King in another world

The Terradiva estate disappeared behind the hills just before sunrise.

Terranus didn’t look back.

He rode with a small company—two guards, a steward named Orlan, and an older servant woman named Mave who’d raised half the house’s boys and somehow still moved like thunder when needed. The journey to Rexedoria would take six days if the roads held and weather didn’t turn.

He knew better than to count on either.

The first day passed quiet—too quiet.

Terranus barely spoke. His eyes were locked on the dirt roads, the trees, the scattered villages. No banners here. No titles. Just weathered faces and farmers trying to survive without being noticed by bigger predators.

“You see it?” Orlan asked.

Terranus nodded. “They don’t look at us with fear. They look at us like strangers.”

“You are,” Mave said. “Even if you wear their dirt.”

That night, they stayed at a waystation owned by a minor merchant guild. The food was bland, but the ledger system the host used was not.

Terranus stayed up late studying the books, asking questions.

By morning, he’d corrected two tax estimates and reorganized the storage barn layout.

The merchant tried to offer him coins. Terranus just smiled and left behind a suggestion list.

Bandits came at dawn.

They weren’t after gold—just horses and food. But they didn’t expect trained guards or a lord who kept his eyes open.

It was quick. Three dead, one wounded.

But one thing stood out: they weren’t local.

“Foreign accents,” Mave whispered. “And one had a coin from the coast.”

Terranus pocketed it and said nothing.

Later that evening, he quietly burned his seal ring and buried the ashes under a cedar tree.

From here on out, he wasn’t traveling as Terranus Terradiva.

He was just another son looking to make his way in the world.

As they neared the outskirts of the capital, the road changed.

Stone paving replaced dirt.

Markets grew louder. Merchants are more aggressive. Guards are more corrupt.

They passed beggars with missing fingers, children with branded backs, and nobles riding carriages too polished to care.

Rexedoria wasn’t a city.

It was a machine—greased with blood, built on whispers.

“You see all this gold,” Mave murmured as they crested a hill and got their first real look, “and think it means wealth. But that shine? That’s just polish over rot.”

Terranus didn’t answer.

His mind was already working.

If this was the center of power, then it was also the center of weakness.

Because every system—no matter how mighty—had cracks.

And cracks could be widened.

They entered the outer gates under light questioning—Elana’s letters and their unmarked transport helping them avoid scrutiny.

Terranus wasn’t taken to a palace, but to a quiet stone building three blocks off the main square. Modest, unassuming.

Perfect.

There, he met Lazar Cormund, a narrow-faced man with fingers stained in ink and a voice like dry parchment. Elana’s cousin—and now, Terranus’s mentor in the capital.

“You’ll work here,” Lazar said without ceremony. “No titles. No favors. If you earn coin, you keep it. If you earn enemies, you bleed them quietly.”

Terranus just nodded.

Lazar raised an eyebrow. “Your mother said you were clever.”

“She undersells me.”

For the first time, Lazar smiled. “Good. You’ll need arrogance to survive. And humility to win.”

That night, Terranus walked alone.

No guards. No titles. Just a wool cloak and a cheap belt knife.

He wandered past spice vendors, pawn shops, and brothels disguised as bakeries. He watched drunks stumble, city guards shake down stall owners, and poor children digging through trash for scrap metal.

And through it all, he saw patterns. Movement. Opportunity.

The city was too big to control, too old to clean.

But it could be influenced. Quietly. Patiently.

The foundation was weak. And all Terranus needed… was the right moment to plant his flag.

Terranus had been in Rexedoria for three weeks before Lazar threw him to the wolves.

“You’ll be auditing grain imports from the Eastern Frontier,” Lazar said, tossing a thick scroll onto the desk. “Figures don’t add up. Someone’s bleeding coin through ghost shipments.”

Terranus raised an eyebrow. “And you’re trusting me with this because…?”

“Because no one knows you yet. No enemies. No allies. And I need someone too broke to be bribed.”

Terranus smirked. “For now.”

Lazar chuckled dryly. “Cocky. Just don’t end up in the river.”

Terranus dove into ledgers like a man possessed. Patterns spoke to him in numbers. Grain shipments doubled in paperwork—but not in the streets. And the strangest part? The signatures approving the shipments were authentic. Nobility-tier seals.

He dug deeper, and found a middleman—Barlo Crick, a fat bureaucrat with a twitchy eye and a talent for “accidentally” losing records.

Terranus didn’t confront him. He followed him.

Three nights of shadowing led him to a quiet warehouse docked with unmarked barrels. Inside? Not grain. Salted meat, exotic oils, and smoked herbs—high-value goods smuggled under false cargo.

He sent a quiet report to Lazar.

The next morning, Crick’s office was cleared out. Word on the street said he’d “retired” to his country estate.

Terranus didn’t buy it.

A courier found him just after dusk—a plain boy with a sealed envelope bearing Caelen’s personal mark.

Inside: A single line.

“House Merrow is stirring again. They’re asking questions about you.”

Attached was a coded map—showing increased patrols and messengers traveling through Terradiva lands under the guise of “grain inspections.”

Terranus clenched the letter.

They weren’t just curious.

They were probing.

Someone out there saw him as a threat—and if he wasn’t careful, they’d act before he got strong enough to strike back.

He penned a reply to Caelen that night:

“Let them look. Feed them lies. When the time comes, I’ll give them a truth they choke on.”

Her name was Lyra, and he met her after a petty thief tried to lift his coin purse in a crowded market.

Terranus caught the boy’s wrist before he could disappear.

“First time?” he asked.

The boy looked terrified.

Before Terranus could say more, a red ribbon snapped into view, and a voice called out from behind him.

“Let him go. He’s mine.”

Terranus turned. Lyra stood casually leaning against a fruit stall, arms folded, a red ribbon braided through her jet-black hair.

“And who are you?” he asked.

“Someone who just saved your purse and his fingers.”

She tossed the boy a copper coin. “Go. Don’t get caught again.”

The boy vanished into the crowd.

“You run a gang?” Terranus asked.

She laughed. “No. I just don’t like amateurs getting hurt by tourists with fancy boots.”

He liked her immediately. Sharp tongue. Eyes like stormy glass. And a confidence that reminded him of—well—himself.

Over the next few days, they crossed paths again. First at a ledger market, then at a smuggler's tavern disguised as a chapel. She always seemed to be around. Sometimes watching. Sometimes helping.

And always with that damned red ribbon.

One night, over a shared loaf of blackbread and stale wine, he finally asked, “What’s your game?”

She stared at him for a moment. “Same as yours, probably.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t want the crown. I want what controls the crown.”

Back at his quarters, Terranus stood over a crude map of Rexedoria, pins marking merchants, warehouses, and noble trade links.

One hand held Caelen’s letter.

The other held the red ribbon Lyra left behind.

Enemies behind him. Shadows ahead.

And somewhere in the middle… a fire quietly builds.