Author's Preface
The world came back to Alexious in fragments—cold air against his skin, a low hum like thunder beneath the earth, and the faint drip of water echoing in the dark.
He tried to move, but ropes dug deep into his wrists, binding him to a chair carved from black stone. The air was heavy—too heavy to breathe—and when he opened his mouth to shout, something unseen pressed against his lips, smothering his voice.
A whisper cut through the silence.“Alexious…”
It came from everywhere and nowhere—a voice so ancient it sounded like the wind itself had learned to speak.
He strained against his bonds. “Who’s there?”
A shape moved in the corner, cloaked in shadow. Two eyes burned faintly crimson.
“You seek the shadows,” the voice hissed, “and in doing so, you summon destiny.”
A faint tremor rippled through the ground. The air shimmered, and the darkness began to twist into form—an ethereal woman draped in black silk, her hair flowing like smoke, her eyes red as the dying sun. When she spoke again, her words echoed like a thousand voices layered into one.
“I am Ishtar,” she said. “Queen of Darkness. Mother of the Blood Moon. Keeper of the Veil between Light and Nothingness.”
Alexious’s breath caught in his chest. Every instinct screamed to bow, yet his body refused to move.
“You carry the blood of the forgotten kings,” Ishtar continued, her tone both gentle and cruel. “But your heart seeks vengeance more than peace. That hunger makes you… useful .”
The ropes around him began to glow faintly.
“What do you want from me?” he whispered.
A thin smile curved her lips. “A great threat rises in the East. The god of light— Dayrum —gathers his strength. Slay him, and bring me his head. When the prophesied child becomes a man, your name shall be sung in the tongues of dragons. You will rise as my champion—the dragon of Ishtar.”
“I—slay a god?” Alexious choked out.
“Do you not crave power?” Her voice thundered now, shaking the stone walls. “Do you not wish to avenge your ancestors, who burned beneath his light?”
Images flashed through Alexious’s mind—flames consuming cities, men falling to their knees in prayer before being turned to ash, his homeland swallowed in holy fire.
Ishtar’s shadow drew closer, her hand grazing his cheek. The touch was cold enough to numb the soul.
“Bring me Dayrum’s head,” she whispered. “And I shall give you the power to end the Age of Light. When the moon bleeds, you will know the time has come.”
Her form began to fade, leaving only her eyes, glowing like dying embers.
Then the pain struck—a searing flash that split his skull in two. He screamed, and the world went dark.
When Alexious awoke, he was back beside the campfire in the cave. His men were still asleep, unaware of the terror that had just passed. His skin glistened with sweat.
He stepped outside, the night air cutting like knives against his face.
“Dayrum,” he muttered, the name foreign yet familiar on his tongue. “The god of light… a myth… and yet…”
He stared toward the horizon, where the moon hung half-shrouded in cloud. “If the witches speak the truth, then war will come sooner than we dream.”
He turned back into the cave and spoke with quiet resolve. “At dawn, we march to Lyria. Darkness gathers, and the age of men fades. The pirates and witches will rise—and the world will burn anew.”
Far across the continent, lightning split the sky above Somaria’s capital. Inside the marble corridors of the royal castle, servants hurried to light the torches as thunder rattled the stained glass.
In the King’s private chamber, Minister Barco knelt before the throne, scrolls spread across the table.
King Bencort stood by the window, watching the storm with his hands clasped behind his back. His face was drawn with worry, the weight of prophecy pressing heavily upon him.
“Barco,” he said, his voice low but steady. “Have you prepared the royal convoy?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Barco replied, his tone careful. “But the storm is fierce. It would be wise to wait until dawn. The roads to Toleem may flood.”
The King turned sharply, his cloak sweeping across the marble floor. “I will not wait while destiny unfolds beyond my reach. That child in Toleem carries the fate of men in his blood. We ride tonight.”
Barco hesitated. “My King, the guards fear the winds—”
“Then let them fear me more!” Bencort roared, slamming his hand onto the table. The candles flickered wildly, their flames bending toward him as if the storm itself bowed.
Barco bowed deeply. “As you command, Majesty. I shall see it done.”
When he was gone, the King stood in silence for a moment, his breath uneven. He turned toward the grand doors of his chamber and called softly, “Aromophies.”
The Queen entered, her presence quiet yet commanding. Her skin shimmered like midnight bronze, her long hair streaked with white that gleamed under the candlelight. Her eyes—deep violet—seemed to see far beyond the room.
“You summon me, my King?” she said.
Bencort softened at the sight of her. “We depart for Toleem. The prophesied child must be seen. I will not let whispers decide the fate of my throne.”
Aromophies approached slowly, her expression unreadable. “You mean our throne,” she corrected gently. “And yes, I am ready. The bloodlines of Somaria and Toleem are bound by fate. That child’s destiny is mine to guard.”
The King studied her, his gaze heavy with both respect and unease. “Tell me, Aromophies—do you believe in prophecy?”
She looked toward the window, where the rain beat against the glass like drumming fingers. “I believe in choices disguised as fate,” she murmured. “But I also know when the gods start whispering, mortals have already lost their silence.”
He said nothing. She turned back to him with a calm smile. “Let us go, then. The storm will not wait.”
Moments later, Minister Barco returned, bowing low. “Your Majesty, the carriage is ready.”
Bencort nodded once. “Then we ride.”
The royal convoy departed the castle under a sky trembling with thunder, vanishing into the sheets of rain.
Meanwhile, miles away in Toleem, a quiet home burned faintly with the glow of firelight.
Arthus stepped through the doorway under the cover of darkness, his cloak soaked from the storm. Disguised as a farmer, he looked almost unrecognizable.
“Welcome home,” said a voice.
It was Artien , standing by the hearth, a familiar warmth in his eyes. He crossed the room in two strides and clasped his friend’s arm.
“Thank you, Artien,” Arthus said softly. “For keeping this place safe.”
Artien smiled. “You’re family. What harms you, harms me.”
From the bedroom came Elena’s gentle hum as she lulled little Marvin to sleep. The sound filled the small home with peace—a fragile thing in such times.
“So the King himself rides to Toleem,” Artien said, worry flickering in his tone.
“Yes,” Arthus replied, lowering his hood. “And with him, danger. No one must know who we are, or who the child is. For now, I’m David—a farmer helping you with chores. The villagers must stay silent.”
“They already know,” Artien said. “And they’ve agreed. Marvin’s name will not pass their lips.”
Relief washed over Arthus. “Thank you.”
Artien smirked. “But since you’re a farmer now, I’ll need you working fourteen hours a day. No slacking.”
Arthus blinked, momentarily horrified, until Artien burst into laughter. “Relax, I’m joking. Mostly.”
They both laughed quietly. In that brief moment, the storm outside felt distant—like a story told about another world.