Casting a crimson glow, the setting sun transformed the White City into a breathtaking sight. Smoke spiraled from the white brick chimneys of the industrial district, mingling with the distinct clang of metal and the rhythmic drumming of machines. The wet streets shimmered under the humid air, thick with the tension blowing in from the nearby coast.

Prince Chandler stood poised in a shadowy alley, sword drawn and pistol ready at his belt. His Ebonreach military uniform, a proud blend of reds and blacks, marked him apart from the others. His olive complexion and dark hair contrasted with his pale red cape, signifying his high rank. Ivory-colored trousers and tall brown boots completed his attire, while his shoulder-length black hair framed his rugged face, accentuated by a neatly trimmed goatee.

He cast a glance at Armand and his group of Witch Hunters, their elaborate coats adorned with steam-powered, magical weaponry. Pistols, ropes, and grappling hooks, each device inscribed with colorful, glimmering runes. Feathered hats, goggles, and gas masks added to their formidable appearance.

Chandler’s heart raced as his eyes scanned the area for any movement. Seeing Armand’s calm demeanor brought him some solace. Though not his first time assisting the Witch Hunters, the nerves never faded, given their enemy.

Armand, lithe and enigmatic, held a communicator radio, a device that used wind magic to transmit voices through the air. His light navy blue suit, accompanied by a light green vest and white cravat, created a striking contrast against his dark auburn curls, which he attempted to control with a coordinating band. A strip of cloth covered his left eye, adding a mysterious allure. His deep, anticipatory voice, tinged with a Mystrian accent, whispered into the radio.

“Magus to Boulder, status.”

The radio crackled before a response came through. “Boulder to Magus, secure.”

Armand nodded. “Proceed with the operation.”

“Copy.”

Chandler felt his breath hitch in his throat as he watched. His grip on his sword and pistol tightened.

Two hunters stood by the building entrance, ready for action. The building itself was dark and dilapidated, with pipes hanging precariously. One of the two at the front stepped forward, using his elemental magic to ignite a smoke bomb and toss it through a broken pane of glass. They waited.

A palpable sense of unease settled over the area, broken only by the sound of figures emerging from the nearby building.

The shadows took form and men wearing strange white porcelain masks appeared. As the traps fired, ropes wrapped around their bodies. They wore a variety of masks: some resembling plague doctors, while others had eagle motifs on heavily armored men. Their black robes, hoods, and coifs covered their entire skin, stained with blood and adorned with colorful accessories. They also wore clawed gloves and wielded weapons based on their masks. Most had rapiers, but those in eagle masks carried axes, chains, and whips.

One of them escaped their bounds, and a hunter channeled a spell. Vines went flying out as the Zealot faded into shadow. Intertwined branches covered the man as he transformed from a mist-like shadow into a solid form. The branches kept him from escaping. The hunter finished the spell, binding him to the ground.

A second set of shadows appeared behind the previous group. The hunters sprinted in their direction, firing off specialty ammunition infused with magic. The bullets struck their targets, freezing their feet into place.

A last rush of shadows came leaping from the building, twice the size of the previous two. Zealots and hunters clashed in battle. Spells and blades flew across the sky, and magical bullets filled the air. The hunters held their own, maintaining a steady stream of attacks.

A Zealot lunged toward Chandler. His rapier gleamed in the sunlight, claws poised for attack. Chandler swiftly parried the oncoming strike, the clash of steel resonating through the air. With lightning speed, he retaliated, delivering a forceful jab to the Zealot’s face, his knuckles connecting with a satisfying thud.

Ducking beneath a vicious swipe of razor-sharp claws, Chandler seized the opportunity to strike. His sword found its mark, piercing the Zealot’s leg, and causing him to crumple to the ground in agony. But the battle was not yet over.

In a violent collision, another zealot crashed into the fray, the impact reverberating through their bodies. Engaged in a deadly dance, they traded blows. Chandler’s boot connected with the Zealot’s side, sending him sprawling to the ground, momentarily incapacitated.

Seizing the advantage, Chandler drove his sword with unyielding strength through the Zealot’s stomach. The sickening sound of flesh being pierced echoed as the Zealot’s pained groan filled the air.

Armand’s hand shot up, his fingers curling in an incantation that set the air crackling with energy. In a swift motion, the spell materialized, conjuring thick vines that snaked and twisted through the air. With a purposeful grace, they ensnared the Zealots, their writhing tendrils entangling the attackers and dragging them to the earth. As the chaos subsided, Armand’s lips curled into a satisfied grin, his remaining eye sparkling with amusement. “You’ve got quite the knack for this.”

Chandler glanced at Armand as he recovered. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

The hunters quickly captured the Zealots, who stood no chance against their spells, technology, and long-established techniques. They were about to take them away for questioning when one broke loose from his bindings.

Chandler fired his pistol, striking the man. He faded, dissolving into mist.

Armand growled. “Dammit, they’re clones. I should have known they were simulacrums. My biggest regret is creating the spell that brought them to life.”

Chandler gazed at Armand. “Clones?”

Armand nodded. “Yes, a spell I made for the dark King, Lucien, before my rebellion. I never handed it off to him, however. It seems the remaining Zealots have found it, which might explain their spike in numbers recently.”

Chandler frowned, but movement pulled his attention away.

The witch hunters used magical chains to restrain the Zealots, preventing them from teleporting or shadow-stepping. The glow of the runes fascinated Chandler so much that he almost forgot to call off the support of the waiting Imperial troops. He pulled out a radio.

“Targets eliminated. Stand down,” he said.

“Roger,” a voice echoed in response.

Armand turned to Chandler, walking over with the help of his cane, leaning into it as he did. A small smirk spread across Armand’s lips. His sapphire eye looked at the alleyway opening with an approving nod.

“Thank you, Prince Chandler. Ebonreach’s cooperation in Mystria’s efforts to track down the Zealots has been a monumental asset in our campaign to end this threat. It’s a shame they have escaped the north and come into your country when we are on the verge of eliminating Lucien’s followers.”

“Ebonreach has long backed Mystria’s efforts. I regret not being able to help more.”

Armand nodded. “Nonsense. Your help today was invaluable. I’m grateful we did not have to rely on your troops, but their presence alone assisted us.”

“It’s not a problem,” Chandler said.

“Have there been more reports of Zealot activity within the city?” Armand asked.

“The activity has been pretty isolated around the industrial district, with occasional reports popping up in small segments around the city. We believe their numbers are still small, judging by the scarcity of reports,”

“We will get the remaining Zealots soon enough.”

“Indeed.”

Armand smiled and walked over to Chandler. The two exchanged a firm handshake.

“Now that is concluded, don’t we have a celebration to attend?” Armand asked.

***

The palace buzzed with the fervor of celebration as evening descended. With the sun long gone and the moon rising high, a cool breeze swept through the gardens, carrying the scents of night-blooming flowers and fresh-cut grass into the grand hall. The palace, the tallest building in the city, gleamed under the moonlight, its white bricks shimmering like diamonds.

Inside, the grand hall was a spectacle of light and sound. Giant glass windows lined the walls, reflecting the glittering chandeliers overhead that cast a mesmerizing dance of light and shadow across the room. The air was thick with laughter and the clinking of glasses as people in their finest attire filled the room. Extravagant food and drink adorned the tables, and a brass band played a lively tune that got feet tapping.

A massive fireplace, nearly spanning the length of one wall, roared with a blazing fire. The flames leaped and twirled, casting a warm, flickering glow that mingled with the cool moonlight. The head table at the room’s center showcased a feast fit for royalty. King Tiberius sat in the head, his presence commanding respect. Beside him were Chandler, his wife Laila, their young son Aiden, and Marcus. Armand, seated on the King’s right, savored the meal and fine wine with a contented smile. Members of the imperial council, their faces a mix of delight and intrigue, occupied the remaining seats.

Chandler, dressed in his formal military uniform, exuded a regal air. His medals clinked softly as he moved, and his sword, an ornate piece, hung at his belt. He tied back his long hair, revealing a face that was both rugged and refined. He turned to his wife, Laila, his grin broadening with pure joy.

Her lithe figure, wrapped in a dark red dress that combined various patterns and textures, returned his smile. The dress fluttered gracefully in the breeze from the open windows, accentuating her every movement. Her sun tattoos, symbols of her Solaran heritage, glowed faintly in the firelight. Her chestnut hair cascaded in luscious waves down her back, and her warm brown eyes sparkled with affection.

Aiden, their two-year-old son, sat between them, a perfect blend of his parents’ features. His resemblance to Chandler was uncanny, though his skin carried the same sun-kissed hue as his mother’s. He giggled as he reached for a piece of fruit, his innocent joy a stark contrast to the surrounding grandeur.

Chandler poured himself and Marcus a set of drinks as he glanced at his friend.

Standing tall, emanating strength and power, his lineage traced back to the Khalarim, a rich cultural heritage clear of his distinctive features. His warm, dark sun-kissed complexion complemented his black hair, styled in dreadlocks pulled back into a ponytail. Marcus’ turbulent history left its mark on his skin, scars etched like battle-worn stories of resilience. He wore an impeccably tailored suit adorned with tasteful accents of brown and green, embodying a refined elegance that matched his commanding presence.

He passed the fine crystal glass off to his best friend, a wide grin on his features. “You ready for the tournament tomorrow?

“Me worried? Waiting for me to wipe the floor with you?” Marcus asked.

Chandler grinned, shaking his head.

“Not really. You?”

Marcus laughed.

“No. I’ll enjoy handing your ass to you when we’re both in the final.”

Chandler couldn’t hold back his chuckling.

“You wish! I got this.”

They clinked their glasses and drank.

The king stood from his place at the table, intending to make a speech. He raised his glass as he addressed the crowd. His long gray hair pulled back loosely behind his shoulders, although there were hints of some of the remaining ebony color in places. He wore a military uniform adorned to denote his status as a king.

“It is an honor to have you all here tonight. It can only flatter me you have come to the palace to celebrate the anniversary of my taking the throne of Ebonreach. Some might say fifty years is too long a time to be leading a country, but it has been an absolute pleasure to be your king, and I thank all of you for allowing me to continue to be your leader for that long.”

There were some soft chuckles as the king’s voice was jovial.

“We share this celebration tonight also to honor our Mystrian friends for their victory over the dark king five years past. Ebonreach has always maintained and supported Armand and his New Mystria in moving towards a brighter and more peaceful future with Lucien’s fall. We will always stand united in the face of adversity,”

Tiberius added before taking a sip from his glass of wine. “Armand, if you have words, please speak them.”

The king looked across the table at Armand, who nodded politely. Armand wore a more elaborate suit than the one he had on before, which was distinctly Mystrian in style, with added ruffles, beads, and even a feather or two in places. He used his cane to assist him in standing as he addressed those in the room.

“Thank you, your majesty. It is an honor to be here with you today. I would like to congratulate you on your reign. It has been a privilege to serve with you these last five years. You have guided us through a difficult period of history, and I am proud to call myself your colleague and friend.”

Chandler’s face lit up with a warm smile as he locked eyes with his old friend. The memory of their first encounter flooded his mind - it had been four years ago, when Chandler’s unit had come to Armand’s aid after the rebellion.

“I’d like to finish my toast with the announcement that we have recently completed construction on a massive new research facility in the city’s center. This will allow us to continue our collaboration with the Ebonreach engineers and help them advance steam technology with new magical techniques that are cleaner and use less energy than traditional coal and steam. We will see great things ahead for both of our peoples.”

The room erupted into applause. Armand looked satisfied and returned to his seat.

The king raised his wine glass a final time.

“I thank you once again for attending. I look forward to seeing what the next half-century brings us. The evening will continue with fireworks and dancing to follow. Tomorrow, the celebrations kick off in the arena with a tournament of duals planned to take place. My son, the Crown Prince, will participate in my honor. I hope you all enjoy the festivities!”

There were some gasps and murmurs at the news, and Chandler couldn’t hold his laugh. He felt a little flustered by the announcement. He rubbed the back of his head.

Laila nudged him playfully. Marcus laughed.

A cheer rose from the guests, and the festivities continued.

Armand smiled at Chandler. “I’ll be watching, my friend. Don’t disappoint me.”

Chandler smirked, taking a drink.

“I never do.”

When dinner finished, Chandler, Laila, Marcus, and Armand wandered to the bar. Laila handed Aiden to his nursemaid as they did, who took the boy to bed.

Fireworks erupted above the castle. In the night sky, the loud booms rang out in a series of reds and greens. It reminded Chandler of the chaos of battle. He gazed up and admired the sight. He used to be dazzled by fireworks when he was younger, but hardly ever attended them anymore.

Armand requested scotch for all of them, yet Laila declined. “Sorry, one on the way, I need to skip.”

A look of surprise crossed Armand’s features. “Oh, I was not aware, Prince Chandler did not inform me.”

Chandler chuckled. “It’s recent, still not quite sunk in, yet. We have not told many as she’s early in her pregnancy.”

“Nothing official,” Laila said. “We will soon though.”

Armand clinked his glass with them all and nodded. “Still, congratulations. May your family prosper.”

“Thanks, I hope it will.”

Marcus appeared, his massive form leaning heavily onto him as if he intended to weigh his friend down in the action. “Can you believe this shithead raising children? I cannot wait to meet my godson or goddaughter when they get here,” Marcus said. “In all seriousness, congratulations to you both. This calls for a few more drinks. To the Shithead and his beautiful wife and their children!”

Armand snorted his scotch, nearly hacking it up at the proclamation. Marcus patted his back, causing him to choke even more. He covered his cough in a napkin and his expression was comical.

Chandler could barely suppress his laughter. He felt Laila laughing and buried his face in her neck to control himself.

Armand recovered. He glanced at Marcus, slightly annoyed, but kept a smile on his face. “Ah, well, my dear friends, the injuries from my battle with Lucien cause me to tire more easily than I would prefer. I bid you good night.”

With a nod of respect, he made his way out of the grand ballroom and out of sight with his cane tapping with every step.

After he was gone, Laila laughed. “Radiant sun, did you see his face?”

Chandler snickered, but he attempted to reign in his laughter. “Hey, give him a break, he may be serious all the time, but he’s got a lot of heaviness on his heart. I suspect he lost a lot during that rebellion, on top of his injuries. You never get over scars like that.”

“How did he lose his eye, I wonder?” Laila asked.

Marcus interjected. “Come on, none of our business, let’s get those drinks!”

Marcus, Laila, and Chandler reveled deep into the night, their laughter echoing through the dimly lit hall. As the hours ticked by, the once bustling room gradually emptied. The flickering lights illuminated their joyous faces, while the distant sound of music filled the space, creating a vibrant atmosphere. The lingering scent of alcohol and perfume mingled, adding an intoxicating allure to the festivities.

Abruptly, a fleeting shadow slithered across the balcony, catching his attention.

Chandler looked up and saw a figure standing there. He blinked, trying to see who it was. It was too dark. He looked over at Laila and Marcus. Neither of them had seen the figure as they argued over a trivial matter.

He walked onto the balcony, looking around. Nothing was there, but he was certain he had seen something. It wasn’t like the Zealots; it looked different. Maybe the events from earlier in the day were still affecting him.

Marcus and Laila noticed nothing wrong and continued talking and laughing.

He lit a cigarette. It helped clear his mind, as it always did. He breathed out smoke. He felt a chill run through him as he looked up and saw the shadow above him. Momentarily, he stood there and blinked while they stared at each other.

Finally, a woman materialized from the shadow sitting upon a buttress above him. She wore a close-fitting green suit coat over a tight pair of trousers, a large feathered hat, a thick cloak, and, most notably, a porcelain mask painted to resemble a sparrow’s visage covering her face. Her entire outfit seemed to suggest an older Mystrian design.

“Good evening, Prince Chandler.”

Chandler noticed a heavy Mystrian accent, further supporting her origin.

“Sorry, did you need something?”

“I’ve brought a warning and some guidance. Darkness is returning. There will be an attack soon. Follow the light’s beckon.”

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

“How soon?”

She moved to answer, but her head jerked to the side as she caught sight of something. She cursed loudly in Mystrian.

“I cannot speak any further. Very soon.”

She stood up from her perch above him, leaped off, and disappeared into shadow.

Chandler could only blink as the information sank into his mind. After a moment, he sensed he wasn’t alone on the balcony.

Marcus stood next to him.

“Sharing is caring,” Marcus said.

Chandler happily shared a cigarette with him. Laila joined them but declined the smoke. It seemed they didn’t even notice the woman.

Amidst the jovial atmosphere of laughter and banter, Chandler couldn’t help but sense an impending significance looming. Despite the lightheartedness of the moment, an unshakable feeling gnawed at his gut, hinting at an impending event that could alter the course of his life.

The feelings of dread and his encounter with the mysterious woman faded from his mind as the night progressed, full of laughter and heavy drinking.

***

Dirt erupted from the Colosseum floor as Chandler’s opponent crashed down. The crowd thundered with cheers as Chandler lifted his arm in victory. With a grin, he strode over to help the fallen man—a young Ebonreach soldier whose skill had impressed him.

“Well fought,” Chandler said, extending a hand.

The soldier nodded gratefully, shaking Chandler’s hand before they parted ways. Chandler found his friend Marcus at the arena’s edge, sitting beside him amidst the ongoing matches. Marcus greeted him with a solid pat on the shoulder.

“Good job, shithead,” Marcus said.

Chandler rewarded the comment with a smack to his best friend’s arm and they both laughed.

Chandler retorted with a smile, “Yeah, yeah. You’ll eat those words later.“

Wiping sweat from his brow, Chandler adjusted uncomfortably in his formal military attire tailored for the occasion—vivid red wool adorned with gold and silver trimmings, a plumed hat atop his head.

Moments passed as they watched the remaining bouts.

Called back to the arena, Chandler faced a formidable opponent—an older, scarred veteran of Ebonreach. Their swords clashed in a dance of skill and strategy, the veteran anticipating Chandler’s moves with seasoned precision. Chandler struggled initially but adapted, landing a few solid blows before a distraction caught his eye—a fleeting shadow moving among the spectators.

Momentarily unfocused, Chandler nearly fell victim to his opponent’s charge, narrowly evading a lethal strike. Regaining his composure, Chandler fought back fiercely, eventually flooring his opponent to raucous cheers.

Marcus walked into the arena as he left. He slammed his fist into Chandler’s arm as they passed. “Take a break. I don’t want you tired in the final.”

Chandler let out a chuckle while rubbing his arm. “I won’t be.”

The two clasped hands as they walked by, and Chandler took a seat, letting his gaze search out the shadows again.

His eyes scanned over the audience. A sizable crowd had attended the event from all walks of life. He saw his father, Laila, and Aiden sitting in the royal box above the main seating area. Armand was there, too, with a handful of his hunters as guards. Red and black imperial banners blew in the wind next to the box.

Most of the crowd was imperial, but he spotted a few groups from the surrounding provinces as denoted by their outfits.

His eyes rested upon a woman in the crowd. He wouldn’t have noticed her if she hadn’t been sitting up on a railing that was normally impossible to reach without going through a guard or two. It was the mysterious woman from the night before. She was looking right at him. When she noticed his gaze, she waved casually at him, then disappeared.

Chandler blinked as he looked around for her, but she was gone. He shook his head as he rubbed his eyes. He remembered her telling him something the night before, but admittedly, his drinking had blurred his memories and he didn’t recall what.

He was so distracted by looking for the shadows and the woman he didn’t even see Marcus’s match. Marcus sat next to him.

“Hey shithead, you hear what I said?” Marcus asked.

The comment snapped Chandler back to reality. “Huh?”

Marcus smiled as he looked over Chandler’s head at the crowd. “I won, dumbass. What’s got you so distracted?”

“Don’t worry about it. Especially since I’m about to kick your ass.”

Marcus laughed as he looked at him. “You’re on.”

The announcer finally called the both of them out, their match about to begin.

They clasped hands, exchanging determined looks as they prepared for their long-awaited duel. The crowd’s excitement surged as they entered the arena, Chandler reveling in their cheers and Marcus’s competitive grin.

“This is one for the books,”

Chandler agreed, “Absolutely.”

The two took their spots and squared up. Marcus, wearing his old armor from his days as a coliseum combatant, pulled his duel axes from his back. Chandler drew his sword, grinning as he looked down the blade at his opponent, challenging him to make the first move.

Marcus swung an axe, his swiftness catching Chandler off guard. Chandler nimbly moved out of the way. Taking advantage of the opening, Chandler swiped at Marcus, who dodged quickly. They stayed out of each other’s range as they prepared their next moves.

Marcus swung, and Chandler blocked. The swings intensified. Chandler felt uneasy from earlier. It wasn’t Marcus. Chandler could read Marcus, but his movements didn’t match up. This made Chandler nervous. Something was wrong. He felt a creeping shadow as they moved around.

Chandler was preparing to raise his sword again to end the match decisively.

Then it happened.

A massive shadow came sweeping down over him and Marcus, landing with such force between them the dirt under them cracked and went flying. Marcus did not stand a chance against the impact, and he went flying backward onto the ground.

A tall figure emerged from the darkness and stood over him. He wore an intricate silver mask that resembled a desiccated and skeletal face. The mask had an eerie and hauntingly beautiful quality. A silver crown adorned his head, with skeletal fingers protruding above it.

Silver carvings of belladonna decorated the crown with a large ruby in the center. Surrounding the crown were various precious stones and jewels that sparkled in the light. At the points of the crown, there were four skulls, each with a unique expression of terror in its eyes.

The man’s deep-set eyes burned with a menacing purple color. He wore a hood and cloak with elaborate patterns in deep purples and blacks. The fabric seemed to flow off him like wisps. His silver armor had intricate detailing with beads, feathers, and a moon motif. Underneath, he wore black robes. On his hands, he had a pair of claws over black leather gloves.

Chandler’s height, though taller than most, was no match for the impressive height of the other man.

As Chandler locked eyes with the man, an overwhelming sense of fear washed over him, causing his heart to race.

His senses heightened as he realized a sudden hush enveloping the arena. An eerie stillness replaced the once vibrant sounds, and a tangible silence filled the air, heightening Chandler’s senses. The deafening absence of cheers allowed him to hear the faint sound of the man’s leather gloves tightening, and the delicate clinking of beads and jewelry as he swiftly raised and brought his hand down.

A scythe materialized in his hands. The blade came crashing down, but Chandler rolled out of the way before it could hit him.

The deafening screams of the crowd echoed through the air, piercing eardrums as they witnessed the unfolding chaos. In a sudden twist, shadows took form, emerging ominously from the darkness. Zealots materialized out of thin air, their presence suffocating the arena.

The massive man moved to attack him once more, but something deflected it. The woman in the sparrow mask caught the attack with a rapier, similar to the Zealots, but it appeared more elaborate. She pushed backward, yelling out. The force of the deflection sent the woman stumbling backward several paces. She caught herself with the help of the blade, but she held her shoulder. Regardless, she faced the man.

Her voice was dark and powerful. “Lucien. The dark king. You’re supposed to be dead! You cannot touch Prince Chandler! I’ll not let you hurt him!”

Lucien ignored the woman’s words. He moved to swing his giant scythe at her, but she quickly dodged out of the way, moving with inhuman speed. Lucien slammed his scythe down again, creating a massive explosion. The force of it threw people around them to the ground. Chandler stumbled back. It was almost as if a concussion wave had pulsed off of him.

She flickered in and out of existence through the shadows and dodged the attack.

Lucien stopped his assault and addressed her. His voice was a raspy and cold hiss as he spoke. “Aren’t you a curious specimen? The women of the Zealot Order were not taught to step through shadow, yet here you are, using that technique.”

He paused, and Chandler felt goosebumps as the man’s blood-curdling laughter echoed throughout the arena.

The woman visibly paused, growling under her breath without a response.

Lucien moved toward the woman, reaching out with his skeletal fingers as if to grasp her soul itself. Tendrils of dark magic shot out of him, flying toward her at great speed, yet she still avoided each attack.

“Insolence!” Lucien boomed. “I am darkness eternal! Who dare challenge me, but a shadow?!”

The woman did not react to his taunts.

He charged forward, his scythe clashing violently against her rapier.

The sheer magnitude of crackling and surging power between them led to her instinctively retreating.

With a swift motion, her hand surged forward, accompanied by a deafening clash of wind and the electrifying crackle of lightning. Yet he remained undeterred, striding through the raging gusts with an eerie calmness. A dark aura enveloped him, flickering ominously as if shadows themselves were pulsating with energy.

He swung at her again, and she could barely block it.

Lucien grew visibly frustrated with her constant evasiveness and counterattacks. He realized he would not hit her. With his scythe raised once more, he turned towards the royal box above the crowd.

He swung it down towards Chandler’s family. The scythe crashed into the railing before them, splintering it into pieces and sending chunks flying into the crowd. Chandler felt his heart stop as he saw his father get thrown from his chair by the impact of the blade. He couldn’t see what was going on after that in the box, as the dust was flying everywhere.

Just as suddenly as he appeared, the man leaped over the stands and landed in the box. The impact shattered the tile around his feet. Chandler heard a scream that made his blood run cold. It was his father’s. Chandler did not know if the scream resulted from pain or fear, and he didn’t take time to think about it. A darkness was forming in the box. Chandler felt his heart race, unsure if his family was alright.

The woman bent down to check on Marcus, who the initial attack had knocked unconscious.

“I’ll take care of Marcus. Go to your family! Stop the dark king!”

Chandler didn’t argue. His feet were already moving when she called out to him.

The air became thick with the acrid scent of fear and desperation as the zealots launched their merciless assault. Panic gripped the crowd, their frantic footsteps reverberating on the trembling ground. The guards valiantly fought back, their spear-rifles clashing against the zealots’ relentless onslaught, the sound of shots being fired mixing with the screams. Yet, the sheer numbers of the zealots overwhelmed their defenses, pushing them to the brink.

He forcefully maneuvered through the panicked throngs of individuals, their screams and cries blending into a cacophony of fear. The Zealots, relentless in their mission of chaos, were a ubiquitous presence, yet he focused solely on reaching his loved ones. The acrid scent of smoke hung heavy in the air, mingling with the stench of fear that permeated the surroundings.

Every step sent tremors of urgency coursing through his veins, his heart pounding in his chest. All he could do was hope fervently that his family remained unharmed amidst the chaos.

***

He approached the box and saw a familiar form protecting a small child.

He screamed and ran over to her. “Laila!”

“Are you alright, love?” He asked.

His heart raced with worry. Aiden was crying loudly and clung to his mother tightly.

She stood up as he approached. “Chandler, thank the sun!”

Aiden buried his head into his mother’s neck as she gripped him. She had blood on her cheek, but Chandler saw no major injuries. He pulled her close and kissed her head. The tension in his chest released slightly when he saw she was safe.

“Yes, I’m fine. I grabbed Aiden and took cover when that… thing appeared. I’m going to join Marcus down in the arena. Stay safe, love.“

Chandler pulled away and smiled. “I will.”

She rushed off through the crowd, her movements swift and precise, and she stabbed a zealot as she passed by him with one of her blades, all the while protecting Aiden. Chandler watched her vanish into the crowd.

Turning back to the box, he noticed the hunters standing protectively over Armand and his father, both injured and bleeding. With the blade lodged into a flagstone, Lucien leered over them, using his scythe as a footrest. Shadows seeped over his form as he raised his hand, and Chandler felt another shiver crawl down his spine.

The dark tendrils shot out of him again, piercing those protecting Armand and the king with accuracy and speed. The hunters collapsed to the ground, appearing more like powered-off mechanical dolls than humans.

Lucien stepped forward and swiped his claws down over Armand, and there was a shower of blood and a guttural, banshee-like scream of pain. He fell limp to the ground, his protection over Tiberius failing.

With his quarry in sight and unprotected, Lucien bent down and grabbed the king by the neck, and raised him into the air.

“Fifty years, Tiberius. Fifty years! How long did you expect me to wait while your country deliberately ignored me? And do not think your support in my grandson’s revolution did not go unnoticed!”

Chandler watched in horror as he saw his father struggle in vain against the grip around his throat. He could hear his father struggling for breath and making small gasping noises as he tried to say something.

“Do you have anything to say?”

He didn’t let go of Tiberius’s throat as he waited for an answer.

The king choked out some words before he gasped for breath again.

“Lucien… you will never win…” He said with all his strength.

Lucien let out a laugh that made Chandler feel sick as he looked up at his father.

“Is that so?” He asked. He held out his hand, and dark magic formed around Tiberius’s head as he struggled harder against him.

Tiberius attempted to speak, but all he could manage was a weak cough. Suddenly, Lucien’s hand released a burst of dark magic, propelling Tiberius across the box. He collided with the remaining railing, causing it to crack upon impact. Tiberius flew backward and landed on the arena floor with a heavy thud.

Chandler lost all self-control and roared, “No!”

He tried to jump forward, but several of Lucien’s Zealots took hold of him and restrained him, holding onto him for dear life. Despite their attempts to restrain him, Chandler, enraged by what he had witnessed, refused to accept what was happening.

“Let me go!”

He was out of his mind with grief and pushed against them, his muscles visibly straining against their holds. No matter how hard he tried to break free, the Zealots refused to budge, and their grip remained solid, unrelenting, and frigid.

Lucien turned to face him again as they held onto him. The towering man approached and looked down at Chandler, his burning purple eyes filled with contempt.

Chandler glared back at him, feeling an intense hatred for everything the man represented.

“Ah! Prince Chandler! What a delight it is to finally meet you.”

Lucien continued to speak as he raised his skeletal-clawed hand. Chandler tried to struggle more and felt shocked when the man simply walked around behind him and grabbed hold of the nape of his neck.

Chandler growled, wincing as his neck crushed under the weight of the dark king’s grip.

Lucien bent down toward his ear. His voice was as cold and breathy as death. “I have been watching you for quite some time.”

Lucien grinned viciously as Chandler struggled against him, feeling light-headed as the pain increased and something chilled his soul with its presence. It was as though he was being squeezed between two walls so tight that his neck felt as if it was about to crack.

He felt it then. A searing heat surged through his heart and veins, like molten lava coursing through his veins. It intensified, radiating from his core, enveloping his entire being in an inferno. The air crackled with energy. A symphony of sparks danced before his eyes. The scent of burning embers filled the room, a smoky aroma that lingered in the air. Lucien recoiled in a flash as if the mere touch of Chandler had singed his flesh.

The Zealots let go of Chandler at the same time as well, falling to the ground as if he had released them himself and writhing in pain. However, rather than experiencing the pain that he’d felt in his neck, his body was now warm all over and felt invigorated. His wounds and stiff joints no longer bother him.

He stood back up, wobbling briefly as he adjusted to the sudden lack of pain throughout his body. He rubbed his hands and arms, feeling the lingering warmth, and his lips parted slightly.

“What in Gehenna just happened?”

A dark chuckle came from Lucien as he picked himself up and rolled his shoulders.

Lucien walked toward Chandler. “Your ancient bloodline has finally awoken. My task here is finished regardless. Send my regards to your father, won’t you? If he still lives.”

Without uttering a single syllable and with a swift, commanding gesture towards the Zealots, Lucien whisked away, vanishing as abruptly as he materialized. The Zealots, like loyal hounds, trailed after him, their footsteps echoing through the colossal coliseum. A heavy shroud of silence cloaked the arena, leaving behind an eerie stillness that settled on the air like a weight.

Chandler heard Armand groan, which interrupted his thoughts. He ran over to his fallen friend. Claw marks shaped a pattern of lines over his chest, tearing through his jacket, vest, and dress shirt. Blood staining his clothes and pooling under him. The extent of the injury seemed to be centered over his chest.

“I’m… I’m alright, Prince Chandler, it’ll take more than this to keep me down.” Armand croaked.

Several hunters came storming into the box. A young man with spiky blonde hair and blue eyes and a pilot’s attire stormed over to Armand.

“Armand, you son-of-a-bitch. Made it through Lucien’s wrath. That’s… that’s twice now.” He said.

Armand gave the man a pained smile. “Elliot, what’s the status of our crew?”

Elliot looked at the fallen hunters. “Five casualties. No others harmed.”

He turned and gave Chandler a slight nod. “We’ll take over from here, Prince Chandler. Please stay safe, we’ll send our scouts after Lucien and fill you in later.” Elliot said. He then addressed the hunters by his side. “Tell the medical crew to rally and get them here as quickly as possible.”

Chandler rushed out of the box as soon as he felt comfortable, leaving Armand in the hands of his hunters. He made his way to the staircase leading to the floor below, taking steps two, three, and even four at a time as he rushed down to the crowd that gathered around his father.

He made his way through them as soon as he reached the edge of the circle, and his heart leaped to his throat. Laila crouched down next to his father, Marcus by her side. The masked woman checked on his wounds, holding a bundle of clothing against the wounds, the crimson blooming through the fabric as she applied pressure.

Chandler knelt beside his father and finally noticed the severity of his wounds. Blood soaked his entire body, lying motionless on the ground. Tears welled up in Chandler’s eyes as he gazed down at him. His father’s eyes were open, but devoid of focus as they met Chandler’s. Witnessing his father’s life slowly fading away, Chandler felt a heavy weight in his heart.

Tiberius recognized his son, and his eyes flickered with a brief life.

“My… My boy… my boy,”

He struggled to sit up, but Chandler stopped him, opting to help rest his father’s head in his lap. “Shh… It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay, Father.” Chandler said.

He could feel his father’s life ebbing away as he struggled to speak to him. Tears ran down his face as he embraced him. He felt Marcus place a hand on his shoulder as he knelt beside him. Chandler was thankful for his presence as he looked at his father, tears flowing freely.

The king stared up at him with clouded eyes, and his bloody hand caressed Chandler’s face. Chandler smiled back down at him weakly.

“I love you, son. I love you,” He said, his voice barely audible as he struggled to speak.

His eyes fluttered momentarily, and he went still in Chandler’s arms.

Chandler felt his heart break as he looked at his father’s body. He reached up and closed his father’s eyes before he leaned down and kissed his forehead.

“I love you too, Father. I love you too,” Chandler said, his voice breaking as he spoke. He kissed his forehead again before laying him down on the ground.

He pulled off the ceremonial cloak that he wore and lightly draped it over his father’s form.

Chandler stood up, his eyes bloodshot, tears streaming down his face. Each sob wracked his body, making it difficult for him to breathe. Marcus gently embraced him, the sound of their hearts pounding in their ears. Chandler’s tears soaked Marcus’s armor, the metallic scent mingling with the salty taste of his sorrow. Laila joined them, her touch offering solace as she held Chandler from the other side.

He leaned into Marcus’s armor, feeling the coolness against his cheek, the weight of their support surrounding him. Laila’s presence brought a sense of warmth and love, her arms encircling him with tenderness. Together, they stood, finding solace in each other’s embrace, their shared grief palpable in the air.

***

Chandler watched as the highest-ranking members of the royal guard moved his father’s body. Laila held onto Aiden, who had finally calmed down and had fallen asleep. Marcus was near Laila as they processed what had happened during the attack.

His body felt devoid of sensation as if a thick layer of frost had settled upon his skin. Unsure of his own emotions, he instinctively distanced himself from the group, seeking solace in the spacious void around him.

As someone sidled up beside him, the jarring presence snapped him back to reality.

The woman in the sparrow mask addressed him.“Prince Chandler?”

As he turned to her, his eyes blinked in surprise.

“Forgive me. Despite my efforts, I could not stop the Dark King from inflicting harm on your father.” She said. There was a deep regret in her voice.

Chandler shook his head.

“No, it’s alright. I am grateful for what you did, as it is likely that you saved my life. That hit you took for me looked like it stung, I could almost feel the impact from where I was.”

She huffed. Her voice filled with exhaustion. “It did. Honestly, I’m amazed I’m still on my feet after enduring it. The pain will linger for days, but the magnitude of what’s at stake surpasses it all. I deemed it worthy, despite the ache.” She said.

Chandler noted she remained open to questions, so he continued.

“Who are you? How did you know he would be here?”

“You can call me Sparrow. I’ve been tracking the Zealots for the past four years. I knew they’d attack after watching their patterns.” She said.

Chandler blinked as he looked at her. She was a Mystrian, but she wasn’t a hunter, or at least she didn’t look like one.

“You’re not a Witch-hunter, are you?” He asked.

“Not exactly.” She said.

She stood up straight and turned to face him.

“I want to help you, Prince Chandler, but my situation makes it difficult. All I can assist you with now is to guide you towards the Sword of Ashes, concealed within a forgotten ruin amidst the scorching sands of the Solaran Desert. With the sword in your hand, your light abilities will be unlocked and reach their peak potential. I’ll be able to provide further help once you complete the task.”

Chandler noticed the subtle change in her concentration as her eyes shifted past him. Curiosity piqued, he pivoted to see Armand, accompanied by a small entourage of his hunters, entering the arena. He received dressing for his wounds. Despite his injuries, he appeared to be in relatively good shape.

He turned his gaze back to Sparrow, and it startled him to find she had vanished without a trace. The swiftness of her movement had been so rapid that not a single glimpse of her departure registered in his vision. Searching, his eyes scanned the surroundings, but she remained elusive, blending seamlessly into the unseen corners.

He couldn’t inquire further as she appeared well-informed about the situation. Despite her motivations being unclear and her identity undetermined, his instinct told him that, for the time being, he trusted her.

Armand approached Chandler, followed by the small group of hunters. His single sapphire orb moved from person to person, evaluating the scene before him. The realization of what happened hit him in full in that moment and Chandler watched as he drew a long breath and let it go through his lips.

The two friends exchanged a silent, understanding glance. Chandler struggled to maintain eye contact, his heart heavy with grief, causing his gaze to wander towards the constables aiding the imperial guard in escorting the audience out of the arena. The cacophony of the crowd clamoring filled the air, momentarily diverting his focus as a rush of people hurriedly exited the venue.

Armand cleared his throat, composing himself quickly.

“This cannot stand. We need to track down Lucien and bring him to justice. The fact that he still lives defies all logic, however. I burned his body and buried the ashes myself when I ended him. I must have missed something about his link to the dark goddess.” Armand said.

Chandler’s brows raised, curiosity piqued. “What do you mean?”

“Briefly, to avoid a lengthy explanation, Lucien woke the slumbering goddess after hearing her calls through his dreams. She granted him power and he rose to power and became the dark king. Her power sustains him.” He paused. “Yes, now that I recall, it’s possible I missed a detail. Careless on my part, but so much happened when the rebellion broke out.”

Armand’s brows furrowed, casting a dark shadow over his face as memories from his past resurfaced. The weight of unspoken secrets hung in the air, creating an atmosphere of silent tension. Chandler, sensing the depth of Armand’s emotions, decided not to delve any deeper, allowing the unspoken history to linger between them.

“The Lunar Opal. An artifact made by the ancients who once used the power of the forgotten gods. The light-wielding faction of your ancient bloodline, if I recall.”

“The same one that founded Ebonreach a thousand years ago?” Chandler asked.

Armand gave him a confirming nod. “Yes. The very same. We need to find the opal and break Lucien’s corrupted hold on it. It’s possible the spells he and the goddess cast on it have resurrected it.”

Chandler nodded, contemplating his next move. “What do you know about the Sword of Ashes? Won’t it help unlocking my powers?”

Armand’s single eye blinked in surprise. “How do you know of this?”

Chandler didn’t want to break Sparrow’s trust, so he skipped that detail. “I’d heard of it in whispers, folklore. Honestly, I thought it was a fairytale, but after what happened today, I believe they were true.”

“I think our first step is getting the sword, then. Well. It’ll be your first step. I’d like to look for the Lunar Opal while you’re away.”

Chandler looked at Armand. “That seems like a brilliant idea. Let’s make sure we explore all our options, perhaps even anticipate Lucien’s moves.”

“Lucien is likely always going to be one step ahead of us, but we can stay directly behind him. If we can find the opal and unlock your light powers to their fullest, we can destroy it and stop him once and for all.” Armand said.

Laila stepped forward. “You’re not going without me!”

Chandler shifted his weight uncomfortably but placed a hand on her arm. “Laila, the desert is a dangerous place and I won’t endanger you and the child—”

“Chandler, you dork, I’m your wife. You aren’t doing this without me.”

He raised his hands in defeat, her fire coming up to burn him. He loved it every time.

Marcus cut in. “Don’t forget about me. Someone is going to need to keep this shithead in line.”

Chandler protested with a rub of his hand on the back of his head. “W-will you stop with that nickname?”

Marcus’s laugh echoed in the hall, rich and velvety in tone. Chandler couldn’t help but smile.

“Nope! If Laila insists on going, then I’m going. Wouldn’t want anything happening to you guys on the way to Solara.” He said.

Chandler smiled. His heart already feeling lighter at the idea of having those he cared for by his side.

“Alright. We’ll leave tomorrow morning.” Chandler said.