A child taken.

🌒 Prologue — The Boy Born in Fire

The sky was red that night.

Not from sunset — but from fire.

War had swallowed the kingdom of Valoria, and the final battle thundered just beyond the city walls.

Inside a small hut, away from the chaos, a woman cried out in pain as a child entered the world.

Her husband wasn’t there to hold her hand.

He was at the frontlines — the kingdom’s strongest soldier, General Draven, the man whose name was enough to make armies kneel.

And as his sword clashed under a burning sky, his son Aren took his first breath.

Outside, the sound of victory erupted — Valoria had won the war. But no messenger ever came to that hut.

Only silence.

And a letter that never arrived.

When dawn broke, Draven’s name was already carved into the stones of the fallen.

No one spoke of how he died. Only that he was gone.

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🏰 The Prophecy

Days later, the kingdom celebrated its triumph.

The royal courtyard glowed with torches and laughter. Musicians played, wine spilled, and the king — Aldric Vorn — sat upon his golden throne, smiling like a god who thought the world was his.

Then the laughter stopped.

An old monk, thin as bones and dressed in ash-colored robes, stepped forward.

Guards moved to stop him, but the king raised his hand.

> “Speak, old man. What madness brings you to my hall on a night of victory?”

The monk bowed his head. His voice rasped like dying fire.

> “Your Majesty, your victory tonight has sown your own destruction.”

“For a child was born as the war ended — a child with your enemy’s blood. The son of Draven.”

The king’s smile faded.

> “And what of it?”

The monk raised his staff and struck the marble floor once. A blue flame flickered into the air, forming the faint outline of a boy’s face — innocent, unreadable.

> “That boy,” the monk said, “will grow to take everything from you. Your throne. Your crown. Your life.”

The hall fell silent.

Wine stopped pouring.

The king’s voice was low, dangerous.

> “Then I’ll make sure that boy never lives long enough to lift a sword.”

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🌙 The Hunt

Five years passed.

In a quiet village beyond the mountains, Aren lived with his mother. He was small, playful, with his father’s eyes and his mother’s smile — the kind of child that made the world softer just by existing.

But peace never lasts in stories born from war.

That night, the sound of hooves shattered the silence. The king’s soldiers arrived, carrying fire and steel.

Aren’s mother felt it before she saw them — an ache deep in her chest, the kind only mothers know. She rushed to the window and saw torches moving through the fog.

> “Aren,” she whispered, trembling. “Hide behind me. Don’t make a sound.”

The door crashed open.

Armored men filled the room, faces hidden under black steel.

> “By the order of King Aldric Vorn,” one said, “we take the boy.”

> “No!” she cried, holding Aren close. “He’s done nothing—”

The man swung his sword.

And then—light exploded.

A barrier of golden fire burst from the floor, throwing the soldiers back like ragdolls. Their armor burned where it touched the light.

Aren’s eyes widened. The glow surrounded him like a living thing, humming softly.

A mark — faint and fiery — glimmered on his chest.

His mother gasped. “Draven… you knew…”

The barrier flickered, fading with every heartbeat. The spell had been his father’s last gift — a shield of protection meant for this very night.

But the magic couldn’t last forever.

The soldiers stepped back, waiting for the light to die. And when it did — they took him.

They killed his mother when she refused to let go.

Aren’s small hands were still reaching for her when she fell.

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🌑 Witness

From a distance, another child watched — Lyra, daughter of a visiting noble.

She was only four, hidden behind a soldier’s cloak, trembling as she saw the crying boy and the blood on the floor.

She didn’t understand what had happened.

But she never forgot that look — the eyes of a boy who lost everything under the same moonlight that she played beneath.

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🩸 The King’s Decision

When the soldiers brought Aren to the castle, the king stared at the boy for a long, cold minute.

> “Keep him alive,” he said at last. “Raise him here. Train him. Watch him.”

He leaned closer, whispering to his general.

> “If prophecy dares to challenge me… I’ll make destiny my servant.”

And so the boy who was meant to destroy the king was raised within his very walls — a living blade the king planned to turn against fate itself.

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