Chapter 5;- The First Betrayer Falls

The city of Sebastian was a fortress of power, a kingdom built on stolen foundations. Yet, for all its wealth, all its soldiers, all its golden walls—it had one fatal flaw.

Its people believed they were safe.

Rhaegar moved through the streets, the weight of his past pressing against him like a second skin. He had spent days observing, waiting, choosing his first target.

And now, the time had come.

Lord Cedric Valen.

A name that once stood beside his, a man who had pledged loyalty with empty words—only to cast the first stone in his downfall. He had whispered in the ears of nobles, spread the lies that branded Rhaegar a traitor, and ensured that his execution was signed in ink and blood.

Now, Cedric lived in comfort, surrounded by guards, drowning in wealth that was never meant to be his.

That ended tonight.

The Valen estate loomed before him—a grand mansion near the city's center, its tall iron gates lined with armored men. Torches burned bright, casting long shadows against the stone walls.

Rhaegar observed from the rooftops, his presence a ghost in the night. He could hear the muffled laughter from within, the sound of goblets clinking, of a man who believed he had won.

His lips curled.

Not for much longer.

He moved.

The first guard never saw him coming. A silent hand wrapped around his throat, crushing it with effortless strength. The second barely had time to gasp before a dagger slipped between his ribs. No screams. No alarms. Just silence.

Rhaegar stepped through the gates, unseen, untouched.

His betrayer awaited.

The feast hall was alive with celebration. Lords and nobles laughed, drank, toasted to a false king. And at the head of it all sat Cedric Valen, dressed in the finest silks, a golden ring resting on the finger that had once sworn loyalty to Rhaegar.

The sight of him—**alive, thriving, unpunished—**boiled Rhaegar's blood.

He strode forward, and the moment Cedric looked up, their eyes met.

A flicker of confusion. Then recognition.

Then—pure terror.

The goblet slipped from Cedric's fingers, wine spilling like blood across the table. The hall fell silent.

"No," Cedric breathed, his face draining of color. "You—you're dead."

Rhaegar smirked. "Then why am I standing before you?"

The lords scrambled to rise, guards reached for their swords—too slow.

Rhaegar moved like a storm. A single sweep of his hand sent men crashing into the walls, their bones snapping like twigs. A dagger flew, embedding itself in a knight's throat before he could even call for help.

Panic erupted. Chaos. Screams.

But Rhaegar heard only one thing—Cedric's heartbeat, frantic, desperate.

The lord stumbled back, eyes wide with fear. "Please," he gasped. "It wasn't—"

Rhaegar was already upon him.

He slammed Cedric against the marble pillars, his grip tightening around his throat. "It wasn't what?" he murmured, his voice almost gentle. Mocking.

Cedric choked, clawing at Rhaegar's hand. "I—I had no choice," he wheezed. "They—they forced me—"

A sharp crack filled the air.

Rhaegar let Cedric's body fall, his head twisted at an unnatural angle.

The first betrayer had fallen.

And this was only the beginning.

The hall was a ruin of chaos and blood. The once-grand feast had turned into a massacre, the scent of spiced wine now mixed with the iron tang of death. Noblemen and women cowered behind overturned tables, their once-arrogant laughter replaced with gasps of terror. The guards who had dared to resist lay motionless, their bodies crumpled where they had fallen.

And at the center of it all, Cedric Valen's lifeless corpse sprawled against the marble floor, his empty eyes staring up at the ceiling as if seeking salvation.

Rhaegar took a slow breath, his senses sharp, his pulse steady. He had imagined this moment for so long, but reality tasted far sweeter than mere revenge-fueled dreams. The sight of Cedric's body—the man who had **stood beside him, only to plunge the knife into his back first—**filled him with a satisfaction that no throne, no power, could replicate.

But this was only the beginning.

His gaze flicked to the remaining nobles, their expensive silks stained with the blood of their fallen kin. Some had dropped to their knees, others pressed themselves against the walls as if they could disappear into the stone itself. Fear clung to them, thick and suffocating, their trembling breaths the only sound in the deathly silent room.

One of them, a portly lord with a jeweled chain around his neck, attempted to crawl away. His hands and knees scraped against the polished floor as he dragged himself toward the exit, silent sobs escaping his throat. Pathetic.

Rhaegar stepped forward.

The man froze as the shadow fell over him, his body shaking as if the air itself had turned to ice. Slowly, he turned his head, his beady eyes reflecting nothing but pure, animalistic terror. "P-please," he whimpered, his voice barely a whisper. "H-have mercy, my Lord—"

Rhaegar's boot pressed against his back, forcing him flat against the floor. "Did you beg for my mercy," he murmured, voice as smooth as steel, "when you watched them condemn me?"

The lord let out a choked sob, his fingers clawing against the floor in a feeble attempt to escape. "I—I had no choice! We—we only did what we had to, to survive!"

Rhaegar chuckled, a cold, hollow sound that sent shivers down every spine in the room. Survive? These people had not survived; they had thrived. They had flourished in his absence, growing fat and comfortable in their golden halls while he had been left to rot.

He leaned down, his breath ghosting against the man's ear. "And now," he whispered, "you will die for it."

The man barely had time to scream before Rhaegar's hand gripped the back of his skull and slammed it against the floor. The impact sent a sickening crack through the hall. Blood splattered across the pristine marble, seeping into the grooves like ink on parchment.

Another fallen betrayer. Another name scratched off his list.

Rhaegar straightened, his gaze sweeping across the room, daring any of them to move. None did. They all knew—there was no running from him.

The silence stretched, heavy and thick. The nobles barely breathed, their eyes darting between him and the shattered bodies of their fallen. They understood now. This was no man before them—this was a force, an inevitability.

With a final glance at Cedric's lifeless form, Rhaegar turned. He strode toward the exit, his movements slow, deliberate. None dared to stop him. None dared to even breathe too loudly.

As he reached the doors, he paused. Without turning back, he spoke, his voice carrying across the blood-stained hall.

"Tell your king I have returned."

Then, like a shadow dissolving into the night, he was gone.

The night air was thick with the scent of burning wood and blood. As Rhaegar stepped out of the estate, his boots left behind dark, wet prints against the cobblestone streets of Sebastian. The city still thrived, oblivious to the carnage he had left behind. Laughter echoed from the distant markets, the glow of lanterns flickered in the windows of noble houses, and the bells of the grand cathedral tolled in the distance, marking another hour in a kingdom that believed itself untouchable.

They had no idea that their reckoning had already begun.

Rhaegar walked with purpose, his bloodstained cloak billowing behind him as he moved through the dimly lit alleyways. He was not concerned about being caught. Fear was the greatest shield, and tonight, he had planted its seeds deep in the hearts of the nobles. Word would spread. The whispers of his return would slither through every corridor, every chamber, every throne room in this cursed city.

He had given them a message. Tell your king I have returned.

He imagined the panic in the royal palace when those words reached the false king's ears. Would he laugh it off, dismiss it as an empty threat? Or would the ghosts of the past claw at his mind, whispering of the vengeance that had been brewing for years?

Rhaegar did not need to wonder. He knew. The usurper would fear him. They all would.

The city guard had not yet been alerted. The night watch patrolled lazily, their spears resting on their shoulders, their armor reflecting the soft glow of torches. They were too used to peace, to order, to the illusion of security. It was laughable. They were sheep pretending to be wolves.

He slipped past them with ease, his movements soundless, his presence unnoticed. A shadow in a city that no longer belonged to him.

But soon, it would.

The streets widened as he reached the western district, where towering estates and lush courtyards marked the wealthiest part of the city. This was where the highest lords resided, where the elite who had betrayed him now slept soundly in their silk-draped beds, thinking themselves untouchable behind their golden gates.

They would learn the truth soon enough.

Rhaegar paused at a quiet fountain square, the stone statues of long-forgotten heroes standing tall against the moonlight. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a small vial—a swirling, black liquid that shimmered unnaturally, as if shadows themselves had been captured within.

The gift of Veldrith. The power of the abyss.

He uncorked the vial and let a single drop spill onto his palm. The liquid pulsed, dark veins spreading from where it touched his skin. Power surged through his body, ancient and terrible, curling around his very soul. It was intoxicating, like breathing in the raw essence of creation and destruction itself.

His fingers clenched, and the stone beneath him cracked.

The abyss could not reach him anymore, but its power was his to command.

A slow smile crept onto his lips. This was what they had feared, wasn't it? This was why they had cast him aside, why they had conspired against him, why they had tried to erase him from history.

Because they knew.

They knew what he was destined to become.

And now, their greatest fear had come to life.

Rhaegar closed his fist, absorbing the last traces of the black liquid into his veins. The energy burned through him like wildfire, sharpening his senses, strengthening his limbs, making him more than he had ever been before.

Tonight, one betrayer had fallen.

Tomorrow, the city would burn.

Rhaegar stood beneath the towering silhouette of Sebastian's noble district, where marble streets glowed under the pale moonlight, untouched by the filth of the lower city. It was quiet here, save for the occasional distant laughter from lavish halls where nobles feasted, oblivious to the storm that had already begun to form in their midst.

He had no reason to linger. Tonight had served its purpose. Cedric Valen was dead. The nobles who had watched his execution, who had cast their votes to betray him, now cowered within their gilded cages, waiting for the storm to claim them one by one.

But Cedric had only been the first.

The false king, the council, the generals who had once sworn loyalty to him—they were next.

Rhaegar turned down a narrow path leading away from the noble quarter. The streets here were darker, the flickering lamplights unable to reach the deep alleys that slithered like veins through the city. These paths were not walked by nobles. They belonged to thieves, mercenaries, and ghosts of the past.

And Rhaegar was a ghost that had returned.

His steps were soundless, his form blending into the shadows as he moved deeper into the city. He did not need rest. The power coursing through his veins was limitless, feeding his body with an energy beyond mortal comprehension. The strength of Veldrith had erased his former limits, reforging him into something greater.

But he was not blind to its cost.

A blade cannot be sharpened without losing pieces of itself.

What had he lost? A soul? A conscience? The last remnants of the man he had once been?

Perhaps.

But in the end, it did not matter.

He had given everything to reclaim what was rightfully his. To ensure that the next betrayer would fall just as swiftly as the first.

And he knew exactly where to begin.

Ahead, a towering estate loomed in the distance, its iron gates adorned with the crest of House Eldric—one of the noble families that had supported his execution.

A smirk curled at Rhaegar's lips.

Time to pay them a visit.

The iron gates of House Eldric loomed before him, their polished metal reflecting the pale moonlight. Once, they had been symbols of power and prestige, a barrier separating the noble blood of Sebastian from the common filth beyond. But to Rhaegar, they were nothing more than a trivial obstacle.

His fingers grazed the cold metal, and a surge of abyssal energy coiled through his veins. Shadows flickered along the bars, twisting unnaturally before the metal began to groan. The once-impenetrable gates bent under an invisible force, warping like melted wax before snapping apart with a sharp, metallic shriek.

The night swallowed the sound, leaving only the whisper of the wind. No alarm bells rang. No guards came rushing forward. Pathetic. House Eldric had grown comfortable, relying on the illusion of safety granted by their wealth.

Rhaegar stepped forward, his boots silent against the stone path leading to the grand estate. The manor loomed ahead, its towering columns and intricate carvings bathed in the soft glow of lanterns. He could already hear them—the nobles laughing, the clinking of wine glasses, the idle chatter of a family that had long since forgotten the blood they had spilled to secure their own survival.

But he had not forgotten.

His hand tightened around the hilt of his blade as he approached the massive oak doors. Instead of forcing them open, he raised his palm. A dark pulse rippled outward, and the heavy doors exploded inward, their shattered remains scattering across the polished marble floor of the grand hall.

Silence.

For a single heartbeat, nothing stirred. Then—

Screams.

Servants and nobles alike turned in horror, their faces pale as they beheld the figure standing at the threshold. Bloodstained cloak billowing. Eyes burning with an inhuman glow. A presence that did not belong in the realm of men.

"W-what in the gods' names—" A noble stumbled back, knocking over a golden goblet. Wine spilled across the floor, dark like blood.

Rhaegar stepped forward. His presence drowned the room in terror, the weight of something far beyond human pressing against the air. He could see it in their eyes—the moment of recognition. The moment they realized exactly who had come for them.

"N-no… this can't be…" Lord Eldric himself stood at the far end of the room, his plump face drained of all color. He had been mid-conversation, a goblet of fine wine still clutched in his trembling hand. "You… you should be dead."

Rhaegar smiled. "And yet here I stand."

His voice was calm, smooth as ever, but it sent a shudder through the gathered nobles. A servant made the mistake of moving, attempting to flee through the side doors. With a flick of his wrist, the shadows surged forward, wrapping around the man's throat. A sickening snap echoed through the hall, and the body crumpled lifelessly to the floor.

Gasps filled the air.

"Sit," Rhaegar ordered.

No one dared defy him. Nobles who once stood tall now collapsed into their seats, trembling, their once-proud postures shattered by a fear they had never before tasted.

Lord Eldric swallowed thickly, his throat bobbing. "P-please… we—"

Rhaegar was already moving. In a blink, he was before the man, his gloved hand gripping Eldric's throat and hoisting him into the air with terrifying ease. The noble flailed, his fingers clawing uselessly at the hand that held him.

"Did you beg for mercy," Rhaegar mused, tilting his head, "when you condemned me to die?"

Eldric gasped, his eyes bulging. His feet kicked, desperate for purchase against the ground that was no longer beneath him. "It—it wasn't my choice! We—we only followed the council's orders—!"

Rhaegar's grip tightened. "You expect me to believe that?"

The man let out a strangled wheeze, his face turning red.

"Tell me, Lord Eldric," Rhaegar continued, his voice a whisper of death, "did you sleep well these past years? Did you feast and celebrate, believing your sins had been buried along with me?"

Eldric tried to speak, but only choked gasps escaped his lips.

Rhaegar exhaled softly. "Allow me to correct that mistake."

With a single effortless motion, he clenched his fist—and Eldric's neck snapped like dry wood. The body went limp, arms dropping uselessly to the noble's sides. Rhaegar released his grip, letting the corpse slump to the ground.

Silence fell over the room once more.

The remaining nobles shook with terror. Some clutched their chests as if trying to steady their own racing hearts. Others refused to lift their gazes from the body of their fallen kin, their expressions frozen between horror and disbelief.

Rhaegar stepped over Eldric's corpse without a second glance.

"Consider this a warning," he said, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "The rest of you have a choice."

They hung onto his every word, breaths shallow, praying he would spare them.

"Leave Sebastian," he continued, "or you will share his fate."

Not one of them dared to argue.

With that, Rhaegar turned, his presence like the shadow of death itself as he strode toward the broken doors. His mission for tonight was complete. The first betrayers had fallen. The others would soon follow.

And by the time he was done, Sebastian would no longer remember the name of its false king.

Only his.

The echoes of his footsteps faded into the night as Rhaegar stepped beyond the ruined doors of House Eldric, leaving behind nothing but silence and corpses. The nobles who still breathed would heed his warning—or they would perish like their fallen kin.

But this was only the beginning.

The streets of Sebastian stretched before him, quiet in the dead of night. The city itself was unaware of what had just transpired in the heart of its noble quarter. Soon, though, the news would spread. Fear would follow. Whispers of a ghost returned from the abyss, of vengeance carved in blood and shadow.

And the ones who had orchestrated his fall—the true architects of his execution—would feel it most.

Rhaegar turned a corner, vanishing into the darker veins of the city. He did not need to move with caution. The power flowing through him made him untouchable. If any dared to challenge him, they would meet the same fate as Eldric.

But his goal tonight was not merely destruction.

No, there was something more he sought. Something that had been taken from him long before his death.

His past.

His name.

The truth of who he had once been before the betrayal, before the execution, before the abyss had remade him into something else.

And there was only one place where such secrets could be found.

The library of Sebastian's royal archives was a fortress of knowledge. Hidden beneath the city, buried deep beneath layers of stone and magic, it was a vault containing centuries of history, forbidden records, and secrets only the high council was permitted to see.

It was also where they had erased him.

Rhaegar moved through the tunnels beneath the city, his path guided by memories long buried beneath betrayal and rage. The last time he had walked these halls, he had been a loyal servant of the throne. A general. A man with honor.

Now, he was none of those things.

Now, he was something greater.

The entrance to the archives was guarded—of course it was. Two armored sentinels stood before a grand stone doorway, torches casting flickering shadows along the cavernous walls. Unlike the pathetic guards of the noble estates, these men were trained warriors, draped in the sigil of Sebastian's elite order.

But it did not matter.

Rhaegar moved like the wind. One moment, the guards were alert, hands gripping the hilts of their weapons. The next, they were gasping for breath, their feet lifted off the ground, shadows twisting around their throats.

Rhaegar watched them struggle, their faces contorting in panic as the abyss itself strangled them.

He could have let them go.

Once, he might have.

But mercy was a language he no longer spoke.

The shadows tightened. Two sickening cracks echoed through the tunnel, and the bodies slumped lifelessly to the ground.

Rhaegar stepped over them and pressed his palm against the sealed doors.

A surge of dark energy pulsed through the stone. The ancient enchantments meant to keep intruders out shattered in an instant. The doors groaned, then swung open, revealing the vast chamber beyond.

Rows upon rows of towering shelves stretched before him, each filled with scrolls, tomes, and records that held the secrets of the kingdom. A place meant only for kings and scholars.

Tonight, it belonged to him.

He moved through the aisles, fingers skimming across the worn bindings of ancient texts. He was not here for history, for the tales of past kings or the laws of a broken empire.

He was here for his story.

And then—he found it.

A single, dust-covered tome.

No title. No markings. Just a black leather cover, aged and forgotten, as if the world itself had tried to erase its existence.

Rhaegar pulled it from the shelf, and as he opened it, the words within struck him like a blade through the heart.

"Rhaegar Crowne, Commander of the Crimson Order, sentenced to death by the High Council on charges of treason."

A bitter laugh escaped his lips.

Treason.

The word was almost laughable now.

He turned the page, scanning the records. His victories. His loyalty. His unwavering service to the throne.

And then—his betrayal.

The council's orders. The fabricated crimes. The swift trial with no chance for defense.

And the names.

The ones who had signed his execution.

His hands clenched the book so tightly the leather threatened to tear. The first name was already crossed off. Cedric Valen.

The second—Lord Eldric.

And beneath it, a list of those who remained. The ones who still drew breath while he had rotted in the abyss.

"Lucian Damaris. General of the Royal Guard."

"Theodric Vance. High Chancellor of Sebastian."

"King Aldric Solmere."

The false king himself.

Rhaegar's fingers traced the last name, a slow smirk curling at his lips.

The abyss had spat him back into the world for a reason.

And soon, the last betrayers would fall.