A rge crowd gathered in the castle's eastern courtyard beneath the balcony where the schor-king, King Malrik, gave his speeches on special occasions. It was that time of year when he stood before his subjects and procimed his vision for the future. He would give promises of wealth, prosperity, and safety to his people.

  The streets below bustled with merchants weaving through the crowd, trying to sell goods—food, jewelry, and other such things. Despite word spreading of the king’s illness after st year’s address, hope still clung to the crowd. They believed their king would live on much longer. After all, the city was blessed with their very own light—a beautiful, luminous gem the size of a two-story building. It hovered in their tallest tower, levitating and showering the city with its holy light for all to see, almost like a lighthouse—a beacon of hope.

  Pairs of knights stood at attention throughout the courtyard, keeping a close eye on the crowd, ensuring that while the people were happy, they remained safe.

  A hush fell over the crowd as one of the king's trusted schors walked out from behind two heavy linen drapes onto the balcony, raising both hands to call for silence. Once the crowd quieted, he stepped aside, and the drapes were drawn, revealing the great schor-king Malrik.

  He had a frail, thin frame, a long and wispy white beard, and a crown that looked as if it might be a little too heavy for his head. No one knew exactly how old the king was, but rumors said that, being blessed and chosen by the light, he had lived for over two hundred years.

  He scanned the crowd with sunken eyes, licked his lips, and gave a small cough before speaking.

  "My good people of Vaelorin!" His voice echoed across the courtyard—loud, commanding, a voice that did not match his body. "This past year, we have witnessed the bors of our farmers, and for that, we did not starve in the colder days!"

  A boisterous cheer erupted from the crowd.

  "We witnessed the bravery of our soldiers, smiting evil at the wrist and protecting us from evildoers and beasts alike—and for that, we stand proud and ever stronger! And most importantly, we have witnessed the miracles of life, given to us by our holy light. Members of families healed in great numbers, loved ones brought back from the brink—and for that, we are healthy and happy! Bless our light and our people who keep our city prosperous and good! Bless Vaelorin!"

  The people cheered again, louder this time. Then silence fell as they awaited the predicted blessings for the coming year.

  King Malrik gazed across the crowd once more—but something shifted. A flicker. A pressure behind his eyes. He blinked.

  Suddenly, his city was in fmes. Walls broken. Streets littered with the bodies of his people and knights. And beyond them—a colossal beast, as rge as the mountains themselves. It turned slowly, fixing its empty gaze upon the king. An unholy wail—deep, ghostly, almost human—tore through the air.

  He stumbled back with a gasp as the beast lunged, impossibly fast for its size.

  Malrik fell to his knees, hands raised in front of him, and let out a frightened yell—

  —but nothing happened.

  He blinked again. The blue sky. The silent crowd. No fire. No monster.

  He was back.

  A schor rushed to his side and helped him up, his face etched with concern. Malrik pushed the schor aside—not with anger, but with urgency—and raised his hand to calm the murmurs below. He took a deep, shaky breath and turned back to his subjects.

  "In the… in the coming year, I predict that we will be blessed with good health, breakthroughs in our knowledge of ancient texts and runes, as well as fertility for our people—so that we may grow ever more, and ever stronger!"

  Once more a cheer came from the crowd, although this time a little quieter and almost unsure. With that, Malrik had to turn and head back into the castle.

  As Malrik entered the castle room, he was greeted by his five children. His Eldest, Vaedros approached him with a tender smile—a performance rehearsed more for the court than for his father.

  The private chamber beyond the balcony was cold despite the golden light pouring in from its stained-gss windows. Thick velvet curtains muffled the sounds of the crowd still dispersing below. A fire crackled in the stone hearth, but no one sat near it.

  King Malrik stood at the long table, hands trembling slightly as he poured himself a cup of dark tea. He didn’t offer any to his children.

  Vaedros was the first to speak, stepping forward with one hand on his finely embroidered belt, the other smoothing the pleats of his tunic.

  “You gave them a scare, Father. Colpsing in front of the city like that? It may be time we consider delegating your duties—perhaps even—”

  Malrik turned, eyes hollow.

  “Perhaps even crown you king, is that it?”

  Vaedros blinked. “I didn’t say that.”

  “No,” Malrik said, voice ft. “But you dressed for it.”

  Vaedros shifted uncomfortably, gncing down at his polished boots. “There’s nothing wrong with maintaining dignity—”

  “Dignity is earned,” Malrik interrupted. “Not stitched into a doublet.”

  At the far end of the room, Maelis moved toward her father, clutching a folded cloth she had fetched from a servant. She reached up gently, dabbing at his brow.

  “You’re burning up again,” she said softly. “You shouldn’t be standing.”

  “I will stand until I can’t,” Malrik muttered. “Then I’ll sit on my throne and rot properly.”

  Cassimir chuckled faintly. “Morbid, Your Majesty. But perhaps… symbolic.”

  He drifted along the edge of the room like a shadow in human form, hands tucked into the sleeves of his pin gray robes. His tone was pleasant, but his eyes tracked the room with serpentine precision.

  “You saw something out there,” Maelis said. “Didn’t you?”

  Malrik stared into his cup. “I saw the end.”

  “A dream?” Sylwen asked from her seat near the fire. She didn’t rise—just tilted her head in interest, long fingers pying idly with the gemstone on her ring. “Or a vision?”

  Malrik didn’t answer.

  “Does it matter?” Vaedros cut in. “Even if it were real, a king must act, not hallucinate. We can't afford another year of uncertainty while the people whisper behind closed doors.”

  “Ah,” Malrik said dryly. “Now he’s a king, prophet, and political strategist. A marvel of modern mediocrity.”

  Vaedros’s face tightened, but he said nothing.

  “You should be proud of him,” Sylwen said zily. “At least he’s eager. Most would call that loyalty.”

  Malrik turned toward her, but his gaze stopped on Maelis.

  “You coddle them,” he said. “All of you. Oriven crushes skulls, Theron hides in corners, and Vaedros polishes his ego until it shines. And yet it’s you I see tending servants and picking flowers.”

  Maelis didn't flinch. “And you see me now tending to you.”

  For a moment, silence.

  Cassimir stepped in smoothly, voice calm. “Might I suggest we interpret the vision, rather than argue over it?”

  “No interpretation,” Malrik growled. “I saw a beast the size of mountains. It looked at me. It knew me. It screamed like it had lungs carved from the dead. And then… it was gone.”

  Sylwen finally stood. “Then perhaps we should take precautions.”

  “Perhaps,” Malrik echoed, but his eyes were already drifting. “Or perhaps we simply prepare for the inevitable.”

  Vaedros scoffed. “We could start by clearing out the slums. They're a breeding ground for fear—and disease.”

  From the far wall, Oriven crossed his arms and exhaled through his nose. He said nothing, but his gre at Vaedros spoke volumes. Nearby, Theron stood half-shadowed behind a marble column, his eyes fixed on the king, silent as stone.

  Malrik looked up again. His voice, though soft, cut the room in half.

  “You all speak of what should be done. But none of you ask what must be lost.”

  He turned to Maelis.

  “When the time comes, and it will come soon… you will remember this conversation.”

  The king’s hand waved through the air like swatting away smoke.

  “That’s enough. Be gone, all of you.”

  The royal children hesitated—some out of concern, others offense—but one by one they obeyed. Oriven was the first to turn, his heavy steps echoing with finality. Sylwen lingered the longest, pausing in the doorway with a curious gnce toward Cassimir before slipping out. Only Maelis looked back.

  Malrik met her gaze for a heartbeat—then looked away.

  When the chamber was silent again, the fire crackling faintly in the hearth, Malrik sank into the high-backed chair beside the table and pced his cup down with a soft clink.

  Cassimir stepped forward quietly, folding his hands in front of him.

  “They mean well, Your Majesty.”

  “They mean what suits them,” Malrik said without looking up. “All of them cwing for pieces of a crown that hasn’t fallen yet.”

  “And yet,” Cassimir said smoothly, “you still wear it.”

  Malrik allowed a faint, bitter smile.

  “Because they would shatter it if I left it lying on the floor.”

  He rubbed at his temples, then looked up, eyes bloodshot. “The vision was real.”

  Cassimir nodded solemnly. “I do not doubt it.”

  “It wasn’t just smoke or fear. I heard it—felt it. A will inside that thing. Watching.”

  “And it saw you,” Cassimir said. “Which means it recognizes your light. That, in itself, is power.”

  Malrik’s hands curled slightly. “Power I can’t wield forever.”

  A silence stretched between them. Cassimir paced slowly, the hem of his robes whispering across the stone floor.

  “If I may, Your Majesty… I believe it is time to reconvene the Council of Prophets. Publicly, if possible. Quiet rumors will spread regardless—but if you speak to them as a united front, it may buy time.”

  Malrik exhaled deeply. “Yes. Tomorrow. At dawn. And you—see to it the others don’t undermine me again. The st time I convened them, they looked at me like a madman.”

  Cassimir smiled gently, head inclined. “Then we shall make them see the truth this time.”

  The king narrowed his eyes. “You sound confident.”

  Cassimir’s voice was calm, reassuring. “I have always believed in prophecy, my king. Even the kind that comes in screams.”