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Narrator: A merchant who watched his city fall.
They say he came from nothing. I say that's wrong.
He came from less than nothing.
A rat in human skin. A child with bones like knives and eyes like winter storms. We called him "White Wretch" in the slums, though none dared say it to his face. Not twice.
No name, no family, no future. Just that mocking smile.
And then, one year… he vanished.
The next time we saw him, he wasn't alone. He had wolves. Not the kind with fur—men, killers, mercenaries, outlaws. Blood-soaked blades drawn to him like iron to a forge. No one knows how he gained them. Some say he tricked their leader. Others say he slaughtered him and took command. All I know is—he pointed, and they obeyed.
He didn't knock on Akrytos's gates.
He burned them.
We begged the Seven Families to act. But they were too busy debating gold and whores. By the time they raised arms, the city walls bled red. He marched through the streets like a demon prince, white hair drenched in gore, robes torn and royal despite it all.
He smiled as he took the palace.
He laughed as he dragged the nobles out by their tongues and hanged them from their own balconies.
The priests cried that he was a curse. He silenced them by having the High Seer sewn into a statue of his god, left to suffocate in gold.
He declared himself Basileus of Akrytos. No coronation. No ceremony. Just a throne stained with blood, and a new flag—the twin lions under the silver flame.
And we?
We survived.
Because fear teaches obedience.
We thought that was the end of it. That we'd live under the rule of a mad dog-child with a taste for torture.
We didn't know.
That was just his beginning.
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