Elden City had known fear long before the conquering began. Under La Mort’s rule, oppression had become the planet’s only language. But in that oppression, one boy still burned with defiance in his chest, a boy who refused to follow his father’s rule. Ezra.

  He was the son of the conqueror, the heir to a throne carved from his father’s greatest victories. Yet unlike his father, Ezra had a heart that beat for the people. Some called him na?ve. Others called him hope, the shining light in the darkness.

  He walked Elden City like a prince who cared for his people, but in his chest beat the heart of a traitor — at least that’s what his father would have the people believe. But those on the ground knew better. They knew the boy. They knew Ezra.

  His footsteps marched down the halls, deliberate, defiant. Each step carried the weight of the people. The guards stood stiffly whenever he walked down the long halls of the kingdom; their eyes remained fixed ahead, refusing to meet his gaze. They knew better than to be drawn into his antics and meet the wrath of their king.

  But Ezra was more than a prince. He was a child of Elden City — a boy who walked with dirt on his boots and laughter in his throat. He loved his people, and they loved him for it.

  Jesters sang his name across the evergreen markets, strumming their keys in his honour. Fruit stalls at the city’s heart offered him their finest choices. Not much, but enough to say thank you — for being one of them, for never forgetting where he belonged.

  But nothing got past La Mort and his trusted advisor, Beof. La Mort had been through hundreds of wars; he bent leaders’ wills and seized planets in his name. He was a warmonger, a breaker of wills, a man who believed in absolute power and cast that belief like a dark plague across every land he touched with his kiss of death. When word of Ezra’s kindness reached him, his wrath could not be contained.

  A son offering pity to the weak — affection where it did not belong — sickened him to his core. Ezra’s disobedience would not be tolerated, and those the prince loved would pay the consequences of his persistent defiance.

  Beautiful green hills wrapped around the edges of Elden City. Rivers gleamed under the morning sun as they flowed through the land. Streets of rough brown stone and gravel weaved between stalls and markets crowded with spices, fabrics, fresh fruit, vegetables, and trinkets.

  Taverns filled with laughter, and jesters played from dusk till dawn. Though clasped by a cruel hand, the city still found ways to breathe through the unrelenting pressure they found themselves in.

  Then one day, the city’s breath was stolen without warning. It was a normal day in Elden City; the townsfolk went about their everyday chores. The city was alive. Jesters sang Ezra’s name as they did every morning, and the people danced to an all-too-familiar beat. But then everything went dark. The hairs on their arms stood to attention; something was off. A darkness filled the skies above, and shadows fell over the square. Heads immediately tilted upward as their hearts began to beat in their mouths. Every fibre of their being told them trouble was upon them. They prayed, but as they looked up, they knew immediately their prayers would go unanswered, and their nightmares would once again become their reality as a dark silhouette hovered above, eclipsing the sky as he descended upon them.

  Gasps echoed from every mouth gathered. It was their king. The people knew La Mort didn’t visit them unless he had a message to deliver or a person to torture. They all stood with bated breath as La Mort touched down on the gravel with immaculate poise; his presence sent tremors through the hearts of the crowd gathered.

  “People of Elden City,” his voice hit like a drum, causing every heart to beat quickly. “I am here to deliver a message to all who welcome my son among them. Heed my warning — if you are seen fraternising with the prince, your offerings will be doubled. Your payments to me will be tripled. And if that is not met...” His black eyes swept across the people, void of any mercy. “...I will take your head as my prize.”

  Women’s faces bent in horror as children clung to their mothers’ waists tightly. Their tears burst through like a broken dam as fear enveloped the joy they had moments ago, pushing it down deep enough that it wouldn’t be swallowed by the darkness that stood before them. The crowd shrank back. The music died, replaced by nothing more than the wind blowing through the square.

  La Mort’s words had landed — or so he thought. From the back, a voice rose above the rest, sharp, small, and breaking the silence that had engulfed his people.

  “And if we choose not to agree?”

  The sea of people parted with quick haste. A short, bald-headed elderly man stepped forward: fragile, a thin ragged cloth wrapped about him, sandals worn thin from years of hard labour, and eyes that had seen too much bloodshed. The crowd watched with mouths open and eyes glued to him as he made his way to the front.

  “And who might you be, old man?” La Mort asked.

  “My name is Joseph Lester the First,” the man spat. “A working man who has known nothing but work.”

  “And you speak for these people?” La Mort’s question came calm and cold as he waved out across those gathered before him.

  Joseph looked once across at the children, at the men broken by the darkness, and at the mothers frozen in fear. He wanted to say he spoke for them all, to be the voice for the voiceless, but he would not drag them into this; this was his fight.

  “I carry no voice but my own,” he said.

  La Mort’s head tilted, a sly chuckle escaping from his lips. It was the first time anyone in his city dared to challenge their king, the first time someone stood up to his rule.

  “Well then, speak. The floor is yours,” he echoed with a courteous, sarcastic smile plastered across his face.

  Joseph cleared his throat and began, his voice steady despite his frailty. “You have inflicted fear across the galaxy, La Mort. I am old enough to know of your exploits; the people fear you, and with good reason.”

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  “Flattery will not save you,” La Mort interjected, his smile turning cold.

  “I do not cling to flattery,” Joseph said. “I cling to truth. I remember the frightened child you once were — the boy who loved his mother, who loved his father. That boy became a man who failed. Your mother would be ashamed of the man you are today. She was a woman of honour, of compassion, much like Ezra. And you punish him for being like the only warmth you ever knew.”

  For a flicker of a breath, memories of brighter, more compassionate days flicked through La Mort’s mind like a film reel, but with a sharp shake of his head, his jaw tightened and his eyes flickered between blinking and opening. The old ache of better days brushed his mind, then was gone as fast as it arrived, rejected at the door and burned out of the darkness. He extended his hand, and the floor below Joseph began to shake. He looked around, terrified, as he no longer had control of his body as it lifted, suspended in the air. Joseph began to choke, clawing at his throat for even a sliver of air. But through the struggle, he managed to get his words out for his king to hear.

  “If you are going to kill me, look me in the eye when you do it,” Joseph managed, his voice hoarse. “Killing the last piece of your past will not set you free. You can bury the past all you want, but you can never kill what you once were. History will always remember; you will always remember,” he said, coughing and struggling as he continued to speak. “Your mother’s ghost will haunt you until the very end, La Mort. It is never too late to change and rebuke the darkness that holds your heart.”

  La Mort began to laugh, a cold, hysterical sound flowing out of his mouth. “May her ghost continue to chase a shadow she will never touch,” he said, lips pulling into a vicious smile. “Because when I am gone, old man, the place my soul is going to will not welcome her at its doors. There’s a special place for men like me, and I accepted that long ago. Hell, I welcomed it with open arms. But for now—”

  He thrust his hand forward, and Joseph came spearing through the air, suspended in front of him. His hand reached forward and tore through flesh and bone before he paused for a second, watching Joseph shake as blood poured out of his body and mouth.

  “Say hello to Mother for me,” he said, voice as cold as the heart that beat in his chest.

  Then he ripped out Joseph’s beating heart and held it up for all to see as the old man’s body slumped to the floor, lying lifeless before his people.

  Silence shattered into muffled screams, and panic erupted. Mothers smothered their children’s eyes with one hand and their mouths with the other. Blood pooled around Joseph’s body as La Mort raised the heart, dark red blood dripping from his fingertips.

  “Let this be a reminder of what becomes of defiance,” he said. “Rip out the city’s heart, and it will never grow back.”

  His laughter echoed as he rose into the sky and vanished like the shadow he was.

  The next morning Ezra returned to the square and felt as if the life had been pulled from the city. Jesters did not play their songs. Vendors refused to meet his gaze, and no fruit was pressed into his hands. No one greeted him. Doors slammed in his path. Conversations died. It was as though he’d been erased.

  His heart broke into a million pieces. The place that had made him feel whole was gone.

  As he turned to leave the square, a trembling hand quickly grabbed hold of his. He looked back, and a young woman stood before him, hooded and shaking — a face he remembered well.

  “I’m sorry, Ezra,” she whispered. “We can’t be seen speaking to you. Your father did this. Joseph stood up to him, and this was the price. We all know the cost.”

  He held her gaze a moment and then, silent, gently pulled his hand away.

  For as long as he could remember, his father tried to control him, to mould him and his brother Cane into his likeness. Where Cane obeyed, Ezra resisted. That resistance had always come at a cost — and this time it would be a cost he could not pay back.

  The crowd stood like weathered statues, faces raw with grief. They wanted to hide the truth from the boy, to spare him a new wound. He was small, no taller than five-foot-six, fragile in frame, but the power that rooted deep inside him was something even his father feared. Yet Ezra had never wanted to use it. He was a child of peace. The horrors of war had no place inside his heart.

  But veils do not hold forever. A single crack — one boy’s open sob — and the dam broke. Ezra’s head turned. He saw that small face first: a child crying openly, mouth raw, cheeks full of dried white tears. The sight spread. One by one, faces folded and tears tracked down hardened cheeks. The people parted, and through the widening fissure, Ezra saw a foot on the stone.

  It was a small, ordinary detail: a lone sandal protruding from behind the crowd trying to hide it from him. Ezra’s throat clenched and his heart dropped as he looked left and right at the people that had parted to reveal the detail. As he looked at the crowd, he couldn't see Joseph, and that’s when his body truly went cold. His hands swam through the crowd, parting them as he made the gap bigger. Every step took him closer, revealing more of the body along the way. But as Ezra finally parted the last few people, Joseph lay there, motionless upon the smooth stones, eyes staring up at the bright sky, his body empty of where his soul once lay.

  The air around him seemed to hold its breath, then in an overwhelming flood, memories came crashing down all at once: Joseph’s gentle hands straightening Ezra’s cape, the soft chuckle as they shared a small meal that Joseph let Ezra eat, the small lessons of how to walk among people without seeming above them. They came rushing past so fast, they became overwhelming to Ezra, a lifetime of memories passing through his head.

  His mind broke and his knees gave out; the overwhelming acceptance that his friend had gone was too much for him to handle. He collapsed beside his friend. For a long second he was too stunned to reach out; then the dam broke, and the sound that tore from him was as human and raw as it comes.

  “No! No, no, no!” His cry cut through the square and their hearts, a blade sharpened on grief.

  He gathered Joseph up in his arms. The old man’s frail body felt heavier than any burden Ezra had known, each inch of it loaded with memory, kindness, and the small bravery of a life lived for others. Ezra pressed his face into Joseph’s chest, then his eyes shot towards the sky.

  “Arghhh!” he screamed to the heavens above. His eyes flared electric blue, and in that flare the townsfolk saw something they had never seen in him before: power, grief, and fury braided into one. Thunder and lightning raged across the skies, heat leapt to the surface of his skin, and a woman who reached out to offer comfort in his time of grief pulled back, screaming as his skin burnt her hands.

  Joseph had been the light to La Mort’s darkness, a friend who loved Ezra like a son. Now that light lay extinguished in his arms.

  Ezra rose slowly, Joseph cradled to his heart, and stepped through the crowd. Their faces were ruin, their silence a weight he carried past like a procession. The heavens convulsed above; the bright blue bled into frothing black. Lightning cracked as though it was out for vengeance, and thunder answered like a drum of war.

  When he reached the front of his father’s kingdom, he spoke, his voice low but full of anger.

  “Father,” he said, “your hands are stained with the blood of your own. Your rule will not stand untouched. I swear, by gods and by our people, your reign will end. I will see to it, even if I must burn to do it. I will free these people from you.”

  He looked skyward. “Joseph, my dear friend... I will avenge you. I will build the Elden City you always dreamed of. I promise.”

  For the first time in his life, the boy who swore never to hate felt his soul tremble.

  La Mort sat upon his throne of bleached skulls, watching the storm gather with enjoyment. His talon-like fingers drummed the arm of his chair. A grin carved across his features.

  “So it begins,” he whispered, tasting his son’s pain. “My son speaks at last. Defiance has a price— boy, and in my kingdom it is paid in blood.”