The royal chambers of Daelion rarely knew such stillness. Air hung heavy with lavender oils and candle soot as King Kaelion stood by the tall windows, his gaze lost beyond the mist-laden courtyards. Behind him, Queen Mirelda sat upon the edge of their son's bed, her slender fingers brushing aside golden strands clinging to Doster's damp forehead.
She was a woman of breathtaking beauty, with silken auburn hair cascading down her back, her emerald eyes flecked with gold like sunlight caught in forest leaves. Yet today those eyes were clouded with a fear no mother should bear.
Doster's nightmares had worsened over the weeks. Each night he woke trembling, gasping for air, unable to remember what horrors stalked him in his sleep. Only an aching emptiness remained, as if a part of him was lost beyond the veil of dreams.
Desperate for answers, Queen Mirelda summoned the kingdom's greatest physicians. They came with glowing orb-lights and silver tubes, checking his pulse, aura, and eyes, whispering among themselves as they pored over rune-etched scrolls.
"Your Majesty," said the eldest among them, bowing low, "there is no illness we can diagnose. His body is healthy in all measures."
But health meant nothing when terror stalked a child's mind. Seeking wisdom beyond mortal reach, King Kaelion called upon the palace mages. Hooded in black and silver, their chants filled the hallways with echoing incantations as glyphs of blue and gold spiralled around Doster's frail form.
When their rituals ended, the eldest mage stepped forward. His face was hidden under shadow, but his voice trembled as he spoke.
"My King, my Queen… there is nothing to be concerned about. Nightmares are common at this age."
But behind lowered lashes, one of the younger mages trembled. Only hours ago, Lord Razdan had stood before them in their secluded tower, his golden eyes gleaming like molten coins in candlelight.
"Speak nothing of what you see within the boy," Razdan had hissed, his voice like silk drawn over steel. "Or your tongues shall rot within your mouths before the next eclipse. Ah The Eclipse, it does not darken the sun. It reveals what light blinds us from seeing. Ha ha ha ha, Bwa Ha ha ha..."
As the mages filed out of the chamber, Doster watched them leave, his hazel eyes narrowing in confusion and unease.
"Is this what Lord Razdan meant…? That they would find something within me? Something that will dictate the inevitable through me..."
That night, as dusk fell and shadows devoured the far hills, Doster sat alone upon the marble balcony outside his room. The rustling leaves fell silent. The distant birdsong faded. In that suspended moment, the world itself seemed to hold its breath.
A flicker crossed his mind—images beyond time:
A throne room drenched in shadows.
A blood-red eclipse hanging above silent battlements.
His own hand, outstretched, clutching at swirling black light.
He gasped, his breath ragged, as the vision vanished. Deep within, something unseen stirred, coiled like a sleeping serpent awakening, its presence bleeding faint thoughts into his own before fading back into darkness.
The next morning, Arnold stood upon the sandstone arena of the Hall of Disciplines, sweat dripping from his brow as he faced Zaldurdin. Around him, other trainees gripped their Raspers—training swords embedded with diluted nozterite crystals that attracted each other's aura without harming flesh, perfect for sparring.
Zaldurdin's thunderous voice boomed across the grounds. "Today we forge not only your blades, but your discipline. Remember the rules: no direct body contact, no magic. Victory is claimed when your Rasper touches the nape of your opponent. Begin!"
Arnold inhaled deeply, focusing his trembling mana into the Rasper's monocrystal blade. As he tried to mold it into a standard sword formation, flickering shards of stone and soil erupted from the blade, orbiting around it in ragged, protective rings. He faltered, nearly dropping the weapon, shame burning hot in his chest.
Expecting ridicule, he lowered his gaze. Instead, Zaldurdin stepped forward, his scarred face breaking into a toothy grin beneath his braided beard.
"Boy, do you even realise what you've done?"
Arnold blinked in confusion.
"This… this is no failure. You have forged a technique unseen in any scroll."
The dwarf raised the Rasper high, letting the orbiting shards glitter in dawnlight. "Henceforth, this shall be called the Orbital Sovereignty – a defensive orbital strike formation. Master this, and even death will find it hard to touch you."
A flicker of pride ignited within Arnold, eclipsing his exhaustion. Beside him, Doster watched quietly, eyes distant, thoughts drifting elsewhere.
One by one, Zaldurdin called forth trainees to spar.
When Arnold faced Noir Stark, the peasant prodigy moved like shadow and lightning combined, each strike fluid and sharp. Arnold's Asterytic satellites deflected two lunges with crystalline shrieks as shards scraped along Noir's Rasper. But control slipped from his hands; Noir feinted left, darted forward, and tapped Arnold's nape with the Rasper's cool blade.
"Point to Noir," Zaldurdin barked, his voice neither harsh nor indulgent. "Arnold, your Halo saved you twice. Master it fully, and victory will be yours next time."
When Doster faced Nobleson Grenard, the broad-shouldered noble charged with raw power, swinging his Rasper in crushing arcs. Doster moved like water, each step silent, each parry effortless. He slid under Grenard's overhead slash and tapped his nape with a flick of his wrist before the boy even registered what had happened. The spectators fell silent, whispers of awe and unease weaving through their ranks.
As twilight bled purple and gold across the sky, the final match began: Doster versus Noir.
They faced each other, calm and poised. Noir lunged with lightning thrusts, his strikes imbued with relentless precision. Doster evaded each, his movements impossibly fluid, as if he saw every attack before it was made. The clashing Raspers sent radiant flashes across the arena, and dust rose, obscuring them in a swirling cloud.
Noir twisted, his blade humming towards Doster's ribs. Doster spun, deflecting the strike and bringing his Rasper towards Noir's nape. Both blades froze inches from victory, energy crackling between them like a silent storm.
"Enough!" Zaldurdin roared, stepping forward as the ground seemed to quake beneath his boots. "If this continues, the damage to your spirits will be irreparable. This match… is called."
Both boys stood panting, sweat dripping from their brows, eyes locked in a silent understanding—a respect forged in combat, and an unspoken rivalry etched deep within their souls.
Days melted into weeks. Their tenth birthday loomed upon the horizon like a rising eclipse. Each night, Doster woke trembling, haunted by dreams he could not remember. Only a hollow echo remained within him, and sometimes, faint whispers of a voice that was not his own, promising truths that would one day unravel everything he knew.