The sun barely crept over the hills when Lucas stepped outside. Dew clung to the grass, and the morning air bit a little sharper than usual. Chickens clucked quietly in the coop as he tossed out handfuls of feed. He didn’t know why he kept doing the chores maybe because it was almost comforting, like holding onto something normal when everything else was about to spin out of control. Lucas stood outside the cottage, staring at the chicken coop. The same spot where the fox had died just a day ago. A few feathers still clung to the grass, but the body was gone, it was buried by Mirna before dawn. He kicked at the dirt gently. “How can something that felt so right be so scary?” he muttered to himself, “What am I becoming?” “You talking to the chickens now?” a gruff voice called. Lucas looked up sharply. It was Old Rigg, the village butcher, strolling by with his cane. He paused near the fence, squinting at Lucas. “You hear that ruckus yesterday?” Rigg asked. “Saw a fox dead nea

The torches flickered along the marble arches, each flame burning a little colder than the last. Deep in the Hall of Whispers, King Tharion waited in silence, his jaw clenched, eyes dark with suspicion. Moments later, the double doors creaked open. First entered High Priest Cazien, robed in midnight black, his silver beard reaching his chest. Behind him, five others followed each in different colored robes, their footsteps silent on the marble floor. Priest Vanya of the Red Cloak, keeper of war and bloodlines. Priest Aldros in Blue, the scholar of water and truth. Sister Elithe in Green, the voice of nature and healing. Priest Marn of Gold, master of light and the stars. And Sage Truvien, cloaked in gray silent observer of fate. They bowed as one. Tharion didn’t move. “I asked for you alone, Cazien,” he said coldly. Cazien met his eyes. “Where prophecy stirs, the council must be present. You do not command the winds of the old world, Your Majesty.” Tharion sneered.

The sun had barely risen when a cold splash of water shocked Lucas awake. SPLASH! The water hit Lucas like a slap from winter itself. He jolted upright, coughing and flailing, drenched from head to toe. "What in the seven suns...!" He blinked the water out of his eyes to see Mirna standing over him, holding a wooden bowl, arms crossed with zero remorse. "Wake your lazy ass up," she said flatly. "It’s time to train." "Huh?!" Lucas groaned and fell back on the straw mat. "This how you treat people you love? Cold water in their sleep?" "You’re lucky it’s just water." Mirna replied tightly with no smile whatsoever on her face. "You’ve gone mad." "What happened to a nice gentle good morning?" he asked. She threw a dry tunic at his face. "I’ve gone prepared, if you want gentle go live in a storybook. Get dressed boy." He groaned, wiping water from his face as he slid out of bed. "I'm still sore from yesterday you know". Lucas said as he followed Mirna. "Good. T

"I—I think so," Lucas muttered, his voice still shaking as he climbed out of the underground hatch. Dust clung to his clothes and hair. His legs trembled slightly as they hit the floor, but it wasn’t just from fear. Something had changed. Mirna watched him carefully, arms crossed, her face tense and unreadable. “Was that you? The snake...?” Lucas nodded slowly, then met her eyes with a strange seriousness. “I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t even think. It just happened. I saw something... someone...” Mirna narrowed her eyes. “Speak clearly, Lucas.” Lucas swallowed and sat down on the edge of the stool, still catching his breath. “While I was hiding, I... I saw a vision. It wasn’t a dream. It felt real. I was surrounded by people. Spirits, Old, Strange, people. They wore robes like mine. I think they were... wizards.” Mirna blinked, her brow furrowed. “Wizards? You mean...?” “They talked to me,” Lucas continued, his voice trembling. “They said I had to use their minds agains

‎The thunder of boots and shouts from earlier still lingered faintly in the stone corridors beneath the palace. Torches burned low along the arched hallway that led to the cell yard. A cold, damp prison wing carved deep beneath the royal chambers.‎‎Lareth’s footsteps echoed as he walked, his hands clasped behind him, a thin cloak dragging slightly across the floor. As the king’s Special Advisor, he rarely ventured to this part of the palace but tonight demanded it.‎‎Two guards straightened when they saw him approach. One of them opened the heavy iron door without a word, revealing a narrow hallway lined with barred cells. The scent of mildew, old blood, and silence clung thick in the air.‎‎At the far end sat Lord Vellien, bound in enchanted chains, but still holding the air of a man unbroken. His silver hair was disheveled, but his eyes met Lareth’s with cool calculation.‎‎“You’ve come to finish the king’s work?” Vellien asked, his voice low and sharp.‎‎Lareth stepped forwar