A Snake's Coiling Wrath
“Do you truly believe you have the right to become king?”
The snake tightened its coils, squeezing Arkin’s arms, encircling his chest, and throttling his neck. Cold scales scraped his skin. Breath choked off. Heart hammering. The venom of truth pierced his skull like lightning. The oracle his father had manipulated—born of raw ambition for the throne. His mother had known and turned away. Silence was consent.
“It was all your father’s greed that spun this illusion. Your mother knew and chose to stay silent.”
A wet, nauseating sound slithered through the air as the snake squeezed harder. Ribs creaked like dry wood about to snap. Just as the world darkened, flames roared up from every direction.
“Look at the ending. Your parents’ greed summoned the apocalypse.”
The World Tree burned. Golden leaves ignited first, then the fire leaped from branch to branch. The silver bark blackened and peeled away, raining down like ash. The flames his own words had kindled spread across the entire forest. Solinar’s beautiful, ancient woods became hell in seconds—birch, oak, elm, pine, everywhere fire and flame. The stench of burning filled his nostrils. Ash swirled. Smothering smoke choked him.
“If that one becomes king, Solinar will fall!”
The elders’ voices rose in a chant.
Arkin ran. But nowhere to go. Above, below, left, right—the forest was now a sea of fire swallowing him whole. Just like every night before.
***
The nightmare of dawn still clung to him. The heat of the burning forest, the snake’s cold touch, the grandfather’s curse-like voice lingered like ghosts in his mind.
Arkin forced his exhausted body upright. Shadows lay heavy beneath his eyes, fine tremors lingered at his fingertips.
Yet when he opened the door and stepped into the corridor, the prince of the forest wore a mask of perfect poise and calm. No one would have guessed he had spent the night screaming through hell.
Straight back, broad shoulders, steady gaze. Having worn a mask for so long, hiding sleepless nights had become natural.
A flawless prince’s mask. No one could ever see the cracks inside him.
Long shafts of sunlight bleached the marble floor white. Beneath the dappled shade of olive branches, the trainees had gathered in loose groups—now almost familiar with their spots.
“Today, you will personally tell us about your home.”
Seneca’s gaze swept the trainees slowly. When it landed on Arkin, the prince rose at once.
“As tradition dictates, we begin here in Solinar. Arkin, come forward.”
Arkin stepped out, swallowing the weight in his chest. Under the tree shade, a cool breeze brushed his nape as if whispering, *Hide your true self.*
“Then… begin.”
Arkin took one slow breath and lifted the corners of his mouth into a gentle smile.
“I am Arkin, Crown Prince of the Kingdom of Solinar.”
His low, steady voice settled over the gathering crowd.
“The Winter Forest Kingdom of Solinar spans vast northern territories. Ancient trees more than a thousand years old shelter countless lives in peaceful harmony. I am Solinar’s only… successor.”
Arkin straightened his spine and lifted his chin.
“I cannot deny the oracle was twisted by my father and mother’s scheming, yet I endured. That endurance forged my strength. None of it will vanish.”
“Our kingdom follows a unique political system. Nine great houses each govern their own domains and coexist.”
Seneca nodded, satisfied. The prince’s calm tone and restrained gestures clearly pleased him.
Arkin paused, letting his breathing steady. *I love Solinar. I will be proud of my country. Just as Grandfather did, I must rise as a great king and rebuild this realm…*
“Important decisions are made only after consultation with the leaders of the tribe—the Elders. The king cannot decide on his own or act with arrogance. Such behavior would violate Solinar’s very spirit.”
“Hah.”
Draconis let out a mocking laugh.
“Then the king isn’t really a king. What will you achieve by being swayed like a puppet? Just a puppet, aren’t you?”
*Puppet…*
Arkin had expected the reaction. Yet hearing the word land directly in his ears made his stomach twist with pain.
“Fascinating perspective, Draconis.”
Arkin replied with quiet restraint.
“This is balance. In Solinar, the king stands closest to the victim. He is the mediator of conflict, the gathering point for everyone’s hearts for the sake of peace—a being of noble character worthy of respect. Because that process is never easy, constant spiritual and physical cultivation is required.”
*But can I, Arkin Seilir, ever attain that lofty character? Right now, all I want is to slap Draconis across the face.*
Why?
Because the man was right. The king of Solinar had long been nothing but a puppet, cowed by tribal struggles.
“Please continue, Prince Arkin.”
Seneca broke in, snapping Arkin back. The prince forced a polite smile. But beside him, the tender sight of Zafiri and Nefetia’s intertwined hands stabbed like a blade. His nerves stood on end.
“Hey, I have a question!”
Petra’s eyes sparkled with zeal.
“Won’t it take forever to make decisions and execute them? And the king has to mediate everything?”
Arkin lowered his gaze, trying to hide the pounding ache in his head. Why did it hurt so much? He wanted to drop everything—Solinar’s introduction, the whole damn speech.
“That is precisely Solinar’s spiritual virtue. Slow, yet steady progress.”
Arkin ground his teeth and smiled.
*Damn it, that’s exactly what I said. It takes forever.*
He swallowed the urge to spit it out.
“Because important decisions, like trees growing slowly, require time.”
“Truly a model of a mature community.”
Seneca commented shortly. Arkin had always assumed the priest only mocked. Instead, the instructor clearly felt deep fondness for Solinar.
“Correct.”
Arkin’s lifted lips trembled with tension.
A mature community, huh? Would that even be true?
Decisions dragged on forever. The Elders attacked the king with endless criticism and bites. The priest would probably die of exhaustion.
Sometimes Arkin wanted to throttle them outright, but he kept his true feelings locked away—fearing any crack in his noble image would be torn apart.
How wretched. You have no idea, do you?
“As the highest virtue is achieving mature personality through endless training, the Elders of every tribe possess equally refined characters.”
Arkin wiped the sweat from his forehead with his damp palm. He hadn’t even realized he was sweating.
*Refined character.* Where?
Thinking about it now, Arkin’s own father lacked the slightest refinement. He lost his temper at the slightest provocation, shook with rage, and nagged Arkin relentlessly when anxiety gripped him.
If Grandfather had failed to become a great king, why couldn’t his own father? Why had he passed every burden onto Arkin alone? Was he even truly great?
Couldn’t he let go of what he held? Even while twisting Arkin’s oracle?
“Solinar pursues… spiritual values. Ideals.”
“Eh…? Is that all?”
Seneca looked puzzled as the speech wound down awkwardly. But Arkin had no strength left to continue. This was enough. The lingering nightmare had drained him to the bone.
Telling the world about his country had already become too exhausting. He didn’t know where to go next. He just wanted to throw everything away. What would everyone think if he said it aloud? If he could simply reveal his ugly, imperfect self without hiding… how wonderful that would be.