Region 2
Prince Jaden's Residence...
The sun had barely risen over the marbled towers of Region 2 when two half-dead, dirt-caked spies stumbled through the gilded iron gates of Prince Jaden's royal compound. Their boots were shredded, their cloaks torn like old napkins, and their eyes—well, their eyes told stories that no bard would dare put to song.
It had taken them forty days to reach here from El'dan city in Region 32. Forty long days of paid horse rides, sneaking onto merchant wagons, sprinting through sandstorms, dodging toll guards, surviving off goat milk and dried mushrooms, and collapsing under trees like hunted prey. If determination had a smell, these two reeked of it—and goat sweat.
Their hearts thudded like drums of war as they reached the final chamber door. With trembling hands, they knocked.
Ko-ko-ko.
A beat. Then a female voice, velvet-wrapped in irritation, called from within:
"Who dares disturb the prince's peace?"
It was Princess Jerusha, as irritable as a cat soaked in rainwater.
"We bring reconnaissance, my lady!" one of the spies gasped, barely keeping himself upright.
From behind the door came a loud, unmistakable scoff.
"You reconnaissance-bringing vermin. You're nothing but a walking disappointment and a mess of bad timing."
There was a pause. Then the sound of her disinterest clattered like dropped pearls as she turned her focus back to the mysterious glowing instrument in her hand. Probably something dangerous. Or broken. Or both.
Inside, Prince Jaden was lounging on a divan shaped like a giant silver swan, sipping herbal tea and wearing a silk robe embroidered with fireflies. At the sound of "reconnaissance," he sat up with the enthusiasm of a child on festival morning.
"Enter! Quickly! What's happening in Region 32? Has the Black Dragon destroyed the manticores? Any word of the Scarlet Raven?" he asked, his voice sharp with curiosity.
The door creaked open, and the spies limped in like men returning from war—only without honour or glory. Just trauma. Jerusha's gaze snapped toward them for one scathing second, and she clicked her tongue.
"Listen to their feet," she muttered. "Clomp clomp clomp. Like old bakers on market day. Even though Jeremy is also a nuisance, at least he has some skill, compared to you worthless lumps. Jeremy would have floated in. Feather Walk Level 9. You wouldn't even hear the wind complain." She shook her head in disgust and went back to fiddling with her arcane tool.
Prince Jaden's eyes flicked from one broken spy to the other.
"Where is Jeremy?" he asked with sudden sharpness. "He should be leading this report."
The room grew cold.
One of the spies, Curt—he still had a leaf stuck in his hair—swallowed hard and stepped forward.
"That… is one of the things we came to report, my lord. Jeremy is… dead."
There was a silence so deep, even the wind outside dared not blow.
Curt continued with the urgency of a man about to be beheaded:
"He was obliterated, my prince. By the Black Dragon himself. We don't know what he did to the rest of the spies, but we're certain—they won't return the same. If they return at all."
Prince Jaden froze. His smile vanished like sugar in stormwater.
"…You mean to say…" he said slowly, "…the Black Dragon killed Jeremy?"
"Yes, my lord," Curt said, bowing so low he looked like he was trying to kiss the floor. "Turned him into a puddle of flesh pudding. One moment he was floating—next moment, there was only his left boot. It bounced, my lord. Bounced."
Jerusha chuckled darkly from the corner.
"Serves him right. Arrogant feather-dancer. That's for interrupting me last month during council with my brother—told you karma was a better assassin than any of your spies, brother."
Prince Jaden ignored her. His hands gripped the edge of his tea table.
"Explain. Every detail. Now."
Curt and his companion exchanged a glance, then took turns explaining:
Two groups of spies. One ahead, one behind.
The Black Dragon and his generals fought off the manticores.
The Manticore King appeared. Chaos ensued.
The Black Dragon accessed a power none of them could describe—something ancient, divine, terrifying.
The Manticore King died. Horribly.
They returned to the mountain's base. The spies got spotted.
The Black Dragon… entered that state.
Jeremy tried to escape. He became an example.
The rest… something happened. They didn't wait to find out.
"We ran, my lord," Curt finished, voice hoarse. "We ran like our future children depended on it."
A long pause.
Then CRACK!—Prince Jaden's fist slammed the table. The teacup flew, crashing against the wall. Jerusha didn't even flinch. She merely sighed and wiped specks of tea from her sleeve.
"My best spy… my irreplaceable Jeremy…" Prince Jaden growled. "He mapped four forbidden cities. He infiltrated the Council of Nine disguised as a broomstick vendor. And now he's mush?"
Jerusha didn't even look up. "Should've disguised as a tree."
The prince stood abruptly. "You may leave," he barked at the spies.
They turned to go, nearly falling over each other in relief—until his voice cut the air again.
"Wait."
They froze mid-step.
"What of the Scarlet Raven?"
They exchanged nervous glances.
"There is… no knowledge of the Scarlet Raven, my prince."
Jerusha let out a derisive snort. "Figures. Can't even find a bird in a burning forest."
Prince Jaden flopped back into his seat, a man torn between mourning and murder.
He waved them off with the grace of a sulking dragon.
"Get out of my sight."
The spies didn't wait for further blessing. They practically dove out the door, grateful just to still be alive.
Left alone, Prince Jaden pressed his fingertips together, eyes gleaming with fury.
"What a loss," he muttered. "Jeremy was the eye I never had..."
He stood slowly, voice hardening. "If I find the Black Dragon… I'll shatter that bastard into powder and breathe him in like incense."
Behind him, Jerusha finally looked up.
"That was poetic. You've been reading mother's war journals again, haven't you?"
Prince Jaden didn't answer.
He was already thinking. Planning. Plotting vengeance.