She stepped forward and the effect was immediate. The guards startled, and the one on the left almost drew his weapon.

  “Where did you—”

  He didn’t finish the question. Liandra muttered the spell so quickly that Argus didn’t even hear what it was.

  The expressions on the guards’ faces went blank, their eyes turning dull and unfocused as Liandra spoke.

  “From now on, whenever either of us wants to enter, you will let us. You will forget all memory of this encounter. Understand?”

  Her features had transformed. The gentle smile she had worn earlier was gone, replaced with something colder, sharper. Her eyes shone with an intensity that made Argus gulp.

  The last word was spoken with such authority that part of Argus wanted to obey her as well. The display left him in quiet awe. This girl, who was around his age, had effortlessly controlled royal guards. Most mages required decades of hard work before reaching such a stage. Her level of precision and power bordered on abnormal.

  The guards muttered a series of incantations and the gate opened with a metallic click that echoed throughout the empty dungeon.

  Argus tore his gaze away from her and focused on the man lying on the floor.

  Chains bound his hands and feet, glowing with blue sigils that pulsed faintly in the dim light. His silver hair was disheveled, falling across a face marked by exhaustion. Various cuts were visible beneath his torn clothes, dried blood tracing thin lines across pale skin.

  They entered the cell as the gate shut behind them.

  So, this was The Usurper.

  The dungeon was cold, though Vilangos scarcely felt it anymore. The chill had long since seeped into his bones, settling there like an old companion that no longer required acknowledgment. What he felt instead was weight. A heaviness not of chains or stone, but of thought. His mind refused to rest. It circled endlessly, returning to the same images as though trapped within a corridor that curved back into itself.

  His father’s face.

  It rose unbidden, vivid and merciless.

  He saw again the iron bars, the grime beneath his father’s nails where he had clawed at rusted metal in futile desperation. He heard the crack in his voice as he tried to sound strong, as he tried to tell his son not to kneel, not to beg, not to break. Vilangos had been young, but not so young that he did not understand what helplessness looked like. It had settled in his chest that day like molten lead, reshaping him from the inside.

  That memory did not fade with time. It sharpened.

  It replayed.

  Again and again and again.

  He remembered the vow that followed. The fury. The clarity. The singular, blinding purpose that had risen from grief like a blade drawn from its sheath.

  Destroy the Ordanian Kingdom.

  It had been simple then. Clean. Almost righteous.

  Yet as he lay against the cold stone now, that once-clear purpose felt strangely distant, as though observed through warped glass. He remembered achieving it. He remembered fire devouring towers, banners falling, the smell of smoke heavy in his lungs as he stood amid ruins that had once seemed invincible.

  And still—

  He remembered destroying it.

  He remembered destroying it again.

  And he remembered marching to destroy it yet again.

  The memories overlapped until he could no longer separate past from present, triumph from anticipation. In one recollection the kingdom lay in ashes. In another it stood untouched beyond fortified walls. In yet another he was on the verge of striking, heart pounding with the promise of completion.

  A faint tremor moved through his fingers.

  The buzzing returned.

  It was never loud. Never forceful. It did not command him in shouted words or visible chains. It was subtler than that. A low, persistent hum beneath his thoughts, like the vibration of distant machinery embedded deep within his skull. When doubt tried to rise, the buzzing thickened. When confusion formed, it smoothed the edges. It did not argue.

  It corrected.

  You have not finished.

  You must continue.

  The purpose remains.

  His breathing grew uneven as the hum pressed gently, insistently, against the fragile cracks forming in his reasoning. Whenever his mind strayed toward the inconsistency, toward the impossible layering of memories, the buzzing tightened and a strange clarity followed, cold and artificial.

  Of course the kingdom still stood. Of course the mission was ongoing. The recollections of victory were merely projections of what would be.

  Yes.

  That made sense.

  It always made sense.

  And yet exhaustion crept deeper.

  He had been chasing this purpose for so long that time itself felt indistinct. Days blended into years, battles into preparations, triumph into anticipation. He could not remember a moment in which he had not been moving toward destruction. Even in sleep—when sleep came—he saw fire.

  He pressed his head lightly against the stone wall behind him, as though the solid surface might anchor him to something tangible. His thoughts felt swollen, stretched too thin across too many conflicting truths. The buzzing softened again, soothing, guiding, wrapping around the fractures in his memory like silk drawn tight over a wound.

  You are close.

  You cannot falter.

  The kingdom must fall.

  A weary exhale escaped him.

  He did not question why he felt tired in a way that battle alone could not explain. He did not question why victory tasted strangely hollow in recollection, as though it had already been consumed and found lacking. Those questions tried to surface, but each time they did, the hum rose just enough to nudge them aside.

  Sleep hovered at the edges of his awareness, tantalizing but unreachable. Whenever his consciousness began to drift, another memory of his father would surge forward—hands dragged away, eyes filled not with fear but with resignation—and the vow would reignite, feeding the cycle once more.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Purpose.

  Revenge.

  Completion.

  The words echoed in him not as passion now, but as habit.

  He closed his eyes briefly, only to find that darkness offered no reprieve. Behind his eyelids the same images continued to replay, looping with mechanical precision.

  Somewhere, buried beneath exhaustion and noise, a faint, fragile question attempted to form.

  Why does it feel like I have already done this?

  The buzzing thickened.

  The question did not vanish immediately this time. It lingered, faint but persistent, like a crack spreading across glass.

  Why do I remember standing over the king’s corpse?

  Why do I remember the throne room in ruins?

  Why does the victory feel old?

  The hum surged violently.

  The thoughts fractured.

  The clarity returned.

  And Vilangos remained where he had always been—caught between memory and mandate, too weary to resist, too conditioned to fully doubt, his mind circling endlessly around a purpose that refused to end.

  Sleep overtook him at last, but it offered no mercy. The memories surfaced repeatedly even as he drifted, never allowing him to rest, never allowing him to know any emotion other than hatred, rage, and vengeance.

  He did not know how much time had passed when his eyes opened again, but something felt different.

  His mind was sharp.

  Clear.

  Focused.

  His purpose settled over him like armor, steadying his breathing and sharpening his senses. He studied his surroundings carefully this time, searching for a flaw, a weakness, a path to escape.

  His mission was not over.

  It would never be over.

  He blinked, confusion flickering across his thoughts.

  Why would it never be over?

  It would end once he destroyed the Ordanian Kingdom… would it not?

  The uncertainty lasted only a moment before the buzzing brushed against it, smoothing it flat.

  Of course it would end.

  Once the kingdom fell.

  He examined the cell again and found no immediate way to escape. No matter. His allies would help him. The other citizens of Ordania would help him. He had convinced them. He had rallied them. The revolution was inevitable. It was only a matter of time.

  The gate opened.

  The metallic scrape echoed through the chamber.

  Did they want to torture him?

  It did not matter. No matter what they did, he would not disclose the location of his allies. His father would be avenged in this assault or the next.

  His eyes widened slightly as he saw one of his allies enter.

  Liandra.

  A skilled charm user.

  Undoubtedly she had controlled the boy beside her. The boy did not seem particularly powerful. Even suppressed, Vilangos could sense the faint traces of his magical energy.

  Weak.

  Yet something was wrong.

  Instead of freeing him, she stood near the gate, watching him with a gaze that was carefully controlled.

  “So, you can start now,” Liandra whispered to the boy, completely ignoring Vilangos.

  Confusion rippled through him.

  Had she sided with the crown?

  The boy locked eyes with Vilangos. He was certain he had never seen him before, though something about his features seemed vaguely familiar.

  The boy’s eyes went blank, turning a disturbing shade of gray for barely a moment before returning to normal.

  Except now—

  Vilangos recognized him.

  The atmosphere in the cell shifted.

  It was as though even the air feared to move.

  A crushing weight pressed upon him for a single breath before receding. Liandra herself seemed frozen, not even daring to glance at the boy beside her.

  The figure in question gazed at him with a bored expression. Its eyes had turned the color of the Crimson Sea.

  Vilangos stared back.

  Fear stirred instinctively, his hair rising on end, sweat gathering at his temples and sliding down to the stone floor.

  He knew he should be trembling.

  And yet—

  His mind did not register the circumstances properly.

  It was as though some external force still pressed against his thoughts, steadying them, clarifying them, solidifying his objective.

  “You know it’s basic manners to explain yourself,” Vilangos rasped.

  The figure tilted its head, studying him curiously.

  “I’m known by many names, human. But currently, you may address me as Argus Thunderbloom”

  Thunderbloom?

  Why would one of the noble families be here in the Ordanian Kingdom? Why would their heir be standing before him?

  As those thoughts crossed his mind, the buzzing returned.

  They must have joined forces with Ordania.

  Anger overtook his features before he consciously processed the conclusion. How could a noble family bearing the legacy of an ancient hero act in such a manner?

  Argus continued to observe him with an inhuman gaze.

  Mana gathered.

  It shaped itself unnaturally, unlike the ambient mana of the world.

  Darkness flooded the cell, smothering his senses. An incantation echoed faintly, though the words slipped from his grasp before he could comprehend them.

  The strange energy pierced his awareness.

  He struggled.

  To no avail.

  He tried to scream, but no sound emerged.

  Memories burst forth.

  The buzzing intensified to maddening extremes.

  Blood trickled from his eyes and ears as image after image flashed before him.

  He was five years old, laughing as his father told him tales of elves.

  He burned with fever while his father soothed and healed him.

  His father urged him to eat properly, while sitting without a plate himself.

  The memories collided, overlapping until they became fragments of one another.

  And then—

  Another set surfaced.

  He stood amidst the ruins of the Ordanian throne room. The scent of blood and spent mana filled the air as he looked upon the king’s corpse.

  Before he could feel anything, another memory replaced it.

  He marched to defeat the Ordanian King.

  He marched again.

  And again.

  And again.

  The repetition did not end.

  It continued until numbers lost meaning.

  Until time itself fractured.

  Until the difference between memory and future dissolved.

  Realization crept in slowly.

  Not like lightning, but like poison.

  The buzzing, which had always been there, ever-present, began to falter.

  It flickered and then weakened. And then finally, it disappeared.

  Silence greeted him.

  Not the silence of the dungeon.

  The silence within his head.

  It felt alien and unfamiliar. It felt strangely terrifying.

  No other force acted upon his thoughts.

  No correction followed doubt.

  No smoothing followed confusion.

  Only him.

  For the first time in decades—

  Commander Hurricane Vilangos felt his thoughts align without interference.

  He inhaled slowly.

  Tested a thought.

  The Ordanian Kingdom still stands.

  Nothing corrected him.

  He tested another.

  I have destroyed it.

  Silence.

  His gaze slowly lifted to Argus.

  “I…” His voice faltered slightly.

  He tried again.

  “I was controlled, wasn’t I?”

  He already knew the answer.

  Yet some part of him desperately wished to be wrong.

  That he had not spent decades chasing something he had already done.

  That he had not slaughtered innocent citizens.

  That he had not betrayed his father’s dying wish.

  Tears threatened to fall, yet they did not. They only pricked at his eyes, leaving behind a hollow, burning sensation that felt far worse than weeping ever could.

  Argus’s eyes traced his features, studying him with a gaze that was far more human now. “Yes, you were,” the boy replied, speaking to him in the same tone one might use for an injured animal.

  “So I was made a puppet for a decade while dreaming about justice and conquest,” Vilangos said dryly.

  Argus and Liandra merely stared at him.

  For a moment, no one spoke.

  Then something intruded.

  It did not sound like a voice. It was a faint ringing, distant at first, subtle enough that he almost mistook it for the lingering aftermath of the spell. It resembled the faint hum of a bee circling just beyond perception.

  No.

  Vilangos’s breath stalled in his throat as recognition struck.

  It could not be.

  His pulse quickened. The sound grew clearer, sharper, threading through his thoughts like a familiar parasite returning to its host.

  The buzzing.

  His fingers curled against the cold stone as dread spread through him. He had just been rid of it. He had felt the silence. He had tasted it.

  Why was it coming back?

  The hum thickened, pressing against his mind, testing its old pathways as though searching for entry.

  “What is this?” His voice rose despite himself. “Why is the buzzing returning?”

  “I’m sorry, but it cannot be erased immediately. It is too complex and too deeply ingrained in your mind,” Argus replied quickly.

  Vilangos forced himself to breathe as he listened. It could be fixed. That was what mattered. It was not permanent. He repeated those words inwardly, clinging to them as the sound grew louder, as though trying to drown them out.

  “Promise me you will erase this,” Vilangos said, and this time there was no dryness left in his tone.

  “Yes, I will,” Argus assured him. “You will be yourself in under ten days. I swear it.”

  There was no hesitation in the boy’s voice. The confidence was not arrogance but certainty, and Vilangos found himself holding on to it as the buzzing pressed harder against the fragile order of his thoughts.

  He nodded slowly.

  The sound swelled.

  It slipped into the cracks of his mind with terrifying familiarity, threading through memory and intent, distorting and reshaping as it reclaimed its territory. He tried to hold on to the silence he had felt moments ago, to the clarity that had belonged solely to him, but it was like grasping water.

  Vilangos did not scream as it overtook him. Screaming would not change the outcome. It would not strengthen his will. It would not silence the hum.

  All he could do was endure.

  All he could do was hold on to the certainty in Argus’s voice.

  The buzzing flooded him completely, and his thoughts fractured into disorder. The clarity he had tasted faded beneath layers of imposed purpose, twisted conviction, and foreign certainty.

  And once again, he became a prisoner within his own body, left to wait in the darkness of his own thoughts for the promised day when the storm would finally be torn from his mind.