crown of self-interest

Zaros sat in the obsidian throne room, the darkened chambers veiled in shadows that writhed and shifted at his command. Flickering flames from torches mounted on the blackened stone walls cast elongated, spectral figures across the cold floor, reflections of the ruthless ambition within him. It was quiet, save for the distant hum of enchanted wards and the crackling energy emanating from artifacts displayed on pedestals around the room.

His fingers drummed rhythmically on the arm of his throne. He was waiting—waiting for the return of his most trusted lieutenants, waiting for word from Arikha on the Heart of the Wild, and most of all, waiting for the fated confrontation he knew was drawing near. The reports of a figure rallying enemies against him, a man of immense power named Raelan, had piqued his interest in ways nothing had in years. The thought that someone was audacious enough to challenge him, that anyone could even entertain such an idea, ignited a spark of anticipation Zaros hadn’t felt in ages.

The doors to the throne room creaked open, and a figure cloaked in crimson approached, bowing deeply.

"My lord," the man intoned, his voice low and respectful, "we’ve confirmed reports from the Verdant Communion. The Heart of the Wild has been retrieved, as you commanded, and the forest’s magic now fades by the hour. It is weakening, and with it, their resistance will soon falter."

Zaros allowed a thin smile to curve his lips. "Excellent," he murmured, his voice dark and velvety, dripping with satisfaction. "Arikha has done well. Ensure she knows I am pleased."

The messenger nodded, departing silently as he came, leaving Zaros alone with his thoughts once more.

As much as the news pleased him, it was overshadowed by the questions gnawing at him. Raelan. The name whispered through his court and among his spies. This mysterious figure had managed to gain influence, rallying factions that should have been crushed beneath Zaros's heel. And somehow, this Raelan seemed to command a power disturbingly similar to his own, an echo of Zaros's abilities in form, strength, and strategy. It was as though he were facing a shadow of himself.

Zaros rose from his throne and paced across the cold floor to a darkened mirror embedded in the wall. Its surface shimmered, revealing distorted visions of events unfolding across the continent: villages bowed in submission, forests withering, temples razed in his name. The vision shifted, and he caught a glimpse of Raelan’s face—strong, defiant, but haunted by something deeper, something that struck a chord buried deep within Zaros’s own mind.

He felt a whisper of familiarity.

“Who are you really, Raelan?” Zaros mused aloud, his eyes narrowing. “I know you… I know that look. It is the gaze of a man who has seen too much, who knows too well the cost of power. How?”

He raised a hand toward the mirror, his fingers tightening around the air as dark magic surged in his veins. The mirror flickered and, as if obeying his will, began to replay scenes from his own memories—visions from a lifetime of conquest, of blood, of betrayal. He watched himself standing atop battlements, cities burning beneath him, a throne built on the ashes of those who had dared defy him.

The memory turned, shifting to the moment his own generals had betrayed him. He could still remember the gleam of their blades, their voices thick with fear and fury as they bound his powers and condemned him. For a fleeting instant, he had felt the sting of regret, the understanding that his ambition had driven even his loyal allies to despise him.

But instead of dying, he had awoken in this world. Another life, another chance to rule—and this time, he would see it through to the end.

The mirror darkened, but a faint glow remained, flickering erratically. Another vision, one Zaros did not conjure, emerged unbidden. A figure cloaked in white light appeared, a specter from his memories that he had tried to bury. The Keeper. Her voice echoed in his mind.

"Zaros, if you walk this path again, you will bring only ruin."

He sneered, clenching his fists. Her warning was nothing but a relic of a past he had cast aside. The Keeper had offered him redemption, a chance to change, but Zaros had embraced the gift of power anew, vowing to rise stronger and take all that was denied him before.

Yet the thought gnawed at him that perhaps, in another life, in another time, he had been given the same chance this Raelan was now taking. A path of mercy, of compassion. Zaros’s lip curled. Weakness disguised as nobility. But the thought that Raelan could be him, the part of himself that had once longed for peace, now disgusted him.

Zaros turned from the mirror and walked back to his throne, his cloak billowing behind him. He called out, his voice echoing through the chamber.

"Send word to Vaedros. I want Raelan located and brought before me. Alive, if possible. Dead, if necessary."

He seated himself and steepled his fingers, watching shadows dance around him. Raelan’s growing influence was more than a challenge to his rule; it was an affront to his legacy. If Raelan truly was the remnant of what he had been, Zaros would extinguish that weakness once and for all.

And yet, a part of him almost craved the confrontation. He had faced countless enemies, but no one who shared his mind, his strength, his ambition. He would finally face a reflection of himself—a battle that would determine, once and for all, if his path was the only path.

He closed his eyes, murmuring a vow to the darkness. "I will not be overthrown. Not again. This world is mine to shape, and I will see it conquered to the last breath."

As the shadows deepened, Zaros sat in silence, a tempest of fury and anticipation swirling within him.