Chapter 63: Plans for Revenge

"NOOOOOOOO!"

The scream tore from his throat before he could stop it.

He was crouched in the rafters of the great hall, invisible in the darkness, watching. Watching as they lined up like docile cattle. Watching as the healers moved among them, vials of pale silver liquid glinting in the torchlight. Watching as one by one, the infected were given the cure.

His cure.

His poison, reversed.

The feral panthers who should have been tearing out throats and spreading chaos through the streets of Shadow’s Edge were sitting quietly. Calmly. The foam had dried on their muzzles, their milky eyes had cleared, and they were looking at their healers with gratitude in their now-clear eyes.

The cure was working.

His claws raked deep grooves into the wooden beam beneath him. The sound was lost beneath the murmuring of the crowd, the soft sobs of reunited families, the relieved laughter of cubs who had just watched their parents come back from the brink of madness.

He wanted to burn it all.

How? The word pulsed through him like a festering wound. How did they find it so fast?

He had been so careful. So meticulous. Years of research, months of testing, weeks of seeding the plague through the outer villages and watching it spread like wildfire. The formula was perfect. The dosage was precise. The feral sickness should have been unstoppable.

And now it was being cured in front of his eyes.

He watched as a young panther warrior, one he recognized, one he had personally infected three weeks ago, embraced his weeping mother. The old woman was sobbing into his shoulder, her entire body shaking with relief. The warrior looked confused, disoriented, but alive. Himself.

The cure had worked.

He wanted to scream again. Wanted to tear through the rafters, drop into the middle of that crowd, and rip the silver vials from their hands. Wanted to shatter them against the stone floor and watch the hope drain from their faces.

But he didn’t.

He was patient.

He had learned patience in the frozen wastes, in the pit where the old King of Shadow’s Edge had left him to die.

The memory rose unbidden, and he didn’t push it away. He let it wash over him, let the hatred fuel him.

He had been the King’s most trusted general. The right hand of the throne. He had led armies into battle, had spilled blood in the name of the Panther Kingdom, had stood at the old King’s side through rebellion and famine and the endless, grinding politics of empire.

He had loved the old King like a brother.

And the old King had betrayed him.

You have served your purpose, the King had said, his voice cold as the mountain wind. A beast who knows too much is a liability. You should understand me. You always do. That’s why you’re so reliable.

They had dragged him to the northern wastes. Stripped him of his armor, his title, his name. Beaten him until he couldn’t stand, then thrown him into a pit of frozen earth and left him there.

If you survive, the old King had said, consider it mercy.

He had survived.

He had clawed his way out of that pit with frostbitten fingers and a heart full of poison. He had wandered the wilderness for months, half-mad, half-dead. And when he finally found the ruins, an old temple, abandoned and forgotten, he had begun to plan.

The temple had books. Scrolls. Knowledge that had been buried for centuries. He had learned how to twist the bond between beast and man. How to turn a proud warrior into a raving monster with nothing but a vial of poison and a whispered command.

And he had learned that the old King’s bloodline was still alive.

Still sitting on the throne. 𝒻𝑟ℯℯ

Still pretending to be worthy.

Leonidas. The son. The heir. The boy who had inherited everything that should have been his.

And Karina. The Empress. The woman who had somehow turned the panther king into a lovesick fool.

He would deal with her later.

First, Leonidas.

The old King’s blood would be spilled. His legacy would crumble. His kingdom would burn.

His thoughts drifted to Renira. The delusional mistress he had used as a pawn. She had been so easy to manipulate. So desperate for validation, so blind with jealousy, so utterly convinced of her own importance. He had whispered in her ear, promised her power, handed her the poison, and watched her dance like a puppet on strings.

And she had failed.

Not only had she failed to kill the brat, she had gotten herself caught. Interrogated. Tortured until she spilled everything she knew, which, thankfully, wasn’t much. He had been careful to keep her ignorant of his true identity, his plans, his location.

But still.

Useless, he thought, his lip curling in disgust. Completely and utterly useless.

He had been forced to silence her himself. To creep into the dungeon in the dead of night, past the guards, past the wards, and tear out her throat before she could reveal anything else. It had been a necessary precaution, but it had also been a waste of his time. Time he could have spent planning. Time he could have spent preparing.

Renira had been a tool. A disposable pawn. And like all disposable pawns, she had outlived her usefulness.

He would not make the same mistake again.

The next pawn would be smarter. More careful. More loyal.

And if they failed, they would not live long enough to regret it.

He slipped through a crack in the ceiling, melting into the shadows of the corridor beyond. The night swallowed him whole.

But his voice lingered on the wind, a whisper of hatred and promise that no one heard.

I will start with you, Leonidas. I will take everything from you. Your kingdom. Your son. Your crown.

And then I will kill your Empress.

And when the ashes settle, I will be the only one left standing.