Part I – The Obsidian Boy
The cells were quiet, save for the occasional creak of stone shifting under age. Then, one by one, the orbs above each cell began to glow. Pale light trickled down—some gold, some green, one a sullen shade of violet—painting slow arcs across the walls.
In the cell to the left, the old man sighed and lay back, folding his hands behind his head. "Hah. Fitting mood, wouldn't you say? A sky full of strange lights—perfect for a tale long buried."
He didn't wait for a reply. His voice, rasped by time and wear, drifted easily into the shadows between them.
"The first time I saw Castus, he wasn't yet emperor. Just a boy. It was during his father's memorial, in the capital—Valicarn. Every ruler, every imperial magester from Ashkaran to Shenwéi gathered for it. Said it was the second-largest gathering in Myrenith's history. All of Caelvaris came to pay respects."
The old man chuckled, low and gravelly. "They unveiled a statue that day. Emperor Maximus, hero of Valicarn. Obsidian from the Spine Mountains, crowned in solid gold. No one could look at it without envy. Maximus was a titan in those days, even dead."
A dry pause followed. Then came a voice from the neighboring cell.
"Okay, cool history lesson and all," the younger man said, "but you still haven't told me a single thing about the woman you promised to talk about."
The old man groaned. "By the stars, do you young folk ever wait? Always rushing like there's fire under your boots."
"You want me to finish it for you?"
Silence.
"Didn't think so," the younger man said. "I'll take half a story over a full day of sulking."
The old man opened one eye, regarded the shadows between them, then let out a begrudging huff. "Fine. But you best listen."
He turned his gaze upward, toward the glowing orb above.
"We were taking supper when my father started in about politics again. Said the kingdom was in trouble. That Castus was too young to be crowned, and that everyone was pressuring the council. Trade was breaking down, the people restless, whispers of war from the borderlands. 'We need to reassure the public,' they said. 'Project strength.' 'Show them the empire hasn't gone soft.'"
The old man chuckled to himself. "My father? He was no genius. And that's not saying much, considering I came from him."
He laughed, sharp and coarse. The younger man didn't find it funny.
"Anyway," the old man continued, "tension was everywhere. You could smell it. The guilds were restless, the palace on edge. The guards were twitchier than usual. I was just a lad then, not more than fifteen. My father dragged me to the market one afternoon. I don't even remember what we were there for. Probably wine."
He paused, as if tasting the memory.
"That's when we saw them—two men throwing punches in front of a grain stall. One of them was a foreign trader, trying to sell imported steel for double its worth. The other was a local smith who'd had enough. They shouted. People shouted back. And in seconds, the whole crowd split into two sides. One wrong word and—"
He snapped his fingers.
"Chaos."
He let the word hang.
"I remember screams, carts overturned, guards too scared to draw steel. Then, through it all… a single voice. Sharp as a blade.
'STOP.'
And like that—everything froze. The market went silent."
The old man sat up slightly, his face partially lit by the flickering orb.
"At the base of Maximus's statue stood a hooded figure. He raised a hand, then pulled back the hood. It was the prince. Castus. The boy who hadn't even come of age yet. His hair was jet-black then. No crown. No armor. Just presence. He said nothing for a moment. Just… looked. And then he spoke."
He softened, almost reverent.
"He told us that day's violence was born of fear, and fear came from silence. He said the throne would not wait for him to 'come of age,' because the kingdom had already bled too long. He would be crowned at dawn. The 42nd Emperor of Caelvaris."
A silence passed.
"And so it was. At sunrise, we all gathered in the Hall of Flame. He knelt, and his mother placed the crown on his head. The moment it touched, his hair turned gold. Just like that. No magic. No fanfare. Just a change, like it was always meant to happen."
The old man leaned back against the wall.
"He gave a speech—gods, it moved the stone in the floor. Spoke of rebuilding trust, of giving the people their pride back. Said the empire would burn bright again. And for a time… it did."
He closed his eyes.
"Didn't take long, though. The Jade Empire of Shenwéi sent troops to our borders within the week. Tents like little white scars on the hills outside our walls. Castus was barely older than I was—didn't even know how to channel his Seal to grant magic to the army. Half the soldiers were too scared to grip their swords."
The old man gave a humorless laugh.
"I was just a recruit then. Still in training. We were told to stand at the back wall in case of a breach. I didn't even have real armor. Just a tin chestplate and prayers."
He fell quiet for a time.
"Funny how it all felt like a story even then."
The grumble in his stomach echoed louder than he expected, loud enough to catch the attention of the cresthound in the opposite cell. The creature snarled low and wary, its glimmering eyes locked on him with caution. He chuckled and raised his hands, mock-defensive.
"Easy, buddy. Didn't mean to bare my fangs," he said, patting his stomach. "Guess you don't like loud noises. Well, newsflash—I don't like you either."
The cresthound let out a soft growl, curling deeper into the corner. He sighed and leaned back against the stone wall, arms crossed.
"Hey, old man," he called, "do they ever serve lunch or dinner in this place? Or is starvation part of the hospitality?"
From the other cell, the old man exhaled with theatrical annoyance. "Were you even listening to a word I said? And stop calling me 'old man.' You've got no manners, calling your senior that. Besides… you eat what you earn here."
The young man groaned. "Great. If I don't eat something soon, I'm gonna die in this twisted fantasy world. What a way to go."
The old man chuckled, his voice rasping with amusement. "If hunger's all it takes to break your spirit, boy, then the world has no place for you."
A silence settled for a beat before the young man stirred again.
"So… these rulers and magesters you mentioned," he began, "what's the deal with them, anyway?"
The old man turned his head slightly, curious. "You really don't know?"
"I'm not completely in the dark," he replied. "I've already been kicked out of one kingdom, so I'm kind of catching on."
The old man raised a brow. "Which one?"
"The one with the queen."
"That… doesn't narrow it down."
The boy thought a moment. "The one with the fancy towers, silver trees, and all the soldiers in white. You know, kind of high on the drama."
Realization lit in the old man's eyes. "Ah. You should've just said Elenora. Queen of the Crowned Isles of Eiravell. She's a fiery one, that one. One of only two queens left in the world."
"Two?" the boy asked.
"Yes. Elenora of Eiravell and Naheera Al-Dahm, Sultaness of the Veiled Court of Ashkaran."
"So… five kingdoms total, right? Five rulers?"
The old man nodded. "That's right. First, the Dominion of Caelvaris—my homeland. Ruled now by High Imperator Lucien Vrax. Ruthless doesn't even begin to cover him. I hope you never have the misfortune of meeting him."
"Duly noted."
"Then there's the Jade Empire of Shenwéi. Emperor Xun Li-Yian holds the Twilight Throne. An honorable man—too honorable, some say. Bound too tightly by tradition."
The old man paused before continuing. "The Great Steppe of Khural-Tai is next. Temur Rauk, the Sky-Khan, rules there. Strongest military in the world. Even the winds bow to their riders."
"So that's five kingdoms. Nice to have it all laid out," the young man muttered. "Are they all as 'hospitable' as the Crowned Isles? Because back there, they slapped a gold collar on me and exiled me."
The old man gave a dry laugh. "That collar was mercy. Had you been someone else, you'd be floating face-down in the bay by now. Beheading, hanging, drowning—Eiravell doesn't waste time with spies."
The young man rubbed the back of his neck. "So close to death and I didn't even know it."
The old man tilted his head, as if sizing him up for the first time. "How did you make it this far?"
He thought of her then—the girl in the garden, her voice, her kindness. But he kept her out of his words. "Dumb luck," he said instead. "That's all."
The old man went quiet again, then asked, "Why were you taken, then? What made them collar and banish you?"
"I don't know," the young man said truthfully. "One minute I'm asleep… next I'm here."
"No magic?" the old man asked, now fully sitting up. "No strange aura? No power that made them take notice?"
"I was unconscious. Maybe I snore loud enough to frighten kings."
The old man blinked, then laughed again. "Well. Whatever it was, it'll come to light soon enough. This world doesn't let secrets sleep for long."
The old man had gone quiet. The silence between them stretched, and the distant dripping of water in the dungeon returned to fill the space where stories once echoed.
"Hey," the protagonist called out. "Don't go sleeping on me now. You were just getting to the good part."
The old man jerked awake, eyes dazed. "Where... where am I?"
"Still in a cell. With me. And you've got a story to finish."
Clearing his throat and muttering something about being too old for this, the old man finally said, "If it were so easy to finish, I'd have done it a long time ago."
He sat upright, eyes clouded by memory. "So there we were... at the rear line of the battlefield. Soldiers lined the walls—spears, bows, blades, shields. Some were trembling so hard, their swords clanged against their armor."
"It was a losing battle. We had barely thirty magic users and twenty guildmembers among us. The rest were frightened recruits like me. One of them kept muttering we were all going to die. That the Jade Empire had over ten thousand warriors—every one of them wielding some form of magic. We had eight thousand. No tricks. No miracles."
"I started to believe him. The shaking in my chestplate wasn't from cold."
"Then came Castus. Just a boy... but clad in gilded armor that shimmered like dawnlight. He climbed the stairs to the top of the wall. No fear in his stride."
'"I'm scared too,"' he said. '"But not of dying. I'm scared I'll never see my family again. My mother, my siblings, my home. I'll not lose them to invaders—not while I breathe."'
"That was all he said. And it was enough. First a whisper, then a chorus. They cheered for him, and he led us to hold the line long enough for him to slip behind enemy lines. He captured the enemy general with his own hands. The siege ended before it truly began. Not by might. But by resolve."
The protagonist raised an eyebrow. "That's it? One speech, one siege? That's what made him legendary?"
The old man gave him a sharp glance. "Don't belittle it. That's only what I remember from my youth. I'm not even close to done."
Meanwhile...
The princess, Elyra, wandered through the tangled edge of the woods, her silk cloak dusted with leaves and frustration. "We've been searching since morning," grumbled Garrin. "Maybe he's dead."
"Not until I find the thieves who took my cresthound," she replied stubbornly.
Maevis sighed. "Your Highness, even your guards are growing tired."
Alin squinted at the map, worry lining his brow. "We shouldn't keep heading this way."
Elyra looked at him. "Why not?"
"We're getting too close to the borders of Caelvaris."
Then, Alin stumbled, sprawling awkwardly. The others turned, amused. "Really?" Garrin said. "You trip over air now?"
Alin rubbed his leg. "I didn't! I tripped on something metal—"
They ignored him. But behind them, the ground began to tremble. And then it moved.
A shape rose. A mass of bone and rot, plated in ancient armor. Its fingers were ribbed with spiked iron. A crest of hollow banners clattered in the stale wind that followed its breathless awakening.
It crawled with bones. It stepped with bones. It breathed with bones. And it saw with eyes of red fire.
Tyvranox, the Hollowwind.
An ancient beast, long entombed beneath the earth, now awakened.
They froze.
Its gaze scanned each of them... and stopped on Elyra.
Maevis leapt in front of her—but was flung aside by a pulse of invisible force. Garrin and Alin tried to intervene, only to be tossed away like ragdolls.
The princess staggered back, glancing wildly for a weapon. She spotted a dagger half-buried in the mud. She dove for it.
But before her fingers could touch the hilt—
Tyvranox leapt.
Sword raised.
Eyes burning.
Ready to strike.
To Be Continued in Part II