[EAST TOWER OF THE CASTLE OF CRONOS]
The wind blew cold at the heights of the tower. From the weather-darkened stone parapet, one could see the entire horizon beyond the castle's main gates. The kingdom below was still awake, but slowly the glow of torches began to replace the fading might of twilight.
Helena leaned against the stone ledge, arms crossed, her blue dress swaying gently with the breeze. Her golden hair was gathered in an elegant coiffure. Her blue eyes watched the royal procession in the distance as if observing a meticulously choreographed play.
Down below, the royal guard rode out through the gates. Crimson cloaks fluttered in the wind, banners held high, spears pointed skyward like promises of justice. The sound of armor echoed through the cobbled streets, greeted with a mix of respect and fear by the townsfolk.
Higor arrived behind her, his footsteps as loud as ever. He stopped at her side, staring into the same horizon.
"They're riding out as if they already know where to look," he said, scowling.
"They're chasing a symbol," Helena replied without shifting her gaze. "Someone to cover for Nil's sins."
Higor exhaled sharply through his nose.
"And ours as well," he added, his eyes returning to the road that vanished into the distance.
He kept his gaze fixed on the spot where the soldiers had disappeared. His fists rested on the parapet, knuckles white. Helena noticed.
"You still think about them?" she asked, her tone gentle, almost intimate.
"I was seven when the banner of Cronos burned above our palace. You were crying behind the curtains. Our father was beheaded in the square. And even then, they forced our mother to kneel. The great queen of Vireon bent like a servant."
Helena lowered her eyes. It was not a new story to her, but every time she heard Higor relive it, she felt the weight he bore.
"They gave us uniforms," he continued. "Called it honor. Training. Royal education. But we were nothing more than pets—living reminders to the other realms of what awaited those who dared to defy 'The Great Kingdom of Cronos.'"
Helena stepped closer, placing her hand gently on her brother's arm.
"I know," she said. "That's why we had to do it. We seized the chance."
"It's true," Higor nodded. "But it still haunts me. Not like the sting of a sword, but something deeper—something inside me that says I did wrong."
"You're speaking of Rael?" Helena asked.
"He was the only decent one. The only one who saw me as a man, not as a trophy of the throne."
"But it was necessary," Helena replied. "He was a good king—but sitting on the wrong throne. And that still made him our enemy. Even with a kind heart, he would have been bound to uphold the traditions of Cronos."
"I would have preferred Rael as king over Nil."
"But Nil will never be king," Helena declared. "Nil is useful. Insecure enough to lean on me, arrogant enough to believe he commands something. Let him think he rules. He will be the torch that lights the fire from within."
"You plan to use him?"
"We plan to," she corrected. "Together, we will tear this kingdom out by the roots. Cronos will fall through ruin, through famine, through doubt and lies. An empire rotting in its own glory."
Higor looked at her with silent admiration. For the first time in many years, he felt they were close to justice—even if it came cloaked in vengeance.
Outside, the sky darkened. But for the two siblings of a fallen realm, the dawn of war was only just beginning.
[ELOREN]
Rael, now dressed in the humble garments Lyara had left for him, rose from the riverbank. His eyes were heavy with lack of sleep, but his purpose burned clear; and within him, more than ever, the flame of rage remained lit, fed by every beat of his heart.
He moved through trees and stones, gliding like a shadow along the village's edge. The sun had barely risen when he reached the mayor's house—a sturdy construction of stone and wood, built to impose authority over the humbler homes around it. Gravel paths led to a small front porch, and on the side, a poorly sealed window offered an opening. It was through there that Rael slipped, silent and watchful, as implacable as the dawn wind that cuts without mercy.
He entered.
Inside, the place reeked of stale drink and dust. The floor creaked faintly beneath his controlled steps.
Room by room, Rael searched. Yellowed papers, account books, royal notices, even an updated map of the kingdom's tax collection routes. He would be leaving this village by nightfall, and he intended to take every useful scrap of information to fuel his plan for vengeance.
All signs pointed to the fact that the Kingdom of Cronos would arrive sooner than expected—mere days, not weeks. The crown prince's death had sparked a wave of retribution across the realm.
Now, Cronos seemed poised to conquer the world with an iron fist heavier than ever before. Rael had to leave—before anyone from the kingdom saw him. He knew that even if found, returning to the capital would mean death. Or worse—death before ever reaching it.
Everything etched itself into the sharp memory forged by years of training. But then, as he passed one of the half-open doors in the eastern wing of the house, he stopped.
There, on the floor, kneeling beside a bucket of warm water and a rag, was Lyara.
Awake at this hour?
She was whispering a melody—the kind mothers sing to fevered children—while scrubbing the floor with quiet dedication. Her hair was tied beneath a scarf, her face partially revealed. The bruise was still there, reddish beneath the pale fabric.
At the sight of her, Rael felt a brief moment of stillness—an unfamiliar, disarming peace. His pain vanished, if only for a breath. The sword at his side grew quiet. For the first time in days, he felt none of its trembling, none of the dark pulse that stirred his wrath.
Duty reminded him he was here for a purpose. Information. Strategy. Revenge. And yet, his eyes lingered on her from behind the safety of a shelf. The sight struck him in a strange way. Rael was a man forged in war, betrayed by blood, cast from the summit of the world—yet here he was, frozen by the image of a young woman scrubbing the floor.
Part of him wanted to leave as silently as he had come. Another part wanted to step forward and say something.
Lyara remained kneeling, scrubbing with slow, careful motions, even as her knees ached and her hands wore thin from the task. The house was still, broken only by the soft friction of cloth on wood and the gentle melody escaping her lips like a prayer.
Then suddenly, she felt something strange—a shift in the air. She turned her head and caught, just for an instant, the glimpse of a figure she knew well, a presence she had studied more than any other. But the vision lasted only a heartbeat, like the flicker of lightning.
The creak of wood startled her—the sound of someone heavier, someone crude. She froze as the shadow of the mayor stretched across the wall before he even entered the room.
When she registered his arrival, she turned again toward the space where she thought she'd seen the silhouette—but there was nothing. Maybe it had been her imagination, a phantom born from obsession. Perhaps she was thinking too much about the stranger. But it didn't matter. She had bigger problems now.
The mayor wore only an open shirt and loose trousers, his hair disheveled and eyes swollen from yet another night of drink. His expression was the same as always—a mask of boredom, disdain, and bitterness.
"You're already at it, little slug?" he growled, voice thick even this early in the day.
Lyara didn't answer. She lowered her head further, hastening her cleaning.
"Funny... so obedient, huh? So helpful," he said, walking aimlessly through the room, drumming his fingers on the table. "You really think you're fooling anyone?"
She bit her lip, remaining silent.
"You know what I think? I think this village is cursed." He stopped behind her. "Mediocre people, living off dust and pretending it's a community. And you… you're just a living reminder that everything here reeks of failure."
She flinched, subtly.
"If it weren't for the fact that these people adore you, I'd have sent you away years ago. But no, right? Poor little orphan. Daughter of those two useless fools who dumped this miserable responsibility on me." He gave the bucket a light kick, splashing water. "They gave you to me like some kind of gift. 'Here, take care of her.' But no one takes care of me, do they?"
Lyara turned her face away, struggling to maintain her composure.
"I'm only here," he went on, drawing closer, "because being your guardian gives me respect. Gives me status. 'Oh, the mayor's such a good man, he's raising the child of the couple who died.'" He gave a dry laugh. "They have no idea how much I wish I were far away from this place. And maybe I will be, if I'm lucky…"
She tried to stand, but he pressed a hand lightly against her shoulder, forcing her back down.
"Don't even think about leaving," he said, his tone now lower, almost threatening. "You've already got one mark—you don't need another. I'm the only one giving you shelter, food… and a shred of purpose in that worthless little life of yours."
She didn't react. She didn't look at him. She just went back to scrubbing, faster now, eyes brimming but refusing to shed a single tear.
"That's it, clean that floor. Clean this whole damn mess. Go on, you filthy little wretch. Show the world what a good girl you are."
He turned and staggered off, leaving behind the sour stench of drink and words heavier than blows. Lyara remained there, unmoving, until she heard his footsteps fade down the corridor. Only then did she breathe deeply, holding back the sob that clawed at her throat.
No one saw Lyara's suffering—no one but the mayor himself. And yet, sharp eyes were watching every entrance and exit of that house.
Leaning on the windowsill of his room, the scribe observed the mayor's house with a gaze steeped in contempt, bitterness—and rage.
The sky still bore the deep hue of early morning when the scribe set down his clay mug on the windowsill and propped his elbows there, scanning Eloren as he always did, searching for any news, any ripple outside the routine. And above all, anything that could implicate the mayor.
That was when he saw it—a shadow slipping silently from the mayor's house.
It wasn't uncommon for the fat old brute to sneak around at odd hours, but this was different. This figure moved with precision and care, like someone who knew the terrain… or feared being seen. The distant lantern light cut across the figure just long enough to outline the shape: tall, lean, steps too quick and deliberate to be the mayor's lazy shuffling gait.
The scribe narrowed his eyes.
"It's him…" he muttered, throat suddenly dry.
For a moment, he considered staying put, safe. But then he felt the weight of his own words—the weight of his own cowardice—press hard against his chest. The memory of his plea still echoed in his mind: "Kill the mayor." And he had turned it down. But if that man was truly dangerous… maybe he was the key to something greater.
He threw on a dark coat, retrieved an old dagger hidden deep in his trunk, and left.
He descended the stone alleys like an old cat, with care and silence. He knew where the boards creaked, where the mud sank, and where the shadows offered cover.
The night swallowed him easily. The roads of Eloren seemed darker than usual—not for lack of moonlight, but for the strange certainty in his gut that by following this man, he was walking away forever from his quiet, predictable life.
But some part of him wanted that. Maybe for a long time now.
And with that part burning hot in his chest—he followed the shadow.
Unaware that the shadow could hear him.