Darian closed the massive tome with a dull thud, his fingers lingering on the leather cover. The flickering candlelight cast shifting shadows across the desk, but his mind was far from the dimly lit library. The words on the pages still swirled in his thoughts.
A kingdom built on blood and war.
A dynasty feared for its magic and power.
Darian leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. If I want to survive in this world… if I want to seize control, I can't be the same Darian they despised. He needed to change, but not just in name or demeanor. He needed to become someone they wouldn't dare look down on.
And for that—he needed to become stronger.
The morning sun was barely cresting over the palace walls when Darian stepped into the open courtyard. The cool air bit at his skin, but he welcomed it.
His body still felt weak, sluggish, as though it had gone too long without proper training. He could feel it in his movements—the stiffness in his limbs, the slight imbalance in his stance.
A prince of Ashthorn, yet I move like an old man.
Unacceptable.
He had seen warriors train in the novels he read in his past life. He remembered the relentless drills, the strict discipline, the grueling hours spent honing strength. He couldn't afford to be weak—not in a world where power was everything.
He started with the basics. Push-ups, squats, stretching—testing his body's limits. Sweat quickly began to form on his forehead, his breath coming in slow, steady exhales.
"This body… is worse than I thought."
His muscles burned faster than expected, his endurance weaker than he remembered. The previous Darian must have spent his time indulging in luxuries rather than training. He couldn't blame his body—it had been neglected for too long. But that was going to change.
One step at a time.
As he pushed through the exercises, a group of knights passing through the courtyard stopped to stare. He could hear their hushed murmurs.
"Is that… the prince?"
"Since when does he train?"
"Perhaps he's just pretending."
Darian ignored them, focusing on his breath, his form, his control. But their words only solidified his resolve.
After hours of training, his body felt sore, but his mind was sharper than ever. Strength alone wouldn't secure his survival—he needed intelligence, strategy, and knowledge of this world's magic.
So, he returned to the library.
This time, he sought books on combat techniques, magical theory, and the politics of Ashthorn. His fingers traced the worn spines of the volumes, selecting those that would be most useful.
As he sat down to read, a voice interrupted him.
"You're different."
Darian turned to see Celia Reinhardt, the sharp-eyed noblewoman from before, leaning against a nearby shelf. Her silver hair shimmered under the candlelight, her expression unreadable.
"I heard rumors that the 'lazy prince' was training in the courtyard this morning. And now, you're here, studying ancient texts?" She tilted her head, her gaze piercing. "I wonder… are you truly changing, or is this another act?"
Darian met her gaze, unflinching. "If it were an act, would I go this far?"
Celia studied him for a long moment before a small smirk tugged at her lips. "Perhaps not. But change isn't so easily believed, Your Highness. If you want people to see you differently… you'll have to prove it."
Darian let out a low chuckle. "Then watch closely, Celia. I plan to do exactly that."
Her expression shifted—whether it was amusement or intrigue, he couldn't tell. But she said nothing more as she turned and walked away.
Darian watched her disappear into the rows of bookshelves before turning back to his studies.
"One step at a time," he reminded himself.
And this… was only the beginning.