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Monarch Chapter 60
🕑 Added 2025-12-13 13:48:15 +0000 UTCChapter 60 - Interlude
Fredrick stood on the wall with his hands resting on the wooden railing, fingers clenched tight enough that his knuckles ached.
The sun slowly sank below the horizon, red as a drop of fresh blood. The trees below swayed lazily in the evening breeze, leaves whispering like they were sharing jokes at his expense.
But the sight didn't matter to him. It only briefly helped settle the storm inside his mind.
What mattered was the silence.
No one stood close to him.
The wall-walk stretched for several dozen paces, dotted with sentries, but there was a noticeable gap around Fredrick. Soldiers leaned together in pairs or small groups, talking quietly, laughing now and then. Some sharpened blades. Others complained about the dungeons or guard rotations.
None of them spoke to him. None of them even looked at him for long.
Fredrick felt it like an itch under his skin.
A few weeks ago, this hadn’t been the case. Soldiers had deferred to him. Listened when he spoke. Some had even laughed at his jokes, forced though they were. Heck, no one would even dare assign him guard duty. It was far beneath him.
After all, he was Fredrick Lanrice—silver blood with his ancestry linked to one of the founding houses, someone meant for command.
Now? Now he was just another man on the wall.
And all of this had been due to one single reason. Because he had lost in that blood duel. Not just to anyone, but a man who should have been dead long ago.
His jaw tightened as his thoughts circled back, as they always did.
Rayne Frayser.
The name tasted bitter on his tongue.
A forsaken. A traitor’s blood. A nobody who should have been happy just to survive army life without being beaten in the night.
And yet—
Fredrick’s fingers dug into the wood.
He was now a party leader. A position Fredrick had coveted since he had walked into Axel's squad. A position that was meant for him.
Just hearing that news had made his heart burn with anger and hatred. He wouldn't have been affected so much if he simply didn't know the man. After all, as a noble, Fredrick was meant to get command positions sooner or later.
But Rayne was the same man who had acted to dismiss his merits in front of Axel, the same man who had defeated him in that duel, and he hated to even think that, in the end, he had even been saved by that same man back in the dungeon.
It would have been better to die than see him rise while Fredrick fell.
Fredrick exhaled slowly through his nose.
Unfair.
That was the word that kept coming back to him.
It was unfair that Rayne had stolen his own merits when Fredrick had simply acted like he had been taught. Nobles were supposed to get all the merits. It was even more unfair that Axel—that drunken bastard—had sidelined Fredrick after that, and he hadn't been able to acquire enough merits.
When he had complained, he had been told to improve himself, as if he wasn't competent enough to lead already.
Fredrick swallowed his saliva, throat tight.
He had trained since childhood. His father had always told him he was meant to be a captain or even a commander in the Valerian army so he could bring prestige to his house. As a result, he had spent hours training and learning tactics.
And yet, when the time came, they had passed him over. He shifted his weight, armor creaking softly.
Whispers reached him from the side, and he couldn't help but listen.
“Man, Axel loves the bloody bastard. A year in the army, and I never even led guard duty.”
“You didn't save his life back in the dungeon. Do that next time and Axel will at least promote you to warm his bed at night. Doubt he could figure it out after drinking so much.”
“Fuck you, man.”
Fredrick didn't keep listening. He had heard similar conversations since the news had spread like wildfire. And it only cemented the fact that Rayne had been promoted—and not him.
He had been sidelined.
The more he thought about it, the more he felt something twist inside his chest.
Slowly, deliberately, Fredrick reached into his inner pouch and pulled out a folded letter.
The parchment was already creased from how many times he’d taken it out, stared at it, then shoved it back like it might bite him.
He hadn't opened it since getting it two days back. Other soldiers might not get letters this far into the kingdom, but he did, and dreaded them every single time.
He stared at the seal—a familiar crest, the sigil of House Lanrice—and felt his stomach churn.
Fredrick broke the seal with his thumb.
The letter slid open smoothly, the handwriting neat, formal, and cold. He recognized it immediately. It was written by his eldest brother.
That alone made his hands tremble, but reading it made his heartbeat quicken.
Fredrick,
I have received your last report and am incredibly disappointed that you have chosen to lie about your exploits in the army to me, and even more surprised that you weren't able to figure out the fact that I have eyes in the army that are constantly informing me about you.
You were sent to the army to distinguish yourself, climb to a position where you could truly call yourself a son of House Lanrice, but it seems like that's too much of an ask. Not only have you failed to achieve merits, you have lost a blood duel to the son of traitors. Father has been informed of it, and he's not happy with the rumors bound to spread in court.
Despite everything you have been given, we hear your name only in relation to failure and conflict. As a result, I have decided to reassign you to a different warband—one where your conduct can be better supervised and your performance evaluated. Once the Pascar Plain—
Fredrick stopped reading then.
His eyes clung to only one word in the letter.
Reassigned.
The word hit harder than any blow.
Reassigned meant demotion in everything but name. More than that, it meant that his brother would surely have him under his thumb in his own warband. He might be able to get a better position there eventually, but his life would be miserable.
He knew his brother. He had suffered under him before and couldn't afford to live like that any longer.
That was why he had requested his father to send him somewhere else, but now, his fate had dragged him back to the doors of suffering. It was a cruel joke the gods were laughing at, if they even cared about him anymore.
Fredrick still recalled what had been said to him before he had moved to the Pascar Plains.
“Prove yourself, or accept the consequences,” his brother had said in his usual cold voice.
His hands trembled even more thinking of it.
He crushed the letter in his fist, parchment crumpling with a soft, helpless sound. After everything, he couldn't be under the thumb of his brother again.
But what could he even do?
His family expected him to gain a position of leadership, but there weren't any left in Axel's squad. And he wouldn't be able to get into other squads under Edran. The man had lost his patience with him, and House Lanrice and House Sinclair had hardly ever been close.
Without it, he would surely be reassigned to his brother's warband.
His vision blurred for a moment, emotions bubbling inside him, but he forced it down. He would not cry. Not here. Not in front of peasants.
Anger flooded in to replace it.
“I have done everything right,” he muttered. “I can't go back. I will never be anything then.”
He pressed his forehead against the cool wood of the wall, breathing hard. When he thought of the reasons responsible for his current predicament, only two things came to his mind.
Fate and Rayne Frayser.
Fredrick could do nothing about fate. Even begging Lukara wouldn't give him any luck. But all his anger instantly turned to hatred when he thought of the bastard.
As if on cue, he suddenly heard a shout from a familiar voice. Laughter rose near the walls, and even the sentries stationed around him started to whisper.
Fredrick lifted his head.
A handcart stood near the camp gate with soldiers moving toward it. It was piled high with fresh monster materials—bundles of wolf fur, cracked horns, blood-stained sacks tied shut.
At the front of it stood Rayne.
He and his party laughed and joked with each other as they waited for the gate to open. Blood soaked each of them, but they didn't look injured. Instead, they looked in high spirits, as if they had come back from winning in a gambling house rather than a dungeon.
Fredrick eyed each member of the party. The man named Nate walked with a bundle of pelts over his shoulder while Kesh looked proud under the gazes. He had been the one too scared to even fight in the ranking duels back in Fort Algar, and now he acted as if he was some great warrior.
And there, at the back, he saw the despicable Bran. Fredrick blamed him as much as Rayne, at least for stealing his merits back then. But the man was already old, and his father had explicitly told him not to do anything against veterans, no matter what blood ran in their veins.
Hence, he focused back on Rayne and frowned.
In a word, he looked like a victor. Fresh out of conquering a dungeon with a smile on his face, as if he knew the gods were in his favor and that, whatever happened, he was going to rise in ranks.
Fredrick hated every part of that. His nails dug into his fist, and all the hatred he felt for him surged to the surface.
Soldiers whispered on the walls. Rayne and his party had conquered a dungeon just three days back, and now they were done with another. Even if they were smaller ones, that was fast—faster than the average time it took to clear a dungeon.
And that meant merits. A lot of them.
“Goddamn filthy fucking bastard,” he whispered under his breath.
Fredrick felt something inside him snap.
If Rayne kept going like this, there would be nothing left for him to do. He would rise and rise, and Fredrick would be left behind until no one cared about him.
He couldn't let that happen.
But what could he do? He knew Axel and Edran wouldn't help him, and even if he requested to enter more dungeons, he wouldn't be able to hoard all the merits to himself. It would take too much time to gamble on rankings.
It would all have been so much easier if he had gotten the position of party leader, but there were none left.
Unless—
His gaze sharpened suddenly as an idea burst into his mind. He looked at Rayne coldly as the gates opened and he made his way inside.
At that moment, Fredrick imagined it—Rayne dying and him taking over his spot. Accidents happened in the army, and no one was going to miss a traitor.
Without him in the squad, there would be no one else to take up the position of party leader. Fredrick wouldn't let them give it to anyone else.
If that happened, then he wouldn't have to go back to his brother. He could reject the reassignment and stay here, building his own party, one that deferred to him and slowly grew enough that the kingdom would have no choice but to make him a captain.
Then, even his brother would need to respect him.
Just one question remained.
How was he going to do it?
He had already missed his chance with the blood duel, and he didn't intend to fight Rayne like that again.
He hated to admit it, but the bastard was strong. Probably stronger than the current him.
If he wanted to kill him, Fredrick needed to be smart.
He looked down at the letter again, carefully tucking it back into his robes. He would have a reply ready once he earned himself the position of party leader.
But for now?
His whole focus was on Rayne.
He had taken what was his, and Fredrick would make sure he regretted it.
Comments
Symon X
Wrong choice, shoulda joined him
Lapis Lazuli
This Frederick character is a dunce. Dunce’s die. The only question is who or what will be doing the killing?
Caiban
Rayne needs to get some skill against poison...
QuodArbor
He looked down at the letter again, carefully tucking it back into his robes. He w ould have a reply ready once he earned himself the position of party leader. He looked down at the letter again, carefully tucking it back into his robes. He would have a reply ready once he earned himself the position of party leader.
