Villain Throne:I Build An Empire On Bones

Kaelridge Manor

Elyra lay on her bed after dinner, staring at the ceiling. Her heart ached as she thought of her younger brother, Zairen. Why, Zairen? Why do you keep hurting us? Why do you act so foolishly? Her mind spiraled. Your stubbornness got Mother and Father killed. Sadness gripped her, then anger, then guilt. I didn't want to forgive you because I was so angry, with you. But back then, you were just a kid, and it wasn't really your fault. She felt sad thinking about it. Now, this time, I want to forgive you., but you've caused so much trouble and run away again. When will you learn? Why can't we be a normal family?

A knock startled her. "Who's there?" she called, wiping her tears.

"It's me, Lyra," came a soft voice. Her master, Daksha.

Elyra stood, opened the door, and saw Daksha's concerned eyes. "Is something wrong, Lyra?" he asked, noticing her tear-streaked face.

She wiped her eyes quickly. "Nothing, Master," she said, her voice trembling.

"Oh, Lyra, don't cry," Daksha said gently. "Your brother's fine. He's with Viscount Draven, a kind and capable leader. He won't let Zairen go unprepared."

"I know, Master," Elyra sobbed. "But why does Zairen keep doing this? Why does he keep hurting me?"

Daksha sighed, his gaze thoughtful. "I don't have siblings, Lyra, but I can tell you this: Zairen wants your recognition. He feels inferior, like he's stuck in your shadow. You've gone so far, and he's still behind."

Elyra frowned. "But why would he feel inferior to me? I'm his sister."

Daksha shrugged. "I don't know everything. You're heading to him soon, right? Ask him. Maybe you'll clear up this misunderstanding."

Elyra nodded, a spark of resolve in her eyes. "You're right, Master. I'll talk to him."

"It's late, Lyra," Daksha said. "Rest. Tomorrow's a big journey."

She nodded, closing the door as Daksha left. He paused in the hallway, a faint smile on his lips. "I know you're there, Calyen. No need to hide."

Calyen, stepped nervously from behind a wall. "Master Daksha, I… I was just checking on Sister Elyra, to see if she's okay."

Daksha's smile vanished. In a flash, he appeared behind Calyen, his presence radiating a chilling bloodlust. Calyen's throat tightened, and he fell to his knees, gasping. "I've seen how you look at her, Calyen," Daksha said, his voice low and dangerous. "With those lustful eyes. She's my pupil. This is your first and last warning. If I catch you near her again, I might kill you." He leaned close, whispering in Calyen ear, "Do you understand?"

Calyen's eyes reddened, veins bulging as he struggled to breathe. "Y-yes, Lord Daksha" he choked.

Daksha released the bloodlust, and Calyen gasped for air. With a cold smile, Dakcan walked away, calling over his shoulder, "Remember my warning."

Calyen remained on his knees, trembling. "Damn it," he muttered, slamming his fist into the floor. "Fuck! I'll make them all pay for this humiliation. One day, I'll make your precious pupil my plaything. Just wait!" Shaking with rage, he staggered to his feet and stumbled away.

The night passed and the morning dawned. Elyra stood outside a luxurious carriage, ready to depart for Viscount Draven's fief. Daksha stood by a royal carriage, his expression warm. "Be safe, Lyra. May the gods guide your journey."

Elyra smiled. "Master, you're coming to my birthday, right?"

Daksha chuckled. "How could I miss my little Lyra's birthday?"

She grinned, thanked him, and hugged her aunt and uncle goodbye. Her aunt, Meralyn, mentioned that Calyen was unwell and couldn't see her off. Elyra nodded, unbothered, and climbed into the carriage. As it rolled toward Draven's fief, she gazed out the window, her heart heavy. Zairen, I hope you're okay.

Meanwhile, with Zairen…

The manor gates stood like a fading memory of a softer life, cold and unyielding.

Zairen stepped forward, his boots sinking into mud from yesterday's rain. The gray sky churned above, pierced by the screeches of crows circling like harbingers of war.

In the courtyard, twenty-five to thirty mercenaries lounged like predators before a kill. Some leaned against their horses, their laughter sharp and cruel, like knives scraping flesh. Others sharpened blades, the steel hissing against stone with a rhythm that promised blood. A few flirted with maids, who giggled, unaware most of these men wouldn't return.

Zairen walked slowly, unnoticed, and stood by a tree in the corner. He began meditating, his breath steady. Some mercenaries glanced at him but looked away, thinking, Just another noble brat playing tough.

Zairen watched them, his eyes sharp, calculating. Their dismissal didn't faze him. He studied each man, deciding who might be useful and who he'd discard. Dark thoughts swirled in his mind:

An hour passed.

Hooves thundered.

Viscount Draven strode from the manor, his presence heavy as iron. Beside him was Commander Varek Kaelthorn, leader of the Ashen Fangs, his black cloak rippling like a storm cloud soaked in blood.

Draven scanned the crowd, his brow furrowing. "Where's the boy?" he barked at a maid.

She pointed to the tree. "Meditating, my lord. Alone."

"Zairen!" Draven's voice cut through the air.

Zairen stepped forward, his face calm, his spine straight. "Here, my lord."

Draven's eyes softened, but his smile was grim. "Hiding by the tree, Zairen?"

"Not hiding," Zairen said, his voice cold, steady. "Preparing. Clearing my mind."

Draven nodded, his tone warm but heavy. "Smart. Fear's normal, boy. I was your age once, shaking at the sound of steel. But fear's a knife—grab the handle, not the blade."

Varek turned to his men, his voice a low growl, like a beast ready to rip flesh. "This is Zairen, youngest son of Baron Kaelridge. He's no noble today. He's one of us. A fighter. If he bleeds, he bleeds as your brother. If he dies, he dies as our own."

Silence. Then snarls.

"Babysitting a lordling?" spat a mercenary with matted black hair and a scar splitting his lip—Gavrik, a killer who hated nobles.

"We getting paid extra for this kid?" another sneered.

A third spat on the ground. "Fancy boy in a wolf's den. He'll break."

Varek's eyes blazed, his voice a whip-crack. "Enough!"

The air stilled. No one dared breathe.

"His blood's his to spill," Varek said, his tone dripping with menace. "This raid's for the damned and the desperate. He's both. Zairen—join them."

Zairen stepped into the line, his gaze hard as steel. Gavrik leaned close, his breath sour, his grin vile. "Soft skin, pretty boy. Come to my tent tonight. I'll teach you to survive… on your knees."

Zairen's eyes flickered, cold and deadly. "Touch me," he whispered, "and I'll cut your balls out and make you swallow it."

Gavrik froze, his smirk faltering. He bristled, anger flaring in his eyes. "You little—" But before he could lash out, Varek raised his sword, his voice a roar that shook the earth.

"Today, we hunt Eldarion's scum!" Varek shouted. "Slavers who chain kids, raiders who burn homes, rapists who defile the innocent! We torch their camps, slit their throats, and feed their heads to the crows!"

The mercenaries roared, their voices a wave of rage.

"ARE YOU WITH ME?"

"YEAH, CAPTAIN!"

"LOUDER!"

"YEAHHH!"

Zairen stood among them, his blood burning, his heart pounding like a war drum. These men were killers, but he'd faced darker shadows than theirs.

The column marched. Everyone mounted their horses. Zairen climbed onto a black stallion, a gift from Viscount Draven. He rode forward, blending with the group as they moved toward the unknown. The Viscount's fief faded behind them, swallowed by the horizon.

Gavrik rode nearby, blowing Zairen a kiss, dragging a finger across his throat. "You're dead, princeling."

Zairen ignored him, his thoughts cold. Should I kill him now? No. Not yet.

Hours later, the forest swallowed them.

Trees loomed like twisted bones, their branches clawing the sky. The air grew thick, heavy with the stench of damp rot.

Then—howls.

The sky screamed. Nightfangs—wolves with black fur, moving like shadows, known for their deadly agility—burst from the darkness, their eyes glowing with hunger.

Varek bellowed, "All groups, ready!" The mercenaries snapped into action, attacking in a coordinated assault. Some defended, others struck, Varek leading with ruthless precision.

Zairen stayed back, safe in a corner, watching. Then a Nightfang leaped at him, jaws wide. He didn't flinch. He twisted, sidestepped, and slashed his blade upward. The blade tore through its skull, blood spraying like rain. Mana sparked from the sigil, searing the air.

Another charged. Zairen stepped back, letting a mercenary gut it, then hacked a third across the face, shattering its fangs. Blood coated his hands, warm and slick.

Ten minutes later, the pack was dead. Their corpses steamed, entrails spilling onto the dirt. Mercenaries skinned the beasts, carving meat for stew.

Zairen stood over a Nightfang's body, its lifeless eyes staring up. Just days ago, he'd run from these monsters, heart pounding in terror. Now, he slaughtered them. A dark smile curled his lips.

Varek approached, his eyes narrowing as he studied Zairen. "Not bad, kid. You're not fully awakened, but your mana coating's on par with the best. Keep it up." Zairen nodded, silent. Varek walked away.

Edna, the woman with a scar under her eye, strolled over, grinning. She gave Zairen a thumbs-up. "Nice work, kid." She laughed and left.

Night fell. Fires crackled.

Varek's voice cut through the camp. "We rest here."

Tents rose on the damp ground. Men laughed, drank, bragged. Zairen helped pitch a tent with Edna, her braided brown hair glinting in the firelight, her amber eyes sharp as knives.

"Little brother," she teased, smirking. "Fifteen, right?"

"Twelve," Zairen said, his voice flat.

She became shock and laughed, low and warm. "Too young for this hellhole."

"I'm old enough to kill," he shot back, his eyes hard.

Edna grinned, her scar crinkling. "Sharp tongue, kid. I like it. Need help, find your big sister." She winked and walked away, leaving Zairen with a strange warmth he didn't trust.

Dinner came. The stew reeked of wolf meat and boiled guts, mixed with stale vegetables. Zairen joined the line. Gavrik stood at the pot, his grin twisted.

"Well, look who's here," he sneered. "Hungry, pretty boy? Ask nice, and I'll give you the good stuff. Soft meat. Fresh bread. Maybe some… guidance tonight."

The mercenaries burst into laughter, their voices mocking and cruel.

Zairen's voice was ice, sharp as a blade. "Pour the food. And shut your damn mouth."

The men hooted, some chuckling. "Oohhh!" they jeered.

Gavrik's smirk widened. He ladled out slop—greasy broth with floating intestines—and tossed two moldy, rock-hard loaves onto Zairen's plate. "Enjoy, princeling."

Laughter erupted behind him. Zairen walked away, unfazed, the mockery sliding off him like water.

He sat alone, eating the slop without a grimace. Edna dropped beside him, eyeing his plate. "That bastard's asking for a knife in his gut. Want me to report him?"

"No," Zairen said, swallowing a chunk of gristle. "He's not worth the breath."

Edna watched him eat, her voice low, impressed. "You're a tough little shit. Got iron in your spine."

Zairen's lips twitched—a ghost of a smile.

Stars pierced the sky. The camp fell quiet, save for the fire's crackle.

Zairen sat in his tent, the cold stone floor biting through his clothes. He sighed and lay on a makeshift bed, staring at the darkness. Memories flooded his mind—his past life, when he became a First-Circle Magi at fourteen. No one helped him except his master, who awakened his mana and taught him everything. Then, one day, his master vanished, leaving only a cryptic order: join the Central Kingdom's The Grand Academy of Arcanum.Zairen had scraped by, clawing his way up till the age of sixteen. At seventeen, he became a Second-Circle Magi, and joined the academy. There, he met him—the hero. The one who humiliated him, mocked him, made him feel small. Rage burned in Zairen's chest, hot and bitter. This time, I'll make them all pay. Every insult, every laugh—I'll carve it into their bones.

He sighed, pushing the memories away. One step at a time. He closed his eyes, and sleep hit like a dagger to the heart.