I step onto the wooden podium, and look down at the crowd gathering in the courtyard. Mages. My kind. They are restless, hungry, ready.

“Screw this competition, we’ve been here for hours!” I roar, letting my voice carry across the square. The wind catches it, scattering my words like fire sparks. “Enough of these delays! Can’t you see we’re being played? They hold us down while the throne grows colder… while we slowly age… while the boy grows bolder!”

I pause, letting the weight of my words sink in. Their eyes are on me now, searching for guidance, for permission, for a spark to ignite their anger. I feel it—the raw, restless power thrumming in the air, mingling with mine, feeding it. “Where in the hell is our pride and our rage?!”

“Here and now, the chance is ours!” I shout, voice sharp as steel. “Here and now, we can take control and take our rightful place!”

I see them start to move, a ripple through the crowd, a tidal wave of magic coiled in every fist, every glance. My own pulse quickens, but I remain still, almost bored, as though watching a game play out. Let them fight. Let them tear down the gates. The chaos is mine to command.

The first wave crashes against the guards. Spells flare—tiny bolts of fire, sparks of shadow, whispers of ice—and screams echo from the castle walls. I watch them surge forward, a living storm, and I can’t help the faint smile tugging at my lips. They do my bidding perfectly, blindly, without questioning. They think they are storming the castle for themselves… but I know the truth.

I step through the massive doors of the throne room, the smell of cold stone and burning torches filling my nostrils. The room is empty, save for the throne, and for a moment I let myself savor it. The weight of the crown, the sweep of the chamber, the echoes of power—it is mine. All mine.

The shouts and clash of magic from the courtyard filter in, distant now, insignificant compared to the prize before me. The throne calls to me. I reach out, my hand trembling slightly—not with fear, but with the hunger of destiny.

“This… this is mine,” I murmur, fingers brushing the carved wood, the sigils etched into it. I feel the magic in the room, the lingering influence of the old king, but it bends to me, whispers my name, calls me rightful. Let them fight in the halls. Let them tear the castle apart. I only need this. The crown. The throne. The power.