Prologue - บทนำ
Vijitkul
Pain is a curious thing. It dulls, sharpens, stretches time until moments feel like eternity, yet somehow, I do not break.
The air is thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and damp earth. My wrists burn where the iron chains bite into my skin, rubbed raw from days—weeks?—of captivity. The ground beneath me is cold, packed dirt soaked with filth, but I sit as though I am still on my throne. Even as my enemies sneer, even as they raise their whips, even as their fists connect with my ribs—I smile.
The fools do not understand.
I am not a man who kneels.
A warrior’s blood runs through my veins, and warriors do not beg for mercy.
A boot slams into my chest. My head snaps back against the wooden post they have tied me to, pain exploding behind my eyes. I taste blood, thick and metallic, as it pools in my mouth. A man steps forward, their leader—some nameless warlord who thought himself capable of swallowing my empire. He crouches before me, tilting his head as though studying an animal.
“You are dying, King of Ayutthaya,” he says, his voice thick with sarcasm.
I let out a low chuckle, the sound scraping from my throat. “Am I?”
His brow twitches. He does not like my reaction. That pleases me.
“You will not leave this camp alive,” he says, slower this time, as if I am too stupid to understand. “Your men have abandoned you. Your throne is lost. No one is coming to save you.”
Another laugh rumbles from my chest. This time, the warlord’s expression darkens.
“You think this is amusing?”
I spit blood at his feet. “I think you should pray.”
His lips curl, and he stands. “Very well. Let us see how much laughter remains when I carve the flesh from your bones.”
The next hour is pain. Fire against my skin. Blades kissing my flesh, tearing, searching for a sign of surrender. There is none.
I do not scream.
I do not beg.
I only watch their faces, memorizing each of them, their scars, their smirks, their delight in seeing a king humbled.
Because I will see them again.
And when I do, I will not be the one in chains.
The first sound of death comes at midnight.
A scream, cut short. Then another. Then silence.
The warlord and his men scramble for their weapons, shouting orders into the darkness. I hear the distant clash of steel, the unmistakable sound of bodies falling to the ground, one by one.
Then, footsteps.
Heavy. Measured. Unstoppable.
Theerakit emerges first. His armor is black with blood, his blade still dripping. Behind him, my soldiers move like shadows, cutting down what remains of the camp’s defenders.
Theerakit.
He has been with me since the days when I was not yet a king but a warrior, a viceroy in my father’s army. I saw in him something most men lack—unyielding loyalty, a mind as sharp as his blade, and the will to do what must be done.
Others speak of honor and restraint.
Theerakit understands the truth of war: victory is the only honor that matters.
He has followed me into battle countless times, stood at my side when others faltered. When I took the throne, he became more than a general—he became my sword, my shield, my most trusted general.
And now, he has come to take me home.
I smile.
“You took your time,” I rasp.
Theerakit kneels before me, pressing a fist to his chest in salute. “Forgive me, Your Majesty.”
He rises, and with a single motion, slices through my chains. My body slumps forward, weak from torment, but I catch myself before I fall.
I am not weak.
The warlord is trying to flee.
I see him, stumbling through the wreckage of his own camp, his warriors dead around him. His face is pale with fear. Gone is the confidence, the arrogance.
Good.
“Theerakit,” I say, rolling my stiff shoulders. My voice is hoarse, but steady.
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
I wipe the blood from my mouth and step forward. My body aches, my wounds burn, but I have never felt stronger.
“Do not let a single one of them escape,” I say softly. “Round them up. Bind them. Make sure they are breathing when you bring them to me.”
Theerakit bows. “As you command.”
The warlord’s terrified eyes meet mine.
I take a deep breath, tasting the night air—thick with blood, smoke, and the fading scent of damp earth.
“Burn everything,” I murmur. “Then bring them to me. I want them to see their world turn to ash before I carve their screams into history.”
