**WARNING!** Heavy use of language and violence is present. Some scenes may not be suitable for younger readers.
This book, "Regal Rift," is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidenta...
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Rhys walked with purpose through the dimly lit corridors of the Abyssal Palace, his mind abuzz with thoughts.
Finally reaching his chamber, Rhys pushed open the heavy doors and entered, the air heavy with the scent of incense and the flickering light of torches casting dancing shadows on the walls.
As he made his way to the center of the room, Rhys allowed himself a moment of respite.
Closing his eyes, he focused on calming his racing thoughts, allowing the silence of the chamber to envelop him.
As he opened his eyes again he gazed at the Eldorian Sword beside him, he drew it from its sheath then studied the ancient blade intently. It's shimmering surface reflecting the flickering torchlight.
The sword was more than just a weapon for him; it was a symbol of his mission, his purpose in this world.
As he looked at the sword, Rhys felt a sense of clarity washed over him, he push aside the confusion and doubt that had clouded his mind.
His mission was clear, to conquer the surface world, no matter the cost. With a determined glint in his eyes, Rhys resheathed the Eldorian sword.
A knock echoed through the chamber, interrupt Rhys's on his thoughts.
He turned, his eyes narrowing as the door creaked open. One of his servants entered, a hunched figure carrying a small silver tray.
"My lord," the servant said, bowing deeply.
"I bring you the orders for tomorrow's march and the apple you requested."
Rhys nodded, his expression unreadable as he took the parchment and the apple from the tray.
"You may leave."
The servant bowed again and swiftly exited, leaving Rhys alone once more.
He set the parchment aside and glanced down at the apple in his hand, its red skin gleaming in the dim light.
A flood of memories washed over him and for a moment a stern mask he wore slipped.
Rhys couldn't shake the memory of Cassiel's fear-stricken face as Izora threatened her.
He couldn't understand the strange twinge of emotion that had gripped him in that moment, a mix of anger and something else he couldn't quite identify.
He remembered the day he had gone to Cassiel's farm, ostensibly to gather information and strengthen his plans.
But in truth, it had been one of the few moments of genuine peace in his life. The farm was a sanctuary, a world away from the darkness and brutality of the Abyss.
He could see it clearly: the sun shining warmly on the fields, the apple trees swaying gently in the breeze.
Even though he knew it was all part of his scheme, those moments had felt real.
It had been a brief respite from the constant struggle for power and survival that defined his life.
Growing up in the Abyss had been a hellish nightmare. Born into a realm where strength and ruthlessness were the only means to survive, he had been forced to harden himself from a young age.
Compassion was a weakness, trust a liability. Every day was a battle against not just the demons around him, but against the darkness that threatened to consume his own soul.
He grew up in this hellish place, a never-ending cycle of brutality and survival.
The Abyss was a world of darkness and torment, where the weak were preyed upon and only the strongest could hope to survive.
Rhys had learned quickly that trust was dangerous luxuries.
His earliest memories were fragmented, hazy images of his mother holding him close, her soothing voice a rare comfort amidst the chaos.
But those moments were fleeting. The day she died was seared into his mind with painful clarity.
She had been taken from him in a violent struggle, her life cut short by the ruthless politics of the demon world.
Rhys remembered her final moments, the look of fear and sorrow in her eyes as she tried to protect him.
He was just a child then, powerless to save her. Her death had marked the beginning of his descent into the harsh reality of the Abyss.
He had been forced to fend for himself, to grow up fast in a world where mercy was non-existent.
Each day had been a struggle to survive, to avoid the predators lurking in every shadow. The constant threat of death had hardened him, made him ruthless and cunning.
He had learned to hide his emotions, to mask his fear and pain with a facade of cold determination.
But no matter how strong he became, the memories of his mother's death haunted him.
They were a source of constant torment, a reminder of his helplessness and failure.
He hated everyone who had played a part in her death, but most of all, he hated himself.
He hated that he existed in this world, that his very existence had brought suffering to the one person who had ever cared for him.
"If only I hadn't been born," he thought bitterly.
"She would still be alive. She would be free from this hell."
The memories brought a surge of rage and anger to him, a dark fire that burned within his chest.
He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he fought to control the fury threatening to consume him.
His hatred was a double-edged sword, driving him forward but also threatening to tear him apart from within.
"They will pay for what they took from me," Rhys muttered, his voice barely audible.
He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his anger settling into a cold, unyielding resolve.
"I will annihilate Eldoria. Their blood will be spilled as retribution for their sins."
He had a purpose now, a mission to reshape the world and bring justice to those who had suffered as he had.
He had built his strength on the foundation of that pain, turning his suffering into a weapon.
And he would use that weapon to carve a new future, one where the innocent would not suffer as his mother had.
Rhys took a bite of the apple, savoring its crisp, sweet taste. As he swallowed, he steeled himself, pushing the memories back into the recesses of his mind.
There was no room for such thoughts now. The plans were in motion, and he had a realm to conquer.
The Eldorian sword was his key to reshaping the world, to bring his vision of order and justice to fruition. He could not afford to let sentimentality weaken his resolve.
Rhys set the apple down and unrolled the parchment, his eyes scanning the information.
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**Author's Note:**
Question of the day!
What were your thoughts on the motivations behind Rhys's actions? Do you think they were understandable or excessive?"
