Hayden sat in a dim cell, his back against the cold stone wall, his thoughts drifting between the distant past and unnerving present. The journey to this place felt like a dream now—a circuitous route through a hidden passage that wound its way deep into the heart of the mountain, illuminated only by the faint illumination of the moss that clung to the roughly hewn walls.

The tunnels at least had a charm that was lacking from his current quarters. The cell was small and bare. The stone walls were rough and damp, and the only light came from a small crystal—likely House Harstan make—embedded in the ceiling, casting a dim glow that flickered like a dying flame. There was no window or door visible from the inside—just solid stone. The air was stale and heavy giving the room a timeless quality lost to ancient memory.

Hayden quickly lost all sense of time. Hours bled into one another, and he couldn’t say if it had been days or weeks since he had been locked away, seemingly forgotten.

The only break in his routine between fitful sleep and anxious meditation had been the sparse meals delivered to his cell. They consisted of bread and water, just enough to keep him alive. Although he couldn’t say how often they arrived. Once a day? Once every few days? Hayden didn’t know.

His body felt weak, his muscles stiff from disuse, and his once racing mind had settled into a sort of stupor. He had turned to meditation, following the breathing patterns that Lyra had taught him. But down here, in the depths of the mountain, there was little mana to sense, muggled by tons of stone and oppressive conditions.

Occasionally, he would hear footsteps echoing dully through the stone walls, the sounds of guards patrolling the unseen corridors beyond his cell. But no one had spoken to him, no one had given him any indication of what was to come. He was left with nothing but his thought and the cruel torture of uncertainty.

An indeterminable time later, something changed.

The silence of his imprisonment was shattered by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching. Hayden’s heart burst with hope. He hadn’t heard anyone come to this close in what felt like years. The loneliness and the isolation had chipped away at him, so much so that the mere thought of human contact filled him with an almost desperate relief. He scrambled to his feet, legs trembling, eyes fixed on the miniscule seam between the door and the stone floor.

When the cell door finally creaked open, it revealed Inquisitor Morrick, flanked by two guards. Morrick’s cold, calculating eyes swept over the room before landing on Hayden, and his lips curled into his characteristic smile, never reaching his eyes.

“Ah, Hayden,” Morrick said, his voice bemused and sinister, “I trust your stay here had been…reflective.”

Hayden was so relieved to see another face, to hear another voice, that he didn’t register the thinly veiled manipulation. He stepped forward, voice eager, a far cry from the youth in the tavern.

“Yes—yes, of course, Inquisitor. I—thank you for coming. I’ve…I’ve been thinking. I want to be helpful, I want to—”

Morrick held up a hand, cutting him off with a soft, almost paternal smile. “Peace, Hayden. You’ve been through a lot. But understand this—what you’ve endured, and what you will endure is part of something far greater than you. You’ve been given a grand opportunity to serve the king in a way few ever could. This is a great honor.”

The words soothed something jagged and shattered in Hayden. His noble confidence had been broken like a stained glass window—the colored pieces composed of fear, regret, and uncertainty, stabbing into his soul and spreading a poisonous malaise.

Morrick’s tone was calm, reassuring. There was no malice in his voice—only promise. An opportunity. A chance to prove himself, to serve a higher purpose greater than anything he could have imagined. Hayden seized on this chance, wishing heart and soul to make it manifest.

“An opportunity,” Hayden repeated, almost dazed. The fear that had gripped him for so long like an iron vice seemed to fade, replaced by cautious optimism. Maybe this cold dark cell and his empty belly weren’t the end. Maybe this was the beginning of an incredible adventure.

Morrick’s smile widened, a rictus grin upon a lifeless corpse. “Yes. The king sees your potential. You’ve been chosen for a role of great importance, Hayden. Your power will serve the kingdom—your power will protect it.”

Hayden nodded quickly, his earlier nervousness replaced with gratitude. “I want to help. I want to serve.”

“Good,” Morrick said, his voice as smooth as silk. “The come. It’s time.”

The guards stepped forward, placing a firm, but not unkind hand on Hayden’s arms, leading him out of the cell. Hayden walked between them, stumbling as his atrophied legs failed him.

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They led him through a series of winding corridors, deep beneath the palace. The walls were ancient, lined with glowing moss that cast the same diffused light he remembered from the hidden passage. It spoke of secrets, a place untouched by the world above.

Finally, they arrived at a set of massive stone doors, carved with intricate runes that pulsed with faint magic. One of the guards stepped forward, placing his hand on the center rune, and the doors swung open with a low, resonant groan like a hibernating beast waking for its next meal.

Hayden’s breath caught in his throat as he stepped inside. The chamber was enormous, carved directly into the mountain’s core, its walls laced through with glowing minerals like veins and arteries leading to a central heart.

And in that heart lay a massive stone golem, its towering figure unmoving, its surface covered in runes and sigils. The air crackled with power.

Around the chamber stood a group of cultivators, each one radiating an overwhelming sense of magical power. They were men and women of great strength, their eyes gleaming with the flow of mana, their robes adorned with intricate filigree.

Next to the golem, stood King Tristan Terrsor.

Hayden had never met the man, but who else could be so domineering—so powerful—with a crown upon his head?

The king was a formidable sight, clad not in ceremonial robes like his attendants, but in gleaming armor forged from gemsteel, the metal infused with magic that seemed to shimmer in the dim light of the chamber. His armor was etched with ancient runes, each one pulsing faintly with power, the intricate craftsmanship a testament to the skill of the royal smiths. Across his hip hung a gemforged sword, its hilt adorned with a radiant crystal that pulsed with the same magic wreathing the room.

His chiseled face, framed by onyx curls, was set in a stern expression, his viridescent eyes mysterious and enchanting. He looked every bit the warrior-king, a hand resting lightly on the hilt of the blade at his side. Those beautiful, terrifying eyes locked on Hayden the moment he entered the chamber, and a smile touched his lips—not the warm smile of a father greeting a son, but the smile of a conqueror putting a city to the torch.

“Welcome, Hayden, the seventh generation of a seventh son to a seventh son, hope of House Harstan,” the king said, his voice rich and resonant, filling the chamber like music. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Hayden stood frozen for a moment, overwhelmed by the sheer mana radiating from the room. His eyes flickered over gathered materials—rare herbs, metals, crystals, all arranged meticulously around the ritual circle. It was as if a dragon had sacrificed his hoard for this moment, into this ritual.

“You’re special, Hayden,” King Tristan continued, “you’re the prophesied son that your ancestors waited for. You were born to change the world, but perhaps not in the way that they expected. With your magic, we will forge a weapon unlike any other. A weapon that will defeat our enemies abroad and within. You will become the ultimate shield and sword of this kingdom.”

Hayden’s heart soared with the king’s words. This was it. This was the reason for everything—the rigged test, the manipulation, the isolation. He had been chosen. His power was special. He was special. He would become something more.

“I'm honored, Your Majesty,” he croaked, throat still dry from his internment.

The king’s smile widened, but there was no warmth to it. “Then let us begin.”

The attendants moved into position around the circle, their hands glowing with blood-colored mana as they chanted in low, resonant tones. The air in the chamber grew so thick with power that Hayden felt he was holding his breath underwater. The runes on the stone golem began to shine brighter, pulsing in time with the chanting. The ritual circle flashed with crimson light, its lines shifting and rearranging like writhing snakes as the mana surged through it.

Hayden’s escorts roughly pushed him into the center of the circle, and his legs failed him once again, scraping them against the rough stone floor. He stared down watching as more blood than should be possible seemed to be drawn from the minor wounds and flowing inexorably toward the golem.

The king stepped closer, and the circle grew brighter. The power around him intensified. Billowing against him like volcanic currents. His skin blistered and broke, and pain exploded in his chest.

Hayden gasped, collapsing in on himself like a wounded animal as the searing pain ripped through him. It felt like his very soul was being torn apart and raked over hot coals.

“What…what’s happening?” Hayden choked, his voice strained with agony.

A gauntleted hand entered Hayden’s vision as the king grabbed him by the scruff of his tunic. He was foisted into the air with one arm and he noticed that at some point the monarch had drawn his blade. His eyes flicked between the sword and the king's mesmerizing green eyes.

They gleamed with cold satisfaction. “You will serve the kingdom, Hayden. Your potential, your very soul, will fuel this golem. You’re the final piece to a gift my father left behind.”

The realization hit Hayden like a sledgehammer.

He wasn’t being bestowed power—he was losing it. His soul was being ripped from his body, forced into the stone golem at the center of the circle. The king had told him all along. He wasn’t going to become a warrior for the kingdom—he was becoming a weapon.

A hollow, lifeless weapon.

“No…no!” Hayden screamed, his voice raw with terror as the pain intensified. The ascendants around him chanted louder, their voices blending with the pulse of the magic, drowning out his cries.

The light flared brighter as King Tristan Terrsor raised his sword and plunged it into Hayden’s chest, the world around him dissolving into pain and shadow.

As Hayden's soul was torn from his body, the last thing he saw was the cold, satisfied smile of King Tristan.