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◈ Prince of Rage ◈

Chapter 0: Prologue

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It is merely one answer. An answer to why I must live.

As my answer to why I must live, I intend to end my own life.

I am Valerie, the fourteenth prince of the Volsung (Vǫlsungr) royal house. Yet until I was twenty, I knew nothing of my status and grew up as the illegitimate child of Count of Winslow.

The reason was the kingdom's method of royal succession. Princes were taken from their mothers at birth and raised without knowing who they were. When the king died, they learned their identities and began competing with their siblings.

Simply put, I had to kill every other brother and nephew, then survive alone to inherit the throne. It did not matter whether they were older or younger. I had to kill them all. Or be killed myself.

This succession system was unusual, or barbaric, because it was a tribal custom that still remained in the kingdom. The kingdom itself had been founded some sixty years ago, after conquering this land of Astria.

The native people and conquered subjects who had originally lived here, the Astrians, called us Norsemen.

Royal succession was both an inviolable law and a kind of religious rite. The Volsung royal house was the last bloodline of the dead gods, and people believed that if only one prince survived to become king, those loyal to that king would go to Heaven.

Before the succession, princes received special protection. Once the king died, that protection was gone.

When a king died, lords and nobles would stop at nothing, including plots, assassinations, and even war, to place the prince they supported on the throne. It was called royal succession, but in truth the entire country entered a struggle for power.

It was not a fair competition, either. Some princes learned their identities early and gathered followers in advance, while others were too young to compete at all.

In my case, on the day the king died, Count Aethelred, the man I had believed was my father, immediately tried to kill me. His lord supported another prince.

That was when I learned that I was a prince. I also learned that the Volsung royal house had a trait passed down only through the male line.

When princes were born, their eyes shone. The light faded over time, but they said that if one used something like carbon paper, or looked closely in a very dark place, a faint glow remained.

People considered this trait sacred. Some said the men of the Volsung royal house were born with swords in their eyes. Others called them stars of dawn.

But sacred or not, it was of no importance to survival. If anything, it was something to hide completely.

After barely escaping Count Winslow's household, there was nothing I had not done. Cold and hunger were pains beyond comparison, and they made me someone capable of anything. I had begged. I had even killed someone for a piece of bread.

Things improved slightly when I joined the Thieves' Guild, but there were quotas. Money from pickpocketing or theft that had to be paid to the guild. If you failed to meet your quota, they cut off your fingers.

I sincerely helped a few of my fellow guild members, and lost two fingers because of it. The little finger and ring finger of my left hand.

About six months had passed when the shadows of night no longer frightened me and had become as familiar as well-fitting clothes. Then, I took on my first assassination.

It was a dog seller at a dog-fighting arena. They said he had been skimming betting money. After killing him, I cut up the body and fed it to the abused dogs.

Loan sharks, corrupt priests, traitors within the guild, incompetent pimps, perverted mages. I killed all kinds of people.

If I learned anything from assassination work, it was, first, that there was no person who could not be killed. Second, that applying standards of good and evil to people was meaningless.

But the guild chose whom to kill for purely business reasons. That was why their limits were clear. They might rule the back alleys as objects of terror, but in the world of giants, they could hardly be more than rats.

It had been three years since the king's death, and the civil war was growing fiercer. When one prince's army occupied a city and began killing people without restraint, there was nothing the guild could do except be trampled to death beneath military boots.

The guild killed people for business reasons, but real powers needed no particular reason to kill.

Then perhaps I did not need a reason, either. What was there that I could not do? I was a prince as well.

I immediately assassinated the prince who had occupied the city, my brother. Then I spoke before his soldiers.

“I am Valerie, the fourteenth prince. Choose. Kill me and offer my head to another prince, or follow me.”

I told them to choose, but in truth they had no choice. It took considerable courage to lay hands on a prince, and above all, only another prince could replace the prince they had been following.

I immediately ordered the Guild Master and its officers seized and hanged. Their accumulated wealth, along with the city's financial resources, was directed entirely to me without a single leak.

That allowed me to maintain an army for a time without resorting to plunder.

After that, I purged the nobles beneath me. Those who had followed the previous prince could not be trusted.

I confiscated their lands and distributed fiefs primarily among capable field commanders and knights.

Once I had complete control of the army, I expanded my power. I seized the families of strong people and threatened them. I bribed worldly people. I stained the honor of noble people with slander and intrigue.

It was wrapped in the pretext of a War of Succession, but in truth it was nothing more than robbery and extortion. I was more skilled at such things than anyone.

Nor did I ever lose in battle. I defeated enemies several times more numerous than mine. I knew that if you made the enemy impatient, deceived them, and encouraged internal division, greater numbers became a burden rather than an advantage.

When I occupied Count of Winslow’s domain where I had grown up, I cruelly executed Count Aethelred's family before his eyes. Then, last of all, I tore him limb from limb.

Surprisingly, I felt nothing. I had expected it to be more satisfying.

After that, I proceeded with even less restraint. I used everything I could use. Money, honor, status, desire, love, friendship, anything.

I exploited them to the fullest, then discarded them when I no longer needed them. If they became an obstacle, I killed them all, no matter who they were or how many there were. I even burned an entire city to root out a single nephew.

Some asked how a person could be like this. Others said it was an honor to remain loyal to me until the end.

Everyone who followed me became miserable, and every woman who crossed my path became unhappy.

Even so, I became increasingly impossible to defy. At last, when I had killed every brother and nephew, people called me Valerie the Heartless.

Tomorrow was my coronation. Yet even on the day before it, the royal castle was filled only with a heavy silence. Noble and commoner alike feared me.

The king's bedchamber was excessively plain, without even a common tapestry or decoration. No, it looked more like a desolate barracks than a king's bedchamber.

The thick curtains made the room dark. Sharp slivers of sunlight entered between them. Red. The sunset was passing over my feet.

People embraced hope in order to live for tomorrow. One such hope was the belief that the king would lead them to Heaven.

But unfortunately, I had no hope. Now that the royal bloodline had reached its end, only one thing held meaning for me.

I held the royal sword steeped in the legend of having slain a dragon. The sword named Gramr.

I drew the sword and examined its blade. Though it was over a hundred years old, its edge was as sharp as new. The red light of sunset ran along the blade and gathered into a single drop at its tip.

I pressed the hilt against a corner of the floor, set my throat against the sword's point, and put my weight into it without hesitation.

To end the royal bloodline with my own hand. That was my rage against living, and my answer.

Prologue: One Answer.

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