Chapter 002: Kings Who Do Not See Kings
1036 Words
Vaelin kept his distance, trailing the elegant woman like a shadow. Every step she took was measured, graceful, and deliberate. Mira’s warning about a calamity of blood didn’t sound so much like superstition anymore. There was something about her—how she moved through the market, inspecting stalls with the faintest curl of her lip—that radiated authority and wealth. Yet, behind that poise, trouble clung to her like a persistent shadow.
Halfway down the street, she stopped. Abruptly. And spun around. Her sharp, almost phoenix-like eyes locked on him. Suspicion blazed.
“Why are you following me?”
Vaelin smiled, calm. “I’m not.”
Her gaze sharpened, slicing through the words. “A con artist just tried reading my fortune." You were nearby. Are you with him?”
“No,” he said evenly.
“Don’t lie. Hover near me again, and I’ll call the City Guard.”
Vaelin shrugged, stepping casually into a stall stacked with ornamental gourds.
“Creep,” she muttered, turning away.
Then a stench hit—a filthy, sour smell that made Vaelin wrinkle his nose.
A grimy hand shot out and yanked the gold pendant from her neck. She stumbled back, screaming.
The thief’s bloodshot eyes darted to her gold bracelet. “Give it!” he barked.
He yanked at her wrist, but the bracelet didn’t budge.
“Help! Somebody help me!” Her panic was loud, frantic.
The crowd froze. Some gawked, others pulled out recording orbs, curiosity shining in their eyes.
“Still screaming? "I’ll cut off your hand!” the man hissed, brandishing a jagged knife.
Then a voice cut through the chaos. Sharp, controlled.
“Stealing is bad enough. Must you also take her hand?”
Vaelin’s eyes were ice. He caught the thief’s descending wrist in a steel grip.
“Seems to me it’s your hand that belongs on the chopping block.”
“Get lost, or I’ll gut you!” the man spat.
Vaelin said nothing. His fist shot forward, hitting the thief square on the face. Just like that, the man crumpled, unconscious.
“So weak,” Vaelin muttered, shaking his head. “Even with barely any cultivation left, scum like this is still easy.”
He helped the trembling woman to her feet just as the City Guard pushed through the crowd. The thief, it turned out, was nothing but a desperate addict—a petty opportunist.
“You’re Vaelin, right?” one guard said, smirking. “Nice punch.”
“Self-defense,” Vaelin said simply. “Even if I’d killed him, it would’ve been justified.”
The officer shrugged. “Fair enough. Just… try not to start fights yourself.”
The woman introduced herself as Zara Yule. Wealthy, sharp-tongued, and now slightly embarrassed at her earlier accusation. She promised to compensate Mira, the fortune-teller whose stall had been wrecked.
But when they returned, the stall was empty. Bottles and jars lay scattered across the ground.
“The old man?” Vaelin asked a neighboring vendor.
His face tightened. “After you left, Mira started coughing up blood. Someone rushed him to the hospital. Didn’t look good… might not make it.”
Vaelin’s chest tightened. He remembered Mira’s trembling fingers—five of them—raised in warning, in countdown, or worse.
“What now?” Zara whispered, clutching his arm.
“We go to the hospital,” Vaelin said, crouching to gather the scattered vials. Wasting spiritual medicine? Almost a crime in his eyes.
The vendor grumbled a warning not to run off with them, but a single look into Vaelin’s cold eyes shut him up.
As they walked, Zara’s hand lingered on his arm. Unexpectedly warm. Centuries of solitude had made human touch feel foreign—yet oddly comforting.
From the shadows, unseen, a pair of eyes followed. Lyra. Hurt. Jealous. When she saw the crimson carriage pull away with Vaelin and Zara inside, her fists clenched.
“Shameless,” she hissed. “Riding on some rich lady’s coattails?”
Inside the carriage, Zara’s nerves frayed.
“If Mira dies… my family has influence, but I don’t want to get dragged into something messy.”
Vaelin raised an eyebrow. “Big family, big power, and still scared?”
Her voice sharpened. “It’s my reputation at stake!”
Vaelin chuckled. “Then send a funeral wreath.”
“Not funny!”
“Then what do you suggest?”
Her grip tightened on the wheel. “I’ll call my husband.”
“Better keep your eyes on the road than tempt fate,” Vaelin said dryly. He noticed her slight wobble—his mortal body could not survive a crash, not now, not with his strength barely a shadow of what it was.
“Let’s see Mira first,” he added firmly. He’s alive. I promise.”
Hope flickered in her eyes.
At the hospital, Mira was pale, fragile, with tubes tethering him to machines. His sunken eyes, though dim, still burned with stubborn fire.
The healer frowned as Mira insisted on leaving, despite a suspected brain tumor.
“No tumor,” Mira rasped. “It’s my capital—my spiritual energy. Not sickness.”
The healer stared, torn between disbelief and concern.
Mira leaned closer, whisper-steel in his voice. “This is my secret. Speak of it, and I’m dead.”
Before the healer could respond, hurried footsteps echoed.
“Is Mira here?”
Vaelin and Zara stepped into the room.
The healer’s face darkened. “He’s unstable. Says he’s afraid of you, Vaelin—that you’ll kill him.”
Vaelin frowned. “Kill him? That’s absurd.”
Zara glanced at the healer. “And his mind?”
“Mental trauma,” the healer said gravely.
From inside, Mira’s voice roared:
“I don’t want your money! Leave the cost of the medicine and go! I won’t see you again, never come back!”
“Vaelin,” Zara whispered, “what’s happening?”
Mira’s next words were cryptic, chilling:
“We are kings who do not see kings!”
The healer blocked Vaelin. “He’s fragile. Don’t make it worse.”
Vaelin’s pulse quickened. Whatever Mira knew… it was a secret that could shake both their worlds.
- Writer
