THE GRAND OLD

PART 9: THE COLD PRINCE

THE GRAND OLD
PRESENTED BY DEFLUX STUDIOS

The eastern lands were in flames, consumed by the wrath of Lord Erik, a man broken by grief and driven by vengeance. Erik's warpath left a trail of devastation, and the once-prosperous heart of the Eastern Valerian Empire teetered on the brink of collapse. Cities lay in ruin, the Senate was purged, and the people of the East—those who had loved Empress Lava for her kindness—now suffered under the madness of the man she had loved.

Yet, far to the west, in the icy tundras of Winterhaven, Farengar, the cold-hearted prince of Western Valeria, remained indifferent to the chaos. Word of Erik's rampage reached him through his network of spies and informants, but as reports detailed the destruction, Farengar's expression never changed. His icy blue eyes, devoid of emotion, skimmed over the letters without a hint of concern.

"Erik burns his lands to the ground, and he expects us to tremble," Farengar muttered, tossing the parchment into the roaring fireplace beside him. The flames devoured the message, just as Erik devoured the East in his mad quest for retribution.

Farengar stood from his stone-carved throne, his heavy fur-lined cloak draped over his broad shoulders. The dim light of his keep barely illuminated the cold and sparse hall, where the only warmth came from the hearth. Outside, the frozen winds howled through the tundra, a harsh reminder of the environment that had shaped the man who ruled here.

"The man is a fool," Farengar continued, speaking to his advisors who stood silently at attention, waiting for their lord's command. "He wastes his strength on vengeance. He forgets that love and mercy are weaknesses. Emotions blind men to the truth of power, to the cruelty of the world. His descent into madness only proves that he was never fit to rule."

His voice was as frigid as the land he governed, carrying no hint of sorrow, no sense of camaraderie. The suffering of his siblings meant nothing to him. Erik, once a man of reason, had become a wild beast, thrashing blindly at the enemies of his dead wife. Farengar viewed him as little more than a broken tool, soon to be discarded.

"What of the South?" one of his advisors dared to ask, breaking the cold silence. "Theodorus grows richer by the day, and Erik's wrath has left the East in shambles. Will you not act?"

Farengar smirked, a cruel twist of his lips. "Theodorus is a fat merchant playing at being king. Let him revel in his wealth for now. Erik's madness will burn out eventually, and when the time is right, the South will fall under our boot as well. I care not for the squabbles of sentimental men. We are Valeria's future. We will forge a new empire, one built on fear, not foolish ideals of mercy or unity."

As he spoke, there was a deliberate, calculated coldness in his words. Farengar saw the world through the lens of absolute control. The Valerian Empire had fallen because it had grown weak, poisoned by kindness, weighed down by the whims of an ineffective Senate. Empress Lava, with her soft heart, had allowed herself to be destroyed by her own weakness. Erik, in his grief, was no better—allowing his emotions to drive him into a spiral of destruction.

Farengar, however, felt nothing for them. He didn’t care if Erik destroyed the entire East. It would only make it easier for him to claim what was left. He had no desire for his brother’s southern riches or his sister’s beloved ideals. What Farengar craved was dominion, absolute and unquestionable. His heart was colder than the ice that blanketed his lands, and that was what made him dangerous.

His ruthlessness was palpable. The Western Valerian Imperium, under his iron grip, was not a land of hope or prosperity. It was a land ruled by terror, where dissent was met with swift, brutal punishment, and loyalty was demanded, not earned. His legions marched through the snow-covered streets, enforcing order through fear and violence. Bandits roamed freely at night, unchecked by Farengar’s forces, who were content to let the weak suffer while the strong thrived. It was a kingdom where survival meant embracing cruelty.

Farengar’s power was absolute, and he intended to keep it that way.

"Erik will burn himself out," he said, turning his back to his advisors, staring out the window at the desolate, icy expanse beyond. "And when he does, I will sweep in and claim what remains. The East will be mine, just as the South will be. One by one, they will fall. Their weakness, their emotions, will be their downfall."

There was no passion in his voice, no excitement at the prospect of conquest. It was as if Farengar saw it all as inevitable, just another step toward his vision of an empire reborn in the image of Winterhaven—cold, unyielding, and eternal.

Erik's rage, Theodorus's ambition, Lava's mercy—none of it mattered to him. Farengar knew that the world was cruel, that the strong survived by crushing the weak, and in his mind, he was the strongest of all.

And so, as Erik's war raged on, as Theodorus watched from the south, Farengar waited. He waited in the frozen heart of his kingdom, biding his time. There was no need to rush. The world would come to him, in time. All he had to do was watch it crumble.