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Magus Reborn Chapter 283
🕑 Added 2025-09-30 12:37:28 +0000 UTCChapter 283
Regina moved through the hallways of the royal castle with a stride in her steps.
The castle breathed differently now. She felt it in the air. Everything felt… charged. Maids were rushing past her, clutching trays and bolts of cloth, bowing so quickly that they nearly dropped whatever they were carrying.
Their hands visibly shook, and their eyes darted up at her before snapping down again.
They feared her, yes, but not the small, passing fear of yesteryears . This was heavier. A fear that lingered, that acknowledged her as more than a queen—acknowledged her as the one who decided how the kingdom lived or broke.
The guards lining the hallways were the same. It was quite the sight to see, especially when whenever their gazes flicked toward her, they revealed the reverence and the uneasiness that made her almost smile. It had always been there in pieces, the uneasiness of knowing that they stood before one of the strongest people in the kingdom. But now, it was more evident; especially because they knew that soon, she would decide everything in the kingdom. Once she removed some parasites who thought they’re better than her.
At her side, Selwin spoke, garnering her attention. “According to our spies, Thalric has captured another fort. His soldiers are pushing further every day.”
Regina’s eyes stayed forward. She had expected this. “That brute was born to break walls,” she said.
“Aldrin has been seen meeting with foreign powers. He is trying to weave ties.”
“As if paper shields could stop our army.”
“Well, Arzan, your majesty. He stood before his city yesterday. Declared openly that he will claim the throne. The people cheered him over and there's almost a festival in his territory.”
Regina gave a nod, and felt like the words were no surprise. She had seen them coming the day of the Assembly; where all of her horrible nightmares came true.
Now, they didn’t matter, not at all. What mattered now was what would happen in the near future—the coronation.
Full preparations were ongoing.
The dais was being raised, the banners prepared, the choir readied. She had walked past the courtyard earlier and seen it all, from carpenters to servants to seamstresses. All of it was for her son.
Her son, who would wear the crown. Her son, who would sit where his father once had.
And herself—she would be the one behind the throne, the hand that shaped the kingdom’s breath. The kingmaker.
She smiled at the scenario as Selwin continued his report, her attention only coming back to him when he reached the news about the coronation.
“As you instructed, Your Highness,” Selwin said in a low but careful voice, “the parade after the coronation will pass through every affluent quarter of the capital. The speech will be given just after the coronation. We will declare the other princes and Arzan traitors. Our men will be in every house and on every rooftop—watching for miscreants.
“We do not expect trouble,” he added. “Veridia fled the city. We don’t know where she is, but she is the only one I’d fear trying to harm the prince.”
Regina’s shoulders did not move. She only nodded once, small and sure. “And the attendees?” she asked.
“All the nobles who back us have agreed to send sons — first sons are called, but many will be sending second sons saying that the first is needed in the front,” Selwin answered. “Many claim they must stay to raise armies, but their families will come in their place.”
“Fools,” she said. “They believe their sons will return to their homes after the week is done. Make certain the heralds send this in ink and on seal: if any of those nobles disappoint me, or even think to harm my son’s reign, they will be sent their son’s head.”
Selwin nodded and rolled his papers back into order and moved onto the next sheet. “The choir master will rehearse at dawn. The eastern chapel’s draperies will be checked twice. The captains request positions for noble banners along the procession, and the steward asks if the feast should serve three courses or four.”
Regina listened to everything and gave replies where it was needed. Every small item was a stitch in a garment she was sewing for a single shape: her son on a throne. In another life, when she might have acted colder and quicker, the other princes would have been buried and Arzan crushed long before. That time had not come. But the crown would. Her son would sit beneath it, and she would stand where the world could not ignore her hand. She would make sure of that.
She had waited, patient as stone, to see how the others would move before she struck. Yet when their pieces slid across the board, they did so exactly as she had expected—so plain, so predictable, it was almost comical. Hilarious, even. Now the time for waiting was over. The next month would go according to her design, step by step, and she would not allow a single hand to shift the pattern.
Once her attendant had gone through everything, they walked on in silence, her stride steady, Selwin’s steps half a beat behind. The rhythm of their march carried them through corridor after corridor, until Regina stopped before the entrance of another hallway.
Months ago, this place had bristled with guards. No one had been able to pass through without having an official summon. Now the doorway stood open, unguarded, as though anyone could wander in.
Selwin paused beside her. “Do you want me to go inside with you, Your Highness?” he asked.
Regina shook her head.
“I want him to hear what is happening from me. A couple deserves their private time, don’t you think?”
“As you wish, Your highness,” Selwin bowed his head deep and low and took a single step behind.
Regina drew in a quiet breath and moved into the hallway.
The air felt different here, still, heavy with dust and memory. Taking the castle itself had been easier than she had once imagined after that Assembly. Her husband had seen it in her eyes—that she would burn everything to ash if it meant claiming power—and instead of fighting, he had retreated on his own. There were many flaws in Sullivan, countless weaknesses, but he had always known one thing: when to surrender. When a battle was already lost. It was a skill Regina despised in herself, but one she had come to appreciate in her enemies.
She walked slowly now, the click of her heels echoing in the lonely passage. These were halls she had known for years, chambers she had once entered with her head bent and her hands folded. The tapestries were still on the walls, the old rugs still dulled with the same stains, but everything seemed… drained. Bleaker. As if even the stones carried defeat.
A thought twisted in her mind: how would he be taking this? Hollowed and colorless? Would his eyes be as tired as the walls? Or would he be rageful?
But when she stepped into the open garden, the answer cut against her expectations.
There, crouched among the flowerbeds, was Sullivan. His hair caught the late light, his back was bent in simple focus. He held a clay pot in one hand, tipping it carefully so the water trickled down into the soil at the base of a plant. A small smile rested on his face, so gentle, so utterly out of place in the shadow of a crumbling kingdom. He even spoke with his Knight, Roderic who stood on his side.
Regina’s lips parted slightly, but no words came. This was not the sight she had prepared herself for.
Had he given up on everything? She thought of the Assembly, of the way he had folded when the room turned. She had known he feared loss. She had also known, once, that he would go down with the house he built rather than watch it burn. Now he seemed to have chosen something else—quiet, ease, the little mercies of a life that refused to be sharp. He had tried, once, to keep her from taking everything. Had he really accepted defeat?
Sullivan straightened suddenly, wiping his hands on his trousers, and turned toward her as if he had only just noticed the cold line of her shadow. “I thought I felt a gaze on me,” he said. “What brings you here? I thought you were too busy planning your son’s coronation.”
Regina curled her lips. “I’m always busy,” she said and paused, watching him as if testing the air. “So you’ve heard news from outside?”
“No. It’s just the most basic conclusion. When is it?” he asked.
“This week,” Regina said. She put the fact down flat, like a tile. “You need to be there, Sullivan. You must put the crown on him. He needs to be seen as the legitimate heir you have chosen.”
He blinked, and for a moment the garden seemed to lean in to listen. “But I haven’t chosen him,” Sullivan said quietly.
“Do you think your opinion matters?” She said, her voice sharp. “You will do what I say. It will be easiest for us all.”
For a few heartbeats he said nothing. Regina felt the familiar battle map unroll between them: her plans, her threats, the old, thin lines where things could break. She had prepared for his refusal. She had imagined arguing until her throat was dry, imagined calling men, imagined using threats that left no doubt whose hand held the blade.
Instead Sullivan exhaled a small breath and looked resigned. “Okay,” he said. “I will be there.”
Regina nearly lost her words and pressed for why, but she did not ask. Her face remained a flat mask. Inside, a quick, sharp satisfaction moved through her like light through a slit. Outside, nothing changed.
“Even if I don’t think Eldric is suited to be king,” he continued, “I’ll be there. I might even advise him.”
Regina’s mouth made a thin line “You won’t be talking to him,” she said. “Or to anyone.”
“That’s a shame. He would have done well with my advice.”
“You can’t give advice, when your choices have left you nothing more than a prisoner in your own house.”
Sullivan’s laugh was quieter this time, edged with something that might have been pity. “True,” he admitted. “But not all my choices are sealed. Some still hang in the air. Maybe they will save me.”
“Arzan won’t be able to do anything this time,” she said. “He might be a strong Mage and had loyal subordinates, but it takes far more to win a civil war, and I will make sure he dies a cold death.”
Sullivan looked at her then. For the first time, something sparked in his eyes. “You have always underestimated your opponents,” he said as if it was a fact. “It has worked for you—strength, schemes, the slow turning of people’s loyalties. But you have grown used to winning because others were weaker. Now you meet someone who is not easily broken, and you call their success luck or the incompetence of your subordinates. Don’t rely on that habit. I want nothing more than to see you dead, Regina. Still, take that one piece of advice.”
She snapped instantly and frowned. “I don’t take advice from men who are going to be dead soon.”
Sullivan’s mouth twitched. “Then enjoy your certainty while you can,” he said softly. “Enjoy your last days of being sure.”
Regina turned back, knowing the conversation had come to an end.
Sullivan’s words rang inside of her. The sound of it made an off-key note in the corner of her mind. She felt it, then brushed it away the way one shakes water from a sleeve.
But it came back. She walked while her head was filled with thoughts of just one thing; that she might be wrong. She could have turned, asked for the why of his warning, stripped his words to the bone. She did not. Doubt was dangerous when nursed in public. Better to bury it under action.
By the time she reached the corridor where Selwin waited, the garden conversation had already faded from her mind. She was capable. She had always been capable of handling everything.
And she would do the same this time.
***
Kai moved through Balen’s workshop, the heat pressing against his face like a second skin. The forges roared on both sides of him, belching smoke and fire, while men darted back and forth with armfuls of metal, wood, and glowing crystals. Everywhere he looked, something was being shaped for war—swords stacked like grain, shields piled high, spears bristling from racks. Cannons lined one wall, half-assembled, their barrels glinting red with fresh polish. Drones buzzed overhead in their testing frames, while in a corner, smaller golems stomped in rigid, awkward steps under the eyes of tired workers.
It was chaos, but it was the kind of chaos born of purpose. The kind that thrummed with urgency. No one stopped to greet him, no one even noticed him as he moved deeper inside. That was perfect. Kai didn’t want to interrupt the rhythm. Since his announcement, the entire city—and the castle above it—had shifted into a different pace with everyone working harder to prepare for war.
But weapons were as equally important as people. Destructive artifacts even more so. But what had brought Kai here today mattered more than swords or cannons. He was here to check if Balen had succeeded with what they had discussed. If he had, it could decide not just the outcome of one battle, but the whole war.
He passed through heavy doors, into narrower passages where the noise didn’t fade but deepened, echoing. The shouting grew clearer the closer he came, one voice rising above all the rest—Balen’s. The blacksmith’s tone was sharp, commanding, yet layered with a strange enthusiasm that could cut through the exhaustion of men.
Kai finally reached the gate of the main chamber. Even before his hand touched the door, the hammering rattled through it. He pushed it open and froze.
The sight inside was more impressive than he had imagined.
In the center of the chamber stood three massive figures—metallic giants towering above the workers that swarmed around their feet. Blacksmiths hammered at plates the size of wagon doors, sparks spilling down like fiery rain. Chains rattled from the ceiling as cranes hoisted heavy parts into place, slotting them into frames that groaned under their own weight.
The golems loomed over everything. If Sentinel had been imposing, these would dwarf it. Their frames shouldered upward like towers of steel, each fitted with monstrous arms ending in siege weapons—hammers thick enough to splinter walls, drills meant to bore through stone, claws that could drag down gates. Their eyes—still empty sockets for now—glared hollowly at the chamber, as if waiting for the spark of life to turn them from iron statues into war machines.
The room shook with every strike of the hammers. And even the air reek of metal.
Kai’s lips parted slightly. For the first time in weeks, something cut through his carefully kept calm. These weren’t weapons. These were moving fortresses.
And if they worked as Balen promised, they would change everything.
He kept staring until Balen’s voice cut through the hammering.
“Impressive, isn’t it, Lord Arzan. I call them siege breakers. You’ll take forts easier with them. I guarantee that.”
The room quieted for a breath. Heads lifted; hammers hung in midair. A few men dared a look his way, but Balen’s glare snapped the noise back into motion. “Back to work!” the minotaur barked, and the rhythm resumed as if someone had struck a drum.
Kai let the sound wash over him. “They are impressive. Are these the only three you can deliver?”
Balen’s brow folded. “Yes.” He spat the word, then added, as if counting in his head, “If Tharnok helps, maybe a fourth. But he’s tied up overseeing the new designs—those new guard drones you asked for.” He glanced at the ceiling where a small swarm of testers buzzed. “Those are easier to make than these hulks.”
Kai’s mouth tightened. He had expected this. “Three are more than enough,” he said. “We have other means to break walls.”
He let the sentence hang and then shifted his weight so their eyes met. The noise of the workshop blurred; only Balen’s face stayed sharp. “I’m not here for the golems.”
Balen’s grin spread. “Are they ready?” Kai asked.
“They are. Drones that explode—those are child's work compared to this. You really gave me a great design with great seal work, Lord Arzan. You will be happy to see them.”
“Where are they?”
“In my office.” Balen said, then turned and fixed the workers with one last glare. “Make sure at least one of them is done before I come back. Understood?”
A chorus of murmured “Yes, master” followed. Balen hooked an elbow under Kai’s arm like a man guiding a guest. They moved through a long passage that smelled of oil and hot iron—corridors lined with half-made shields, racks of spears, a wall where hundreds of blueprints were pinned like a city map. Kai let his hands brush the cool metal as they passed. He remembered when this place had been a small forge and two rooms. Now it swallowed whole workshops and still grew.
That was a change he welcomed.
The steps changed pitch as they walked: nearer to the office the shouting thinned and the air turned cleaner, carrying faint aromas of ink and cooled steel. Balen pushed open a heavy door with a shoulder and stepped into a room lit by a single window. On the desk, sitting like a bird atop a pile of papers, was the thing Kai had come for.
Balen’s smile widened until the corners of his eyes crinkled. “That’s the messenger drone,” he said, as if introducing an old friend.
Comments
Arthor K
There are a lot of weak kings in history.
Dec
Wow. I know this is story but can a king be so weak?
Silver Beard
Good, reliable communication wins wars
