Cursed throne: Revival of the sovereign

I was indeed a king in my past life—betrayed, yes, but still a figure to be revered, feared, and obeyed. I was not someone to be mocked, and I certainly wasn't someone to be trifled with.

But now?

Here I am, standing in front of a three-foot-tall mound of horse shit, staring it down like it's a dragon ready to eat me alive. My instincts screamed at me to wail in terror or turn and flee, but where could I possibly go?

Life in the mines was full of indignities, and this, I suppose, was just another one of them. The stench was an unholy assault on my senses, a sharp reminder of how far I had fallen. For the third day in a row, I found myself wrestling not with my past glory but with this stinking reality.

"Move it along, filth!" barked one of the overseers, his whip slicing through the air.

I snapped out of my grim reverie, stepping to the side of the pungent heap and back into line. The other slaves barely seemed to notice my hesitation, their sunken eyes staring ahead as they shuffled forward.

It had been three days since I'd awoken in this pit, and I had come to understand the grim rhythm of our existence. Morning began with the overseers lining us up, barking orders, inspecting us like cattle, and numbering us in sharp, guttural tones. The weak, the sickly, and those too frail to work were dragged out of line and discarded—literally, just like old man Kalan had informed.

On the second day, I had watched as an elderly man, whose body sagged under the weight of his years, was yanked from the line. His protests were weak, his struggles feeble, and yet the overseer responded with a savage kick that silenced him. Without so much as a glance, they dumped his body into a dark pit. I never saw him again.

It was a brutal culling, a reminder that weakness had no place here.

After the inspections, we were marched to the mines just outside the resting pit. The gaping maw of the cave loomed like a predator, swallowing us whole as we trudged inside to work. The mines were rich with strange, glowing runes etched into the rock walls, their luminous patterns whispering secrets I couldn't decipher.

Not even I, Auriel kovran—the once-great king—knew of these runes. They were unlike anything I had ever encountered in my reign. Powerful, ancient, and brimming with energy, they hinted at a magic far beyond the common knowledge of the world I once ruled.

And yet, here they were, being hacked at by broken tools in the hands of slaves.

The work was grueling. The heat of the mines was oppressive, the air thick with dust that clawed at our lungs. My hands, once accustomed to holding a scepter and commanding legions, were now raw and blistered from wielding a pickaxe. I gritted my teeth and endured, my body screaming in protest.

When the sun finally set and we emerged from the mines, we gathered around a pathetic bonfire. Our "feast" consisted of whatever the overseers had managed to scavenge—mostly rats roasted over the flames. Sometimes, if we were particularly "fortunate" we might receive scraps of moldy bread or half-rotten vegetables.

The overseers ate separately, of course, their meals far more substantial than ours.

The night brought no rest. Instead, we worked in shifts, stumbling through the mines with broken torches and barely enough strength to stand. Every step was a test of endurance, every breath a battle against exhaustion.

But I endured.

Through the haze of labor and fatigue, I had observed much. The other slaves were nameless, stripped of any semblance of identity.

They were referred to only by their numbers or the occasional insult hurled by the overseers. This lack of individuality made them easy to control, to suppress.

It was a tactic I understood well—I had employed it myself in my reign. A nameless man has no power.

But I wasn't nameless.

I couldn't use the name I bore in my past life. That name carried too much weight, too much history. It was tied to a legacy that no longer existed. And so, I had decided on a new name. A name that would define this new chapter of my existence.

Kendrin.

It was simple, strong, and unburdened by the past. Meaning rebirth in the old tongues.

I shared it with the other slaves one evening, speaking it softly but firmly as the firelight flickered around us. They had stared at me with a mix of confusion and curiosity, their hollow eyes flickering with the faintest spark of interest. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

In just three days, I had begun to earn their trust. I spoke to them in quiet tones, asking more questions about the mines, the overseers, and our surroundings. Their answers were fragmented and often hesitant, but they painted a grim picture.

We worked for a noble, though none of them had ever seen him. The mines were his property, and we were his tools. The overseers acted with impunity, enforcing the noble's will with brutal efficiency.

The pit where we lived was surrounded by jagged cliffs, making escape nearly impossible. Beyond the cliffs lay the noble's estate, a sprawling complex that was as much a fortress as it was a mansion.

It was a bleak existence, but I had learned of one glimmer of opportunity.

The noble himself was scheduled to visit the mines tomorrow.

The announcement had spread like wildfire among the slaves, whispered in hushed tones around the bonfire. The overseers had been more irritable than usual, barking orders with renewed vigor as they prepared for the arrival of their master.

For me, this was more than just an idle curiosity.

A visit from the noble meant distractions, disruptions to the routine. It meant an opportunity to explore our surroundings while the overseers were preoccupied.

And so, as the embers of the fire died down that night, I sat alone, gazing at the faint glow of the runes in the distance.

Knowing fully well what I was about to initiate tomorrow.