippled through the room. Kaelen met Malrick's gaze, and for a heartbeat, the duke flinched—as if he'd glimpsed 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."

The room fell silent. King Alden blinked, as if startled his son could form a sentence.

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

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

Because you told them. In another life.

Kaelen shrugged. "I have my sources."

The council burst into laughter—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 shouldered past Kaelen. "Careful, boy. Play at strategy too hard, and someone might mistake you for a ruler."

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

The duke paled and scurried away.

That night, Kaelen slipped into the dungeons.

The System's interface flickered on his wrist, its text sharp and accusing:

[Host Corruption: 0.0%]

[Soulcraft Stage: Husk (0/100)]

[Objective: Consume one soul to progress.]

He'd chosen his target carefully: a bandit captain set to hang at dawn for slaughtering a village. The man sneered as Kaelen approached his cell.

"Come to beg for a song, princeling? Or just to gawk?"

Kaelen unlocked the cell. "I've come to give you a choice. Serve me, or feed me."

The bandit lunged, knife flashing—a shiv stolen from a guard.

Kaelen didn't flinch.

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

The man's scream died as his soul tore free—a wisp of silver light swallowed by Kaelen's palm. The bandit crumpled, empty as a gutted deer.

Power surged 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 ripped.

[Corruption: 0.1%]

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

Kaelen staggered, clutching his chest. 

"Prince Kaelen?"

He whirled. A young guard stood at the dungeon entrance, torch raised. Garron's cousin—Lyrin, who'd died defending the granaries.

"I… heard noises," Lyrin said, eyeing the bandit's corpse. "Is everything—?"

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

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

As the guard retreated, Kaelen stared at his trembling hands. This is the price. This is the path.

He smiled, sharp and brittle.

Worth it.

Garron found him at the Broken Scythe, Caldris' filthiest tavern. The prince sat alone, a half-drunk ale in hand, shadows clinging to him like a cloak.

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

"Sit," Kaelen said.

Garron blinked. "You're… different. Did you finally bed someone who—?"

"Duke 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, watching the foam slither like poison. "Bring your sword."

"How do you know—?"

"Do you trust me?"

Garron studied his friend—the icy glint in his eyes, the stillness where there'd once been frantic energy. "Always."

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

Dawn crept over Vernal Keep as Kaelen returned to his chambers. 

The System's text pulsed:

[Soulcraft Stage: Husk (1/100)]

[New Ability Unlocked: Soul Sight (Detect magical affinities in others.)]

He paused at his desk, where a faded sketch lay half-hidden under parchment—a woman dancing, her face blurred by time. His mother.

He couldn't remember her smile.

[Corruption: 0.1%]

Kaelen crumpled the sketch and tossed it into the hearth.

No turning back.