"Before the eyes of crown and court, you shall choose.
Will you name another to wear the crown, and die their most loyal hand—
or take the crown for yourself, and live as the one who chose no king but became one?"
The final trial echoed through the grand chamber, where the three remaining candidates for the throne stood in the heart of the palace's inner court. The setting was opulent—gilded halls, marble columns, and the high throne that loomed above them like judgment made manifest.
First Prince Alaric Aure Valemont stood with his fiancée, Yona Hanaki, his most trusted ally. Beside them, the sixth princess, Althea Auri Valemont, was flanked by her sworn knight, Olga, unwavering in her loyalty. The third contender, a humble knight named Keiser, stood firm with the unexpected support of the fourth prince, Gideon Aury Valemont—his steadfast companion throughout these arduous royal trials, devised by the King himself to determine his successor.
In this kingdom, the throne is not passed down by bloodline. Instead, anyone—even a peasant—may ascend to kingship through the crucible known as 'The King's Gambit'. A series of arduous trials crafted by the reigning monarch to determine his successor. All citizens aged eighteen and above are eligible to participate, though the majority are nobles, having trained their entire lives to reach the final trial.
Now, only three candidates remain.
Two are of royal blood. The third, however, is a commoner—a knight of humble origin, who has not only survived the deadly trials but also navigated their treacherous political undercurrents. His endurance was made possible by the unwavering support of the fourth prince.
When Prince Gideon publicly declared that he would not compete in the Gambit, but would instead champion his knight, Sir Keiser, the court was thrown into uproar. The nobility, scandalized by the notion of a commoner bearing the crown, viewed the decision as a defiance of tradition.
Yet Keiser, ever grateful to the man he calls his prince, his friend, his brother-in-arms, pressed forward. He endured not only the trials themselves, but also assassination attempts, and bore the ever-growing target upon his back. Together, he and Gideon formed their own faction—one capable of challenging the great houses that had long dominated the kingdom's politics.
And now, as the final trial begins, the kingmaker—Prince Gideon—stands in the court alongside his chosen champion, ready to face whatever fate decrees.
With only three candidates remaining—the decision rests in the King's hands. Yet, in a twist befitting the nature of the King's Gambit, it is not the contenders who are questioned, but their most trusted allies.
The King's voice echoes through the silent court as he poses a single, harrowing question—one that will test the loyalty, resolve, and conviction of those who stand beside the aspiring rulers.
Keiser watches.
He watches as the Prince, Alaric, strikes down his own fiancée—Yona, who still chooses him, as her King.
He watches as Princess Althea, tears streaming down her face, delivers a blow to Olga, her loyal knight—once a comrade-in-arms Keiser had fought beside.
And now, it is Gideon's turn.
Keiser's hand trembles upon the hilt of his blade—the very sword Gideon gifted him on his twenty-fifth birthday. Its handle, carved from dragon bone and bleached white, is a symbol of their bond, its edge kept sharp by the hands of Keiser's loyal subordinates.
A thousand thoughts race through Keiser's mind. What would our faction think if I returned without my kingmaker? The image of facing his comrades alone weighs heavy.
But the thought is severed, utterly and without mercy—
Gideon takes the King's hand.
Keiser's gaze slowly rose to meet Gideon, who now stood at the top of the stairs before the throne, looking down upon him. All around, the sounds of sorrow and disbelief hung heavy in the air—the anguished wailing of the princess, the quiet sobs of the first prince as he clutched his fiancée, unwilling to let her go. The nobles looked on, their expressions a blend of awe, confusion, and veiled judgment.
The murmurs grew louder, like a swarm of flies circling the dead—a sound Keiser knew all too well from the battlefields along the border. There, the stench of rotting flesh was almost unbearable. Here, the air was perfumed and clean, yet his stomach churned as if he were back among the corpses.
Because the man who had always stood behind him—the one who had lifted him from obscurity, who had fought for him, bled for him—in truth, is the one who held a dagger poised to strike.
And the King, unmoved, finally spoke.
"Impressive choice, young man.
A king must always choose himself—no matter the sacrifice.
You are the throne. You are the kingdom.
Without the king, there is no kingdom."
Keiser did not blink.
Not once, as the King Aurex—balding, his wrinkled face drawn into a wide, tooth-gapped grin—threw his head back in laughter. The jeweled goblet in his hand sloshed wine onto the marble steps as he raised it high, uncaring of the stains it left in its wake.
"I hereby declare the fourth prince, Gideon Aury Valemont, as the next King!"
The court erupted in thunderous applause. Nobles rose to their feet, their cheers resounding through the vaulted chamber like a thousand war drums.
Yet to Keiser, it was not the sound of triumph that echoed loudest—it was the sobbing of the princess, the restrained weeping of the prince.
And above it all—the grinding of his own teeth, the tremor in his jaw as a vein throbbed in his temple. His body, still locked in a kneeling position, was taut with rage, his muscles coiled beneath his armor like a drawn bowstring.
His eyes were bloodshot, not from fatigue or grief—but from staring, unblinking, at the man he had followed through fire and war.
His Kingmaker.
Gideon was descending now, step by step, returning from the throne he had seized—not for Keiser, but for himself.
"Greetings to His Royal Highness. You may now commence the final trial before the crowning."
The voice came from the side of the court—one of the valors, solemn in tone, delivering tradition with practiced reverence. Gideon nodded in silent acknowledgment, stepping forward to accept the ceremonial sword presented to him.
From below, Keiser stirred.
His voice cracked the silence like steel unsheathed—not a question, but a quiet condemnation.
"You… betrayed me."
He rose slowly from his kneeling position, using his sword—the same blade once gifted to him by Gideon—as a cane to steady himself. His grip tightened around its hilt.
Gideon did not look back. He did not blink.
"Such a naïve way to put it," he muttered, his tone distant.
He paused mid-step.
Keiser could feel it—thecourt's eyes on him. The nobles, draped in velvet and smug certainty, watched with thinly veiled disdain. Some whispered, some chuckled. The knight who reached too far, who dared to dream beyond his station... now cast down like Icarus burned by his own ambition.
And then Gideon spoke again, calm and cold:
"This is simply my way of participating in the King's Gambit."
Keiser's rage boiled over.
With a roar, he swung his sword—more from instinct than thought—and a wave of air burst from the slash, sharp and violent. The force tore through the chamber, sending nobles ducking and scrambling for cover. It struck the far wall with a thunderous crack, denting the stone and splintering the ceremonial podium.
"What sort of nonsense are you spewing, Gideon?!"
But the fourth prince stood unmoved, his expression twisted not in fear, but in disgust.
"You really are the master of that sword, aren't you?" he said, voice low and cold.
Keiser's brow furrowed, confusion creeping in as he looked down at his trembling blade. He had always felt its power—how naturally it responded to his will, how the magic within it pulsed like a second heartbeat. It had always felt close, familiar, almost living.
Then came Gideon's words, quiet and cruel.
"That dragon you spared must have been so grateful to you… for saving him—
And for keeping him at your side… all this time."
Keiser's stomach churned.
Memories flooded in—the young dragon, wounded and terrified, saved from poachers when they were children. He had begged the young master—Prince Gideon—to help return the creature to its home among the sacred trees. He had believed they succeeded. He had believed the dragon lived on, free and growing, somewhere in the quiet of the wild.
But now…
He looked again at his sword. At the bleached dragonbone hilt, the perfect balance, the sentient warmth he'd always taken for a blessing.
All this time—through every battle, every restless night evading assassins, every quiet moment polishing the blade he cherished—
The dragon he had vowed to protect… had already been taken from him.
Not lost.
Sacrificed.
Anger surged through Keiser's body, a burning current that ignited every vein. His sword responded in kind, its core glowing red with awakened fury—alive with the bond of magic and wrath.
Then, he felt it.
A sudden shift in the air—magic sigils flared around him, etched in glowing runes that encircled his feet and rose in spiraling patterns. His blade flickered, then dulled, its enchantment suppressed. The pressure struck him like a hammer, forcing him down within the sigil cage crafted to subdue him.
His eyes widened.
He knew this magic.
And worse—he knew those who wielded it.
From behind him, his trusted subordinates stepped forward—one by one—not to stand beside him, but to align themselves with Gideon. Their armor gleamed in courtly light, but their loyalty had already shifted long before.
Gideon barely glanced back.
"Aisha, you're late."
The young mage grunted, eyes cold with focus as she extended her hand, reinforcing the binding sigils.
Keiser could feel it. The beast within him—the magic, the fury, the fire—struggling, thrashing, but unable to break free.
He understood now.
All this time—from the very beginning—Gideon had been planning. Every gesture, every alliance, every favor… calculated. His path through the King's Gambit hadn't been through strength or glory—but through manipulation, misdirection, and betrayal.
Keiser let out a guttural roar, the sound shaking the marble floor. His sword slipped from his hand, clattering to the ground as the burning sigils licked at his skin, searing through fabric and flesh alike.
And still, he refused to look away.
He locked eyes with Gideon, even as agony coursed through his body.
He had always thought Gideon's eyes were silver—like polished coins, like the kind that bought him warm meals on the streets.
But now he saw clearly.
They were not silver at all.
They were murky grey—like the broken concrete of war-torn houses, lifeless and cold. Eyes that had never held light, only the reflection of what they sought to take.
Gideon muttered something—words lost beneath the searing hiss of burning flesh and bone. The sound echoed louder than any voice, reverberating through the court like a funeral bell.
Then, without warning, Keiser's sword flew.
The blade, glowing red with unspent rage, turned against its master—no, its companion.
It struck with violent precision, plunging into Keiser's chest, burying itself deep as if responding to his own unspoken despair. The hilt clanged against the marble floor, anchoring itself as it bore the weight of his collapsing form.
Keiser sank, trembling, blood trickling down the runes etched in the blade. His body, now kneeling, was held upright only by the weapon he once wielded so proudly.
Around him, the court erupted in celebration.
The nobles cheered, oblivious or indifferent to the tragedy behind them. At the top of the steps, Gideon turned his back—no glance spared, no words given—as the crown was placed upon his head.
Below, the floor of the court was a quiet grave. The princess wept. The prince bowed his head in silence. Those who remained—those not blinded by ambition—wallowed in silent grief.
Keiser's trembling hand reached for the sword's hilt, fingers barely brushing its surface. His voice, weak but clear, slipped between gritted teeth.
"I'm sorry… little dragon. We trusted a snake. I should've known it would be poisonous."
"If we meet again… in another life… I'll make sure you're truly free."
Blood ran down his chest, warm at first—then cold.
The protective enchantments woven into his armor, once a testament to the pride of a knight, had long since faltered. The very armor his subordinates had lovingly polished that morning, scolding him for always appearing before the court bloodstained, now lay drenched anew—not with the blood of enemies this time, but with his own.
He could almost hear their voices.
"At least be presentable, Sir Keiser… if you aim to be King."
A cough broke from his lips, violent and wet. Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth, running in rivulets down his chin, joining the slow streams descending his arms. The sigil-burns etched into his skin pulsed with heat, still glowing faintly as they seared into flesh and bone.
His blade—his only companion—was now soaked in him. Red streaks ran down its length, pooling beneath where it had rooted itself into the marble. His body leaned against it, held up not by will, but by the cruel geometry of impalement.
Numbness crept in, slow and certain.
The pain that once screamed through his nerves began to fade—not healed, only silenced. His chest rose and fell in shallow gasps. His vision blurred, eyelids growing heavy, too heavy.
He thought, for a strange moment, that death was gentle. He had expected darkness.
But instead… his vision turned red.
Not the red of blood—but of something deeper, older. His sword pulsed ominously, its glow intensifying—alive with something beyond magic. Beyond rage.
Then—screams.
A new pain tore through him, flaring from his chest in an explosion of searing heat, and—air.
A breath.
A burning inhale, unsteady and panicked.
His lungs expanded.
Keiser's eyes flew open, the fog of death violently dispelled.
No, it seemed… death had not come for him.
Not yet.