In the void of unconsciousness, there was silence—a cold, suffocating quiet that seemed endless. Then, a voice echoed faintly.

“Leson...”

He was back in the grand halls, the ancestral fortress of the O'Connors, where sunlight spilled through stained-glass windows and cast dancing patterns on the marble floor. He stood in the throne room, dwarfed by its towering pillars. His father, King Alaric O'Connor, sat on the high throne, his imposing figure radiating authority and wisdom. Leson remembered standing before him, trying to mimic his father’s confidence as they discussed matters of state.

"A king," Alaric had said, his voice a deep, commanding baritone, "is not just born into power. He earns the trust of his people every single day. You must listen to them, Leson. Speak for them when they cannot."

But no matter how many of these conversations they had, Leson could never see himself as a king. The weight of responsibility felt far too heavy for his shoulders.

In another corner of his dream, his mother appeared—Queen Elara O'Connor, her face as warm and gentle as sunlight on a cold day. She was seated in the garden where she always read her books, the scent of blooming roses filling the air. Leson, as a child, had approached her with a question he no longer remembered. She had simply smiled, pulling him into her arms.

"No matter what anyone says, my son," she had whispered, "you are loved. You are mine, and I will always love you the most."

The dream shifted again. This time, his uncle, Commander Daren O'Connor, loomed in the shadows of the great hall. His presence was as commanding as Alaric's but tinged with a quiet sorrow. He was a man of few words, his stoic demeanor broken only by the occasional flicker of pain in his eyes. Daren had always brought Leson gifts—intricate carvings, ancient books, even a fine dagger—but he never stayed long enough for conversation. He would hand over the gift, offer a curt nod, and disappear into the halls of the keep, leaving Leson to wonder what haunted his uncle so deeply.

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And then there was Krythos Blackwood, Leson’s enigmatic cousin. Krythos was everything Leson was not—charismatic, skilled with a blade, and endlessly confident. Yet, despite their differences, Krythos treated Leson with a strange sort of affection, often dragging him to the kitchens to taste the sweetest desserts or daring him to try the spiciest dishes the chefs could muster. "Come on, Leson," Krythos would say with a teasing grin, "you’re an O’Connor. Surely you can handle a little heat!"

But Leson never felt like an O’Connor. Not truly.

He was terrible at swordsmanship, fumbling with the blade as if it were a foreign object. His family had mastered the art of nullifying magic—a skill passed down through generations of O’Connors—but Leson? He was different. Magic came to him naturally, a flow of energy he could summon without effort. Yet this very talent marked him as an outlier in a family that prided itself on countering sorcery, not wielding it.

The only solace Leson ever found was in books. He would retreat to the castle library for hours on end, losing himself in tales of ancient kingdoms, forgotten heroes, and the mysteries of the arcane. In those stories, he felt safe. He felt seen. He is the hero in those stories.

He was happy smiling, feeling himself as the hero in the story. But that smiling sound faded, replaced by an eerie silence. And then he was in the void.

In the void of unconsciousness, there was silence—a cold, suffocating quiet that seemed endless. Then, a voice echoed faintly.

“Leson...”

He turned toward it, finding himself in a white expanse. His mother was there, her figure wreathed in black smoke. Her face, pale and sorrowful, looked at him with infinite regret.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken words.

Leson tried to move toward her, but his body wouldn’t obey. She reached out, her hand just out of his grasp, before her form dissolved into the mist.

“Mother!” Leson shouted, his voice cracking.

He woke with a gasp, the void vanishing in an instant. The acrid smell of blood and smoke assaulted his senses, and his heart pounded against his ribs.