The Heart of Stone lay at the center of King Tristan Terrsor’s palace, deep within the mountain that served as the royal seat of power. The chamber was vast, a fortified cathedral of stone and minerals. its walls hewn from living rock itself, lined with veins of glittering minerals that pulsed faintly with an eerie, subterranean light. The only sound was the soft hum of mana that radiated from the core of the earth. Here, in this sanctum, the heartbeat of the kingdom echoed, unseen but ever-present.
At the far end of the chamber stood a towering, silent sentinel: the golem. It was an imposing figure, crafted from dark stone, its massive form still as death but radiating a quiet, dormant power. Sluggish rivers of molten rock threaded through its form like a hibernating forge waiting for its next occupant. Its eyes, twin gems of dark blue, were dull and unseeing, locked in a perpetual gaze into the void.
This was no ordinary construct—this was half of the legacy left behind by King Oren Terrsor, Tristan’s father, after his ascension to godhood. It stood as a testament to the divine bloodline of House Terrsor, a relic of unimaginable power and one that had remained dormant since Oren’s departure.
Soon, it would come to life to avert a disaster in the making and secure King Tristan’s reign for centuries to come.
The king stood before the golem, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes locked on the stony visage of his father’s creation. The flickering light of the chamber cast shadows across his angular face, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw and the cold calculation in his eyes. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered and commanding, every inch the monarch and ascendant of the apotheosis stage who had ruled with an iron grip for nearly a century. And yet, in this moment of solitude, there was a flicker of something more—a weight on his mind, heavier than the crown he bore.
The prophecy. It was always there, lingering at the edge of his thoughts, like a shadow that would not be banished no matter how harsh the light. The seventh generation of seventh sons of House Harstan, destined to rise to godhood and remake the world of Solcaris. For years, the royal family had dismissed such superstitions, confident in their own power and their divine right to rule. But as the decades passed, as House Harstan grew in influence, the whispers of that prophecy had become impossible to ignore.
Tristan’s hand drifted toward the small aptitude stone he held, its surface cool and smooth. He had no doubt that this simple artifact—one of many used to assess the magical potential of the kingdom’s noble youth—would soon set in motion events that would determine the future of his reign.
A soft footfall broke the silence, and Tristan’s gaze shifted to the entrance of the chamber. The Royal Assessor, dressed in his customary deep purple robes, entered the Heart of Stone. His thin, pale face betrayed no emotion, but his amber eyes flickered briefly to the golem before settling on the king. The man moved with quiet precision, each step deliberate, as though he knew that even the slightest misstep in this chamber might awaken something far greater than himself.
“Your majesty," the assessor greeted, bowing low as he approached. His voice was measured, professional. He straightened at a nod from the king and waited for his liege lord to speak, but the king did not respond immediately.
For a moment, Tristan said nothing, his gaze still fixed on the golem. Then, after a long pause, he extended the aptitude stone toward the assessor. The gemstone gleamed faintly in the dim light of the chamber, its surface flickering with the latent mana it contained. The assessor’s eyes widened slightly as he took the stone, but he did not question it.
“You will take this to House Harstan,” Tristan said at last, his voice cold and distant. “There is a matter to be resolved.”
The assessor blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Your majesty?” he began cautiously. “What would you have me do with it?”
Tristan’s gaze finally shifted from the golem to the assessor, the weight of his stare enough to silence any further questions. “You will administer the test, as you have done many times before. But do not be surprised if Garrick Harstan does not take the results well.” His lips curled into a small, humorless smile. “Be prepared for…hostility.”
The assessor hesitated, clearly unsure of what the king was implying, but he knew better than to question further. He bowed again, deeper this time, and carefully pocketed the stone.
“I will do as you command, Your Majesty,” he said before turning to leave, his steps echoing softly through the chamber as he exited.
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As the Royal Assessor’s footsteps faded into the distance, the faint echo lingering in the stone halls beyond the Heart of Stone, silence settled over the chamber once more. King Tristan’s eyes remained on the heavy doors for a moment longer, his expression unreadable.
Then, from the shadows of the room, movement stirred—two figures stepping forward, their approach soundless as they materialized from the very darkness itself.
Lyra Nightshade, a member of the Assassin’s Guild, moved with the grace of a predator, her form wrapped in sleek, ash-colored leathers that blended seamlessly with the dim light. Her sharp, sapphire eyes caught the faint gleam of the chamber’s crystalline walls as she emerged from her hiding place, a faint smirk on her lips.
Beside her, Inquisitor Morrick, the king’s chief enforcer of dark magics, strode forward with a calm, measured gait. His gaunt, corpse-colored face was illuminated by the subtle glow of the minerals embedded in the chamber walls, and his eyes—flint daggers—flickers with something unreadable.
Neither had been noticed by the assessor, a testament to their magus stage ascendancy and their skill.
King Tristan didn’t turn as they approached, sensing and expecting their presence all along. His gaze remained on the golem, the faint hum of power emanating from it as steady as the heartbeat of the mountain itself.
“Are you ready?” Tristan asked, his voice low, filled with the weight of the plans set in motion. His words hung in the air like a challenge, cutting through the quiet with the force of command.
Lyra exchanged a glance with Inquisitor Morrick, her smirk widening slightly. She stepped forward, her movements smooth and silent as always. “Of course, Your Majesty. Everything is in place.” Her voice was soft but sharp, carrying a confidence that came from years of completing missions others deemed impossible.
The King finally turned to face them, his eyes narrowing slightly as they met Lyra’s She, unlike many in his service, never seemed to shy away from his gaze. There was something about her—dangerous, unpredictable—but she had always been loyal. For now, that was enough.
Inquisitor Morrick joined the assassin, his voice smooth and unsettling as he spoke. The aptitude gem has been altered, as you commanded, Your Majesty.” He raised one pale hand, revealing a small bead of obsidian with a faintly glowing sigil nestled in his palm—a symbol of the dark magic he had used to weave the spell. “When it tests Hayden Harstan, it will impart a soul mark. Subtle enough to go unnoticed by his father, but strong enough for the guild to perform its duty.”
“Job—not duty,” Lyra corrected, her smirk fixed.
Tristan’s lips curled into a faint smile, though there was no warmth in it. He didn’t care about the guild’s petty distinctions. The soul mark was his focus. It was a clever touch, one that would ensure House Harstan’s fate was sealed. The boy might be the subject of a prophecy, but he would be turned to the crown’s power one way or another.
“You’re sure it won’t be detected?” Tristan asked, his tone measured.
Morrick inclined his head. “It will appear as an ordinary test. The magic is woven into the gem itself, and unless one is looking for the specific spell, it will go unnoticed. Even Garrick Harstan won’t be able to sense it. Once the boy is marked, it will be a simple matter for the guild to follow its trace.
Tristan nodded slowly, his thoughts turning to the future, to the prophecy that haunted his every move for years. He had no intention of allowing House Harstan to rise any further. They had already come too close to challenging his power—turning noble houses, securing the kingdom’s gemforged weaponry, and slowly positioning themselves as a rival to the crown. Garrick might think he was playing a clever game, but he couldn’t outwit a god, and Tristan’s father had already ensured the pieces would fall into place long before this moment.
The seventh son. Hayden.
The prophecy promised godhood in its twisted backward way. But not if the boy’s youth’s soul was bound first. Not if Tristan controlled that ascension to fuel his own.
“Good,” Tristan said at last, his voice barely more than a whisper. He turned back to the golem, its hulking form casting long shadows in the chamber. “When the time comes, you’ll be responsible for him, Morrick.”
A silence settled on the gathering until Lyra tilted her head slightly, her sharp gaze studying the king for a moment. “And if House Harstan takes action once the boy is tested?” She asked, her voice low and liquid, though a hint of intrigue flickered in her eyes.
A dark gleam passed through Tristan’s eyes as he turned away from the golem. “Let them,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching into a humorless smile. “I have the highest stage of ascension in the kingdom. If it weren’t for Strumveil trouble me to the north necessitating that I keep internal peace, I would rid the kingdom of Harstan’s bothersome politics.”
Lyra exchanged a brief glance with Morrick, her smirk returning, though this time with a hint of fear. “As you command, Your Majesty.”
With that, the two figures melted back into the shadows, as silent and unseen as they had appeared. The Heart of Stone returned to its stillness, the hum of power reverberating through the chamber as Tristan stood alone once more, his eyes on the golem.
“Your foresight was truly astonishing,” he whispered. “With this gift, you’ve solved two problems at once.”
The flickering crystals in the walls cast dim light across the golem’s face, and for a brief moment, it seemed to watch Tristan with the hollow gaze of something far greater than a mere construct.