‘Luke, I Am Your Father’ Kind of Twist?

It was almost laughable, the drastic underestimation they had all committed. Yes, they called him Little Merlin and all, but this boy was still Yvain, who at the age of five had lost his parents! When did he have the time and safety to be this… powerful? This… strategic? Who could have guessed?

By the age of seven, he was king, with just four years under the tutelage of the famed Infinite Witch before her mysterious disappearance.

Yet, now he stood, a mere teenager, effortlessly dismantling an arsenal of advanced mechs!

Their bodies stiffened. Wait. What circle mage was this boy again…? Eyebrows arched high, lips parted slightly in astonishment, as they realized they never even made close attention to the boy’s real power at all.

Or was that information deliberately never spread in detail?

"Was he always this powerful, or did we merely nap through his ascent?"

“Then maybe… his parents hid his real talent early on… when he was only five…!”

Did they just ignore a dragon slumbering beneath their own floorboards?

COUGH! COUGH!

Duke Velaryon cleared his throat, a forced chuckle escaping him.

He smoothed the front of his richly embroidered doublet. What a vain attempt to regain some semblance of control. Mm, classic villain.

"Oh, dear nephew... look at you! You've certainly grown," he began.

"Here Uncle thought you were just a young boy. What? Weren’t you just wrestling with the trials of youth while striving to be the king this land deserves? Of course, but truly, just my boy.”

“Such pressure for one so young, isn't it overwhelming?"

His smile twitched as he continued, "When Uncle heard that you had so suddenly accepted Burn's proposal to surrender, he was utterly shocked! Surely, it must be your inexperience talking, and not a well-considered decision. To hand over control of your parents'—our—land to an outsider!"

Velaryon's laugh, meant to sound hearty, cracked under the strain. "I am merely trying to bring some sense into you, my beloved, silly nephew. This is all out of love, you must understand."

Around him, the room’s atmosphere tensed, nobles exchanging looks of disbelief at the duke’s brazen words. Velaryon’s hands spread wide, as if to embrace the young king, who hovered resolutely unimpressed.

"Uncle grieves every time he sees you strain under the mantle of rulership, Yvain. You're but a child. As an adult, it is his duty to lift this burden from your shoulders. You should be playing, enjoying your youth, not ensnared by the cares of the kingdom!"

"This, too, is what your parents would have wanted for their son, isn’t it? To not be burdened with the kingdom until it’s truly your time."

His words floated over the assembled nobles who stood aghast at his audacity. Manipulation, right?

But more than one of them were still worried Yvain would fall for it. After all, he was just a bo—

Nope. Look at his face, folks. The detachment was right there. Square. Our boy wouldn’t buy it!

Yvain's hand rose towards Velaryon. "Is that all? Then, I shall consider it your final words."

Velaryon's facade crumbled into raw panic as he blurted out, "Child, you naive little fool! How could you ally with the killer of your father?!”

Silence.

Yvain’s eyebrow twitched.

Seeing the micro falter in the boy’s expression, Velaryon roared, “Burn! it was he who murdered him!"

***

[7 years ago]

FLASH! BLAAAST! Rumble—rumble, rumble…

Dark clouds amassed, brooding and ominous. Lightning streaked across the heavens in bold, and in one might say, rebellious slashes, while thunder rumbled deep belly-laughs, mocking the earth beneath.

The palace of Soulnaught stood under siege by the weather.

Its spires towering and its courtyards expansive, all designed to awe and intimidate. But today, they were instead beleaguered by gusts that swept through archways and corridors with disdain. Rain lashed at the stone façades, literally trying to cleanse the palace of its impending new ruler's influence.

Alright, done with the prose. We’d established the setting of this flashback. What day was it again?

The coronation day of King Burn.

Inside, the grand hall had become a fortress against the storm’s ire, filled with the rich and the powerful. Yet, the air was thick, eyes turned towards the throne and sideways, measuring allies and adversaries alike.

King Belezak of Edensor watched the proceedings with a wry look.

As Burn stepped forward to receive the crown, Belezak saw the irony. Here was a man who sought to control a kingdom, yet couldn’t command the sky.

Look outside. The storm clashed, crudely reminding all of nature’s indifference to human affairs. Ahhh, yes, the poetry of it all.

A coronation under the majestic sunlight cast through the tall stained glass window? Nope. Couldn’t afford the luxury.

Burn’s crowning moment was bathed in erratic glow of lightning. Look at it casting long, sinister shadows that flickered like doubts about his future reign.

As the crown settled on Burn’s head, the thunderclap that followed seemed less an applause and more a warning shot.

Belezak mused silently, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. The pageantry was impeccable. The alliances and betrayals hidden beneath layers of whatever silk and perfume there was, all while the storm raged unabated outside.

It was, he thought, would be a perfect metaphor for Burn’s rule. Tempestuous, unpredictable, and as divided as the heavens above.

The strong will be the winner. The winner takes all.

Despite being a younger son not born to the queen and a child of an extramarital affair, he still ascended to the throne. The bastard of Pendragon, Caliburn Soulnon Pendragon.

Belezak glanced at the older brother standing not far from the coronation stage. Despite seeing his younger brother rise to the throne, he looked unperturbed.

Clarent Soulcrest Pendragon… maybe his fate was much worse than his younger brother.

As the coronation ceremony gave way to the evening's festivities, the grand banquet hall of the Soulnaught palace unfolded.

Tables laden with sumptuous feasts stretched across the marbled floor, each dish more lavish than the las—ooh, macarons!

Ahem.

Candelabras cast a warm glow over the faces of attending nobles, flickering, making them easier to recognize, but harder to judge.

From Belezak's perspective, the banquet was less a celebration and more a strategic stage for alliances and displays of loyalty. As expected, though.

He noted the undercurrents of power at play, the subtle jockeying for favor beneath the veneer of cordial toasts. The air was full of the scent of roasted meats and rich sauc—damn, look at me getting distracted again.

I was trying to say that everyone was performing to lick ass, okay?

Man, just eat the food. Stop observing. You ain’t gon participate in the ass-licking anyways.

Encouraged to indulge in both food and conversation, Belezak navigated the event—there you go, yes, pick up the crab rolls. Nice, go engage in dialogues about probing intentions and pleasantries. Yes. As you eat. Nice.

It’s good, right? Pick up one mo—

“King Belezak Edensworn.”

Come on, man, let the man eat!

It was a deep voice, slicing through the festive din.

Belezak turned, an eyebrow arching in surprise as he found himself facing Burn, the freshly crowned king of Soulnaught.

The setting was odd for such an encounter, yet here stood Burn, choosing to engage with Belezak over any other monarch present.

Let me explain, alright? Burn’s approach was unexpected. Strategically puzzling, even. The Wintersin Empire's Crown Prince was here, along with the king of Inkia and other luminaries of equal or greater political weight.

Each would have been a more predictable target for a nascent king’s charm offensive. Yet, Burn’s gaze was fixed on Belezak, a king of a prosperous but strategically less crucial realm.

The audacity, right? Or perhaps it was the calculated disregard for courtly protocol.

"King Burn," Belezak replied, his voice smooth but edged with a hint of frost to match Burn’s. Well played. "To what do I owe the honor of this... uniquely prioritized greeting?"

Burn's smile was thin, unreadable, the sort that could precede a toast or a duel. "King Belezak, I find the geography of our kingdoms... intriguing. Neighbors across the Sirensong Ocean, yet worlds apart in our methods, wouldn't you say?"

Belezak’s mind raced, piecing together the potential implications behind Burn’s cryptic words.

Hmmm, intriguing, right?

The mention of geography was a nod to more than just physical borders, though. It was that and more.

"Indeed," Belezak conceded. "The waters between us do seem to reflect more than just the light of the moon tonight."

“But seriously, though, why me? You could have greeted anyone else here. Is it some sort of safety measure because anyone else would be too difficult?” Belezak curiously asked.

“I've already mentioned our geographical proximity and our differing methods, yet you still wonder why I approached you first?” Burn responded, raising an eyebrow in mild amusement.

Belezak was now actually confused.

“Well, disregard all that I said, because, in truth, it doesn’t matter,” Burn declared, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. “In this hall, you are the only one I deem worthy of a greeting.”

Burn turned slightly, his gaze drifting towards the door. “Too much for an icebreaker, Your Majesty?”

Belezak blinked in confusion when Burn left the hall without turning back. He didn’t even look at anyone else, as if they truly had no value.

Belezak couldn’t help but to grin.

“Crazy bastard.”

***

Belezak Edensworn died on his trip back to Edensor after attending Burn’s coronation.

You see, this is why I told you to let him eat, damnit.