Chapter 3: King and Prince

King Tharion Starbrone awoke to the pale light of dawn filtering through his chamber windows, but the warmth it offered could not reach him. His body felt like a hollowed shell, drained and cold, as if the threads of time had stripped him bare. The events of the previous night clung to him like a shroud, refusing to loosen their grip.

Every breath he took carried the phantom scent of the Luminar rift—a mixture of ozone and something ancient, otherworldly. He could still see Elyndra’s gaze, those piercing, oblique eyes staring into him as though she had peeled away his soul. No matter how hard he tried, he could not shake the memory of her voice, her presence, her recognition of him when she should not have been able to.

He sat up in his grand bed, staring down at his hands, pale and trembling in the soft morning glow. They looked so fragile, so unfamiliar. Was it age, or something more sinister? Time was a cruel thing, and Tharion had defied it, twisted it, and now it seemed to twist him back.

The room was deathly silent, save for the faint crackle of the hearth. Even the luxurious silk of his robes seemed to whisper of frailty as he draped them over his shoulders. He hesitated at the mirror, running a hand over his face. His reflection startled him—not for the wrinkles that framed his eyes or the pallor of his skin, but for the sheer weight of his own gaze. His eyes, once bright with the celestial spark of the Starborne lineage, now seemed dimmer, as though some of their luster had been left behind in the past he had dared to visit.

“Was it worth it?” he muttered, his voice barely audible. He was not sure if he meant the question for himself or the memory of Elyndra that loomed so heavily in his thoughts.

Drawing a deep breath, Tharion straightened his shoulders and exited his chambers. The golden staircase spiraled upward like a radiant thread of light, its steps etched with ancient glyphs that pulsed faintly as he ascended. Each step felt heavier than the last, as though unseen hands were pulling him down. The journey to the Celestial Hall, once a simple morning routine, now seemed like a trial of endurance.

The glyphs on the grand doors glowed softly as he murmured the incantation, his voice barely steady. The doors swung open with a faint hum, revealing the opulence of the Celestial Hall. The domed ceiling shimmered with murals of the cosmos, and the golden table at its center gleamed with the light of the morning sun.

To his surprise, three of his children were already seated, their plates laden with Starborne delicacies. Elyndra, her golden hair catching the sunlight, looked up with a warm smile as he entered. Beside her sat Kaelith, tearing into a roasted pheasant with his characteristic lack of decorum, and Seraphis, who leaned back in his chair, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Good morning,” Tharion greeted, his voice hoarse as he took his seat at the head of the table. The Veilbear eggs before him shimmered faintly, their silver shells a reminder of the rare delicacies only the Starborne could afford. “Fancy seeing you all here.”

“We thought we’d enjoy your company for a change,” Elyndra said, her tone light but concerned. “Considering what happened yesterday, we were worried. Are you feeling any better, Father?”

Tharion hesitated, his fork hovering over his plate. “Better, but not good,” he admitted, his words weighted with unspoken fears. “I’ll get through it. I always do.”

“Yeah, you old fart,” Seraphis teased, his laugh a raspy chuckle. “Don’t go dying before me, though—I’ve got a hefty wager riding on me outliving you.” Kaelith snorted, tearing off another piece of pheasant. “You’ve got no right calling him old. One good shardstorm would blow you away, Seraphis.”

Their banter brought a faint smile to Tharion’s lips, but his mind was elsewhere. As he finished his meal, his gaze fell on an empty chair, and a shadow of unease crept into his chest.

“Where is...” He faltered, the name slipping from his grasp like sand through his fingers. His mind raced, his heart pounding as he struggled to piece together the memory. He could see his son so clearly—wavy blonde hair, eyes like the Cerulean Sea. Yet his name...

“Orion?” Kaelith prompted, his brow furrowed in concern.

“Yes! Orion.” Relief swept through Tharion, but it was fleeting. “Where is he?”

Elyndra exchanged a worried glance with her brothers. “I believe he’s out in the city. Is something wrong?”

Stolen novel; please report.

Tharion shook his head, rising abruptly from his seat. “I just remembered something I need to take care of.” Without another word, he strode out of the hall, his children left in confused silence.

Back in his chambers, the nausea that had lingered since dawn surged with brutal intensity. He barely made it to the bathroom before collapsing to his knees, clutching the edge of the porcelain basin. His body convulsed, bile burning his throat as he vomited violently, the sound echoing harshly in the confined space.

“Orion...” he whispered, his voice hoarse and broken. He wiped his mouth with a trembling hand, staring at the pale, sickly reflection in the mirror above the sink.

The room spun, his vision swimming with an eerie green tint. The memories of the Luminar rift flooded back, sharper than ever. He could recall every moment in crystalline detail—the hum of the rift, the shimmering forms of the Luminars ascending, and Elyndra’s gaze piercing through the fabric of time itself.

Yet he couldn’t remember what he’d done when he woke up this morning. He couldn’t remember the taste of the Veilbear eggs he had just eaten. He couldn’t even remember his own son’s name until Kaelith had said it.

“What is happening to me?” he rasped, clutching the edge of the sink as his strength ebbed away. His legs buckled, and the world tilted dangerously.

As darkness crept into the edges of his vision, Tharion’s last thought was of Elyndra’s eyes and the whispered warning that lingered just beyond memory’s reach. His body collapsed to the floor, the cold stone pressing against his fevered skin as unconsciousness claimed him.

Chapter 3.5: Crimson Eyes

The Celestine Peaks were cold today. The air bit sharply against exposed skin, carrying with it a stillness that unnerved even the bravest hearts. Usually, the days in this region were warm, tempered by the peaks’ protective embrace. But not today. Today the cold seeped deeper, a creeping chill that even Vireth felt, though it wasn’t the weather that gnawed at her.

She stood at the heart of the broken village, the tip of her crimson blade pressed against the throat of a trembling old monk. Around them, thousands of Starborn Elves knelt on the jagged ground, their eyes cast downward, bodies quivering under the weight of despair. Smoke spiraled from the ruins of their homes, the acrid stench of burning wood and stone mingling with the metallic tang of blood in the air.

Behind her, a vast army of black-clad soldiers loomed, their faces obscured by deep red masks etched with the symbol of the Shadowborn: a question mark-like curve with three diagonal streaks and a single star perched above. The symbol seemed to pulse faintly, a mark of allegiance to something greater and far darker than themselves.

Vireth’s voice cut through the silence, rough and commanding. “You all kneel before your enemy.”

The words hung in the air, sharp as the blade she held. The cold wind tugged at her black hair, streaking it across her pale face, the faint light of the distant snowcaps reflecting in her piercing gaze. She took a step forward, the monk’s frail body jerking slightly under her grip.

“Where is your fight?” she barked. Her voice echoed off the rocky ridges, challenging the peaks themselves. A few of the elves dared to lift their heads, their eyes hollow and bloodshot. None held her gaze for long, their fear driving them to bow again.

“I’ve conquered Stareels with more fight than this.” She sneered, her disgust palpable. “You kneel in your ruin, the ashes of your homes at your back, and you don’t even try to stop me? Pathetic.”

The words were meant to sting, but there was no anger in their responses—only resignation. Their silence grated on her more than defiance ever could. She had hoped for a battle, for blood spilled in glorious resistance. But these elves… they were already broken.

The old monk beneath her blade finally spoke, his voice soft yet unyielding. “We have known this day would come. The stars told us weeks ago.” His words were measured, spoken with the weight of unshakable conviction. “They showed us this moment. Your coming, your triumph—it was written in the skies above long before you were born.”

Vireth’s lips curled in a snarl. “Foolishness,” she spat, her crimson knife pressing harder against his throat. “Your stars are nothing but the lies you tell yourselves to avoid action. They belong to no one but me now.”

The monk’s gaze met hers, steady even in the shadow of death. “You will learn,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “The stars… they see all. Even you.”

Her fingers twitched. The temptation to end his life surged through her, but instead, she raised her free hand, signaling her troops. “Begin,” she commanded.

The cultists obeyed instantly. Thousands of voices rose as one, chanting the ancient anthem of the Shadowborn, their tones rich and haunting. The sound reverberated through the peaks, a dreadful harmony that made even the winds pause to listen.

“He dreamt once of hopeful skies…

And so he gave it crimson eyes…

He led us through this fantasy…

And so we will keep his legacy…”

The words repeated, growing louder, more fervent, until they seemed to shake the ground itself. The soldiers raised their hands skyward, their crimson masks gleaming in the flickering firelight.

“Oh Astralis…” the monk whispered, his voice lost in the crescendo. “Save thy becoming.”

Vireth laughed—a sharp, bitter sound that cut through the chant. “Praise the Shadowborn,” she said, driving the blade across his throat in a swift, deliberate motion.

Crimson life spilled from the monk, staining the rocky ground beneath him. The blood steamed in the frigid air, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Then the ritual began in earnest.

From every kneeling elf, the blood pulsed, a dreadful force drawing it from their bodies. They screamed as their veins emptied, the life torn from them to feed the rising power. The blood moved as if alive, swirling upward in thick, undulating streams, coalescing into the massive symbol of the Shadowborn high above the peaks.

Vireth stood at the center of it all, watching as man, woman, and child fell one by one. Their cries filled the air, mingling with the chant of her cultists. The power radiating from the symbol was intoxicating, a surge of energy that made her pulse quicken and her lips curve into a cruel smile.

This was her masterpiece—a massacre, a declaration, and a ritual all in one. The Shadowborn symbol glowed brighter, its presence carving itself into the heavens, undeniable and eternal. This was the beginning of the end, the first step in her grand plan to reshape the world in her image.

And as the last screams faded into the cold, thin air, Vireth whispered, “Let the stars witness this. Let them tremble.”

For this, would be the start of a new war.