Date: July 1, 542 After the Fall of Zandra the Dishonorable
The council hall buzzed with voices. Some spoke loudly, confidently, proving their loyalty with grand words and even grander promises. Others sat silent, assured in their places. Some openly groveled, trying to please the new King. Kazai stood by the window, his back to those assembled, his face showing nothing. Only cold, icy calm.
He listened. He remembered.
Hlis, standing at his right hand, was also silent. But his eyes—black, deep—roamed over faces, picking out those who seemed too confident, too talkative, too frightened. The old Adept knew that this day would go down in the history of the Kingdom of the Rejected.
Finally, Kazai raised his hand. The hum died instantly, as if someone had capped the hall with an invisible dome.
"I have heard enough," he said, turning slowly. His eyes, pale, almost transparent, swept over those present. "You spoke of loyalty. Of devotion. Of readiness to die for the Kingdom. But words are wind."
He took a step forward, his boots thudding hollowly on the stone floor.
"I look at you, and I see those who are here by right of birth," Kazai continued. "Those who inherited their positions from fathers and grandfathers who were once strong but have long since turned into rotten stumps. I see those who bought their seats with gold plundered from their own kin. And I see only a few—very few—who are here by virtue of their own strength and intellect."
The silence grew dense, almost tangible. Some of the elders paled. Others hunched their shoulders, trying to become invisible.
"For the Cursed Tribe, the likes of you might have passed for pillars of support," Kazai said, and steel entered his voice. "But we are no longer the Cursed Tribe. We are the Kingdom of the Rejected. And I will not tolerate leeches on the body of my Kingdom."
He fell silent, letting his words settle. Then slowly, almost lazily, he turned back to the window and made a short, barely noticeable gesture with his hand.
Hlis wasn't looking at Kazai. He was looking at the three Heralds frozen by the distant columns. They nodded in reply.
That was the signal.
The first to fall was Elder Gurk—the one who, just yesterday, had called Kazai an "upstart" and a "usurper" in private conversations. His head separated from his shoulders so swiftly no one even had time to scream. The body collapsed to the floor, flooding the stone slabs with thick, dark blood.
The second was Elder Villem—a grey-haired, stooped old man who had never hidden his contempt for the new King. His sword never even cleared its sheath. The blade of one of the Heralds sank into his chest up to the hilt.
The third was Elder Morak, young and ambitious, who had dreamed of taking Kazai's place. He tried to flee, but Hlis, without even moving from his spot, loosed a bolt of energy at him. Morak fell by the very door, his body twitching in agony for a few more seconds before going still.
Fourth, fifth, sixth… The list was long. Blood flowed like a river, and the Heralds worked with precision, like butchers in a slaughterhouse. No one screamed. No one begged for mercy. All who had been chosen knew what they risked. And all of them lost.
When the last body collapsed to the floor, a silence fell over the hall—deep, dead, broken only by the ragged breathing of the survivors and the heavy sound of blades being wiped clean.
Kazai turned slowly from the window. His face was calm, and only a faint smirk played at the corners of his lips.
"Now only those who passed the preliminary selection remain," he said, looking at the blood-drenched slabs. "Those who proved their loyalty by deed, not word. Those who were not afraid to look me in the eye when I spoke of the future."
He swept his gaze over the survivors.
There were about a dozen of them. Trembling, pale, they stared at Kazai as if he were the god of death—or death itself.
"From now on, you are my pillars of support," Kazai said. "You will be councilors, warlords, governors. You will build the Kingdom of the Rejected. And you will remember this day."
He paused.
"Because if I learn that any of you has betrayed me," his voice grew quieter, but no less terrifying, "he will die a slow death. And he will not die alone. His family, his friends, his servants—all who knew him, who breathed the same air as him—will share his fate."
No one dared to contradict the king, and among those who remained, all were loyal to Kazai.
Kazai waved his hand.
"You may go. And remember: tomorrow a new life begins. For the Kingdom. For all of us."
The survivors filed out of the hall. Their feet slipped on the blood, but no one dared to stop.
When the last of them disappeared through the door, Kazai sank into the chair by the window. His face was still calm, but a shadow of weariness had crept into his eyes.
"You were swift, your majesty," Hlis said, approaching. "Perhaps too swift."
"Time does not wait, Hlis," Kazai replied without looking at him. "The faster we shed the ballast, the faster we move forward."
"And where will we move?" Hlis asked.
Kazai turned his head and looked at him. In his eyes burned a cold, steady flame.
"You know where," he said. "Toward our own 'Better World.' But first—the academies. Children are our future. And I want that future to be strong."
"Already done," Hlis nodded. "Construction has begun. Teachers have been selected. The first cohort starts in two weeks."
"Good." Kazai leaned back in his chair. "Now leave me. I need to think."
Hlis bowed and left. In the blood-drenched hall, only the new King of the Rejected remained.
He looked at the maps on the walls, and his thoughts were far away—beyond the mountains, beyond the forests, where his destiny awaited him.