I was in the lab. Elbow-deep in molten alloy, scribbling runes onto the hull of what would soon be Tank Unit #001 – Codename: Good Luck Storming the Castle.
“Alright,” I mumbled, attaching a core crystal. “If this thing doesn’t explode on startup, I’ll upgrade it to hover. Or grow legs. Or both.”
The turret whirred once. Smiled at me in machine code. Or maybe that was heatstroke.
“Peter, status on the AI link?”
Silence.
“Peter?”
Peter’s voice echoed in my brain like a polite stroke.
“Sir. Emergency. War room. Now.”
“Got it,” I replied. “Should I ask the Lady to join us?”
“If you’re okay with her hearing the war crimes in stereo—yes.”
“I’ve come to accept that her moral compass is a Mobius strip. Proceed.”
I teleported upstairs mid-oil-stain.
The war room was dim.
No jokes. No commentary. No snacks.
Just tension.
Michael stood beside the war table, hands behind his back, posture rigid like a loaded gun.
Peter stood across, his usual tablet glowing, but unread. Face pale. Still.
Aman, the newly promoted city lord, looked like he’d aged five years in ten minutes.
And Lady Siralyn… sat calmly. Teacup untouched. Her gaze locked onto the sealed scroll on the table like it had personally insulted her eyeliner.
I entered. Gloves off. Still smudged with molten rune-ink from the lab.
“What’s going on?”
Peter wordlessly handed me the scroll.
Sealed in blood-red wax.
I broke it.
And read aloud.
“Good evening, King of Darneth.
Writing to inform you I’ve taken interest in your kingdom.
You have one month to surrender your territory and your beautiful wife to me.
If not, I will take them by force.
I will tie you and make you watch what I’ll do to your wife.
I will torture her until she begs for death.
Then I will grant it.
The same will happen to every woman under your rule.”
Silence.
Utter silence.
Even the enchanted map on the table dimmed. Like the world itself held its breath.
I dropped the scroll.
“Peter. Michael. This… is a declaration of war.”
“Correction,” Peter said. His voice had no inflection. Just cold. “This is an open invitation to annihilation.”
“How do you wish to proceed?” Michael asked.
“Easy way?” I said, my voice shaking with restrained fury. “Or the deserved way?”
“Deserved,” Peter answered instantly.
“Brutal,” Michael echoed.
Aman swallowed hard. “He… he threatened all our people.”
“He threatened my wife,” I said.
And finally—finally—I turned to her.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Lady Siralyn hadn’t moved.
Her hand gripped the armrest.
Hard.
Hard enough to crack the wood.
Her expression was unreadable.
But her eyes…
Her eyes were screaming.
Not fear.
But vengeance.
“He threatened to touch me,” she said, voice like frostbitten glass. “To unmake me. In front of you.”
“Yes.”
“And you are still standing?” she asked, trembling with something raw—not weakness, but fury so old and deep it had teeth.
“Barely.”
Then—
“I want his tongue,” she whispered. “I want it pinned to a council wall with his family crest etched on the blade.”
“Done,” I said.
Michael nodded. “I can retrieve it in under twenty minutes.”
Peter: “That’s inefficient. We should melt him. Financially, militarily, spiritually.”
“So be it,” I snapped.
Peter flicked a hand. A map rose up.
“Darneth Forces:
- 300 Soldier Androids
- 50 Human Soldiers
- 50 Commanding Androids
- 10 Surveillance Drones
- No current air or ground support”
“Enemy?” I asked, my jaw locked.
“Count Brussel’s army:
- 1000 Soldiers
- 200 Commanders
- 100 Warhorses
- 50 Heavy Artillery Units
- 45 Magic Casters
- 0 honor”
Peter continued, voice clinical like a guillotine’s edge.
“Brussel is third-gen noble trash. Trades in slaves, illegal gambling, and government-approved brothels. Rumored to use child mages in blood rituals.”
Michael growled. “They deserve nothing but ash.”
“How fast can we match their power?” I asked.
“Request permission,” Peter said, “to begin production of autonomous tanks and warplanes. Timeline: Four days. Armaments: Customizable. Casualty rating: High.”
“Permission granted.”
Michael stepped forward.
“Request authorization to engage all targets in the enemy domain—including civilians. Complicity should not be rewarded.”
“Granted,” I said flatly.
I turned to the head maid.
“Send them a message. Signed by the Kingdom of Darneth.”
She bowed. “What shall it say?”
“Tell Count Brussel: Go fuck yourself, brain-dead.”
Peter: “Deploy pirates to raid every trade route. Starve his coffers. Collapse his economy.”
Michael: “I’ll secure food reserves. Begin ration prep. Civilian morale units will be deployed.”
Peter: “Surveillance drones en route. Border will be lined with defense wards and auto-turrets.”
“Suggestions?” I asked.
- Peter: “Dig in. Make this city a fortress. Then turn it into a spear.”
- Michael: “Make an example of them. Let the world see what happens when you threaten what’s ours.”
- Aman: “Permission to conscript citizens into rapid deployment units. Volunteers already lining up.”
“Granted. All of it.”
“Now leave,” I said. “Except her.”
The others left.
Just me and her.
She didn’t speak.
I didn’t either.
Then, slowly, I did.
“I… I don’t know how to be human. Not really. I was born cursed. I’ve been feared, hated. I wasn’t hugged—I was hunted.”
“Anis…”
“So I built machines. I studied spells. I hid. Because people tried to kill me before I even had the chance to disappoint them.”
I looked her in the eyes.
“But if anyone dares to touch you… I will erase them. Not as a king. Not even as a husband. But as a person who loves what little he has.”
Siralyn flinched.
It was tiny.
But real.
Then her lips parted.
She exhaled.
Her entire body trembled—not in fear, but in overwhelming, beautiful disbelief.
“You mean that.”
“I don’t lie,” I said softly.
She stepped forward.
Touched my hand.
Her voice shook.
“Then let them come.”
And in that moment—something between us changed.
Forever.
Narrator: “This war was never going to be about territory. Not really. It was about protection, survival… and a boy who forgot how to be loved, finally finding someone willing to teach him through fire.”
Narrator: “Anis. My boy. My little emotionally repressed death-robot king… you finally made someone flustered.”
“Shut up,” I muttered.
“Never,” the narrator whispered back. “Now kiss her.”