[THE WAR HALL]
The banners of the kingdom fluttered slowly, as if even the wind dared not speak.
The King stood before the great stone table, where maps and reports lay scattered like paper corpses.
His face, once a mask of unyielding command, now showed faint cracks — fractures wrought by a grief poorly concealed.
"Confirm it... once more," he murmured.
The general, kneeling before him, kept his eyes lowered.
"The body of the prince was not found, but the guards swear they saw him fall from the balcony… directly into the river. The blood in the chamber… it was enough to kill two men. He would not have survived, Your Majesty."
A heavy silence settled.
The King clenched his fists.
"And the prisoner? The man in the cell?"
"Gone. No signs of forced entry, but all the guards in that wing are dead. It was a clean massacre. He... vanished like smoke."
The King walked toward the throne, the royal cape dragging across the marble floor.
His expression was that of a wounded predator — silent, but still deadly.
"An assassin who destroyed fifty soldiers with his bare hands. Who remained imprisoned for weeks, only to walk out as though he owned the fortress. And now, my son is dead. And…" — he turned to the side, his gaze piercing into nothing — "the sword… gone."
This could not be coincidence.
The King kept his eyes distant, calculating the implications.
The theft of the sword — the very sword chained in secret for centuries — was more than an affront. It was a warning.
He remembered the prophecy written upon the walls of the cell.
On that day, Cronos feared the worst and sent ten of his finest warriors to guard the temple where the sword lay.
And yet, Rael was dead.
And the sword that once rested at the heart of the temple — bound by chains since the time of kings long buried — had vanished.
The sequence was exact.
As if it had been written in blood before it ever came to pass.
Cronos closed his eyes for a moment as he reflected. It was as though he stood alone in that chamber, despite the high command and war-council gathered around him.
If the prisoner had truly broken free, had slain his heir, and had taken the profaned weapon... then the kingdom was not facing a common enemy.
"I should have killed him the very day he spoke…" the King whispered to himself, voice rough as grinding stone.
But in truth, he knew.
It was not fear of the old man that gnawed at his core.
It was the foreboding sense, that all of this had already been foretold.
Far behind, the sound of doors creaked open.
Nil entered the hall.
He wore impeccable mourning attire — a black tunic embroidered with silver. His expression bore the controlled sorrow of nobility, the kind of grief taught young among those born into crowns and courts.
Upon seeing his father lost in thought, eyes fixed upon the void, Nil stepped forward.
But a voice, heavy and commanding, stopped him mid-stride.
"You were there, Nil. In the chamber. When your brother fell."
The tone was not accusatory — and yet it cut deeper than any blade.
Nil halted. He drew a deep breath.
"I... tried, Father," he said, voice low and heavy with sorrow. "The three of us fought. I, Higor, and Rael… against a single man. An old man. But a warrior with impossible movements — as though he had eyes in all directions. He was different, Father. A warrior from another time. I fought... I tried to reach Rael, but I was pulled away."
Cronos clenched his fist. His jaw locked like stone. Nil was describing the prisoner — thus confirming the King's suspicions.
And yet, Cronos had not known his youngest son possessed such knowledge.
"Higor was wounded while trying to protect him. I... I survived only because Rael pushed me away at the last second."
Silence returned, thick and still.
Nil raised his eyes — they shimmered, perfectly, with tears. A balance of guilt, pain, and submissive grief.
"My brother was too noble. He would never allow another to take the blow meant for him. I wanted to protect him… I swear by the gods. But he chose sacrifice."
He then bowed fully, his forehead touching the cold marble floor.
"I accept any punishment, Father. Any shame. Only let me go after this man. Let me avenge him."
Cronos remained motionless for long moments. His gaze bore down upon Nil like judgment itself.
"Rise."
Nil obeyed, slowly, hesitantly.
"You failed," said the King, at last. "But you were not a coward. Your brother trusted you. And in memory of him, I too shall place my trust."
Nil kept the expression of grief, but within, his heart beat slow — controlled. Calculated.
Cronos turned then toward the banners at the far end of the war hall, where the kingdom's colors trembled under the warm light.
"Father… I swear, by the old gods and the new, I shall avenge Rael. I shall find that cursed one, and I shall make him pay for my brother's life. For everything. I will grant him a death worthy of a thousand hells."
The King looked upon his youngest son.
And in that moment — shaken by grief, overwhelmed by questions that haunted his mind — Cronos could not see the falsehood in the eyes of his own blood.
It was as though the shock had clouded his sight… and thus, his reason.
"So it shall be," he declared at last.
"I want every corner of this continent to know: the crown prince was slain. Let the world tremble at our wrath. And let not a single stone remain upon another until the sword is recovered and justice fulfilled."
[BANKS OF THE ELOREN RIVER]
The sun had already passed its zenith, warming the golden fields of the small village nestled between valleys and encircled by dense woods.
There, time moved slowly — like the chickens wandering through narrow paths, or the creaking of the old windmill as it turned.
Lyara, as on almost every day, followed the beaten dirt trail with a basket of clothes upon her hip and a cloth tied over her head, shielding her blonde hair from the sun. Her bare feet touched the earth with lightness, and the folds of her simple dress danced with the afternoon breeze.
She hummed softly an old song — one her grandmother used to sing while washing clothes by the riverbank.
She passed through a crooked wooden fence and descended the narrow slope toward the banks of the Velkar River, whose clear waters wound through the forest like strands of glass flowing between stones.
There, in a quieter bend, she would often kneel to wash the linens from the inn where she worked.
But that afternoon, something broke the sacred rhythm of her routine.
Lyara stopped suddenly, her eyes wide.
Among the reeds at the river's edge, there was a body.
She dropped the basket with a muffled thud and ran to it.
The first thing she noticed was the dried blood staining the torn fabric — the second, was that he was still breathing.
A young man, with black hair and pale skin, his body marked by the aftermath of battle.
He looked as though the river itself had swallowed him and spit him back out.
And even there, unconscious, there was something about him — a presence.
Lyara, though afraid, knelt beside him.
She touched his face with her rose-colored fingers.
"You are still alive…" she whispered, more to herself than to him.
Without hesitation, she dipped the cloth from her head into the river and began to wipe his brow.
Then, with great effort, she tried to pull him farther from the water's edge. His body was heavy, but her resolve outweighed her strength.
"Who are you?" she asked, glancing around, as if the forest itself might answer.
But the only sound was that of the river — soft, as though nothing at all had happened.
With much struggle, Lyara managed to drag the stranger's body to the shade of a tree by the riverside.
The gnarled bark of the old trunk offered some support, and she leaned him against it, letting its weight bear his back.
She sweated and panted, her arms aching — yet she uttered no complaint.
There was something in his face that made her forget her fatigue.
She knelt before him, carefully wiping the dried blood from around his eyes and jaw with the wet cloth.
For a moment, she simply remained there — watching him in silence.
Even wounded, dirty, and with a face marked by bruises, there was a beauty to him — almost cruel in its severity.
The firm jaw, the long lashes, the parted lips revealing a deep, slow breath.
His dark hair still dripped lightly, and his chest rose and fell with the weight of something trapped between sleep and death.
Then Lyara noticed it — something gleaming between the torn rags at his side.
The sword.
It lay wrapped in broken chains, embedded in the earth beside him — as though it had been cast aside, yet refused to part from its bearer.
It was beautiful in a grim way: a black blade, etched with runes that pulsed faintly red, like embers beneath ash.
She had not even seen the weapon before, so fixed had her gaze been upon the stranger's face.
Compelled by curiosity — or perhaps something deeper, something primal — she reached out her hand to touch the ornate hilt.
But before her fingers could meet the metal, a hand seized hers.
Rael's eyes opened in an instant — red with contained fury, trembling, as if something ancient and violent pressed against the edges of his vision.
For a heartbeat, he did not see Lyara.
He saw Helena. Her laughter. The betrayal.
The blade entering his back.
"You traitor," growled a hoarse voice. "You did this to me…"
Rael snarled, tightening his grip on Lyara's wrist.
She struggled to break free, but his strength was overwhelming.
"Let me go! Please, let me go! I'm not a traitor!" the girl cried out.
Rael's eyes wavered.
The vision cleared.
The face before him was no longer the one that had betrayed him… it was another.
Younger. Purer. Frightened.
He released her, and she fell backwards into the grass, shaken.
He stared at her for a few moments that stretched into eternity.
And now, his gaze was not that of a killer — but of gentleness, of sorrow.
In the next breath, Rael let his body fall back once more against the tree.
His chest rose and fell quickly now, but he spoke no further word.
He simply closed his eyes and fell again into the arms of unconsciousness, his frame collapsing under pain and exhaustion.
Lyara crawled backward, her heart pounding like war drums.
She glanced at the sword one final time — and felt, even from afar, the dark warmth it radiated.
She turned and ran.
She ran as though the forest itself might shelter her from that unknown boy… the one who had emerged from the river like an omen.