Prologue: Grim Harbinger of a Fallen Kingdom
"In fire, he burned the lies. In frost, he tried to preserve the truth. But the world chose silence."
District 1: Ivory Citadel – Capital of Britannia
Year 6288 A.L. – Twelve Years Before the Crucible
The sun rose blood-orange over the spires of the Ivory Citadel, its light veiled by the ever-present smog of the floating refineries above the city. From atop the skytrams and iron causeways, holographic banners shimmered with the face of King Magnus Albion IV, crowned in platinum laurels. His gaze was tranquil. warm. But unyielding.
Below, the people cheered.
A crowd had gathered in Unity Square, where the monarchy's greatest champions—the Royal Vanguard—prepared to hunt a traitor. A former elite soldier.
Skyward Fortress – Mobile Command Deck of the Royal Vanguard
I always thought my first mission would be glorious.
A standing ovation at the academy. Gold sash around my shoulder. My parents crying in the crowd while the Commander called my name from the stage.
Top 1% percentile.
Graduated with honors.
Flawless marks in tactical and power aptitude.
S-Rank readiness.
They said I was born to serve Britannia.
And I believed them.
Until the day they deployed me.
Day One – Mission Briefing: District 1, Central Operations Bunker
The lights hummed above us, casting sterile blue light across the steel floor. Maps, schematics, and live surveillance feeds floated in holograms across the situation room.
In the center was a name pulsing in red.
A man who once swore loyalty to the king.
His name was Isaac Draven.
Former Lieutenant Commander of the Royal Vanguard.
Fire/Ice Hybrid-Type.
Tactical Genius.
Fugitive.
My first mission? Assist in capturing or neutralizing him.
I could barely keep my heart from pounding. Not just from fear—but honor. I'd be working with legends: Captain Lysander, the man who fought in the Crimson Rebellion; Colonel Vera, the Iron Valkyrie of District 9.
And me? Just a rookie fresh out of the Academy.
They said I was ready.
But no training prepares you for war in your own streets.
District 1 — Downtown. Britannia's Crown Jewel
It began with a spark. Then, a storm.
Towering skyscrapers once kissed the heavens above District 1, their neon spires gleaming like stained glass under the artificial sun. Hovercars hummed through the skies in synchronized harmony, megascreens blared propaganda, and children played in the clean, state-monitored playgrounds of the Upper Wards.
But by nightfall, all of that would be ash.
The emergency sirens screamed long before the first flame ignited the skyline. Special Class Heroes—engineered champions of the Britannian Crown—poured into the city like a wave of silver and light, following a trail of destruction that cut through the district like a scythe through wheat. They weren't hunting a monster.
They were hunting one of their own.
"We have eyes on Subject: Isaac. Confirmed fire and ice wielder. Level Omega threat."
"He's headed toward Central Infrastructure Nexus. Repeat, C.I.N is under direct threat!"
Smoke curled from collapsed tunnels. Glass shattered beneath their boots. Heat rippled through the stale air, and frost coated the walls in a ghostly glaze. A contradiction of climates. A battlefield claimed by one man. From the shadows of a crumbling bus station, a man emerged—lone, breathless, bloodied, and alive only by will. His hair was silvered, not by age, but by the cold he bent to his will. Blue flames flickered from one hand, white frost spiraled from the other. His eyes—once proud and golden—now burned like twin suns ready to collapse into black holes.
He stepped into view like a nightmare given breath.
Tall. Lean. Scarred across the chest where a royal crest had once been branded, now burned over. His black coat fluttered behind him like wings of ash, and from each hand poured unnatural energy—left, a cold that turned light into crystal; right, a flame that danced like a living soul.
Isaac Draven was a former Captain of Britannia's 9th Elite Legion… A gifted warrior, forged in the empire's most ruthless crucibles. Once draped in the crimson and silver of the House of Albion, he now moved in shadows, branded a terrorist. A defector. A madman.
"Traitor of blood. Murderer of kin. Corruptor of truth."
That's what the broadcasts said. That's what the people believed.
It started with the alarms.
Then the explosions.
Then the sky caught fire.
Isaac came in like a god of wrath, cloaked in black, a storm of flame and frost tearing through the city like parchment. Power stations melted. Skybridges collapsed. Civilian towers cracked down the middle as if cleaved by divine judgment.
We moved fast—squadron alpha deployed to intercept, beta rerouted traffic and evacuations. I followed Captain Lysander into the smoke.
I spotted Isaac first. Towering in the center of a crater, one arm radiating with fire, the other trailing frost.
His eyes met mine.
And I froze.
Not from fear.
But from confusion.
Because for a moment, he didn't look like a madman.
He looked… haunted.
"Listen to me!" he roared. His voice echoed across the broken skyline. "You're not protecting peace. You're enforcing tyranny!"
Colonel Vera barked out orders. "Open fire!"
We struck. Blasts of light. Arcane gunfire. Sonic rounds.
But he was too fast.
He spun with elegance and rage, unleashing thermodynamic chaos. One of our mechs melted on contact. Another was flash-frozen in midair and shattered like glass.
We tried to flank. Isaac turned to us—eyes locked on Captain Lysander.
"I trained under you," Isaac shouted, voice cracking. "I bled beside you. And now you serve the same snakes that turned children into weapons. The king is not our savior—he's the architect of genocide!"
"Enough!" Lysander roared back. "You've lost your mind, Isaac!"
I heard one of the veterans mutter under his breath, "He's been swimming in conspiracies. Freak's gone full zealot."
Isaac grimaced. "You think this is conspiracy? You ever wonder why we wage endless wars in the Outlands? Or why civilians vanish in District 16 without a trace?"
No one listened.
We were too busy fighting.
He gritted his teeth as two more heroes descended, their capes fluttering like war banners in the wind. "Stand down, Isaac!" one shouted, her gauntlets crackling with plasma. "This is your last chance to turn yourself in!"
Isaac spat onto the concrete. "Turn myself in? To them? The same pigs who burn families in the Lower Districts to mine innocent blood for their precious Royal Serum?"
"You've lost it!" the other hero growled, his eyes glowing red. "You've been digging into those damn conspiracy theories again! All that nonsense about the House of Albion being descendants of demons? You're smarter than this."
"Am I?" Isaac stepped forward. The air around him shimmered with unbearable heat and searing frost, simultaneously corroding and freezing the world. "Do you really think the Monarchs bled for this country? That they built it from nothing? We did. You and I. And now we die for their lies."
"You've gone too far," said the first hero, leveling her gauntlet. "You need help. Not a war."
Isaac raised his hands, not in surrender, but invocation.
"Then may God forgive me for what comes next."
The Battle for District 1
Classified Footage – Restricted Access Only
He moved like a blade unsheathed.
A streak of flame erupted from his heel as he launched toward the first attacker. His fist, wreathed in frost, shattered the plasma gauntlet in a single blow. Then came the retaliation—energy beams, sonic detonations, gravitational crush-fields—all useless. Isaac danced through them, his mastery of thermodynamics allowing him to superheat the battlefield one moment and freeze it the next. Dozens fell to him. Old comrades. Students he once trained. Commanders he once saluted.
He begged them to listen. He pleaded.
But every time he opened his mouth, they met him with fists, powers, and scorn.
"You're insane! The king unified the continent—he saved us!"
"You're a coward! You couldn't handle being passed up for High Commander!"
"You're killing civilians! You've lost all honor!"
Honor. He laughed bitterly. What use was honor in a kingdom built on innocent blood and ancient lies? What good were medals pinned on the chests of men who slaughtered children? The Purge—they called it. Cleansing of "the children of the devil," they said. Isaac took all of his prestigious medals in his pockets and threw them on the ground.
He remembered the screams.
So Isaac did the unthinkable.
He targeted the heart of the city, intentionally avoiding civilians.
He burned the power grid. Froze the water lines. Tore down the communication towers. Electrical grids. Power plants. Emergency teleportation beacons. The city was in the dark.
"Why is he doing this!?" one young hero cried out, barely dodging a collapsing beam. "He's not just trying to win—he's trying to make us lose everything!"
Isaac didn't reply. He couldn't afford to. Not anymore. Every second he delayed meant another platoon was inbound. Already, the Royal Guardians—Albion's personal enforcers—were breaching through the perimeter.
Desperation flared in his chest. His body trembled under the strain of his dual powers. Blood leaked from his nose. His breath came in short gasps.
Still, he fought...
Then he changed tactics.
He began to target the infrastructure with civilians occupying it. Bridges, buildings, highways, etc. He knew exactly where to hit.
We were forced to pull back and defend civilians. Towering structures crashed into streets as his flames surged across rooftops. His frost expanded beneath roads and caused the lower levels to collapse—entire blocks swallowed into blackness.
It was a nightmare.
I was supposed to be a hero. But there I was, dragging a bloodied woman from rubble while children screamed for their missing parents.
I looked up and saw Isaac on a distant rooftop, eyes watching the chaos.
But not with joy.
With anguish.
He disappeared into the smoke.
Captain Lysander cursed. "We lost visual! All units—fan out! Now!"
But he was already gone.
District 1 burned through the night.
And all I could do was rescue what little we hadn't already lost.
Fire consumed the skyline. Until sector 5 of District 1 was reduced to rubble, screams, and the charred scent of broken dreams. Isaac had escaped but this time the black ops were orederd to find him and apprehend him dead or alive. And I was ordered to find Captain Solen Vire and assist.
Black Ops Unit – "Ghost Team Seven"
"He was one of us. Until he wasn't."
Hours had passed then finally "We have a location," came the crisp voice of Captain Solen Vire, Britannia's Solar Knight and commander of the Vanguard unit.
Location: Subterranean Quadrant – Abandoned Metro Station, District 1
Status: Priority Target Acquisition – Codename: Exile
The stench of damp stone and rusted steel filled the air as our boots touched the cracked marble of the old District 1 train hub. A forgotten relic buried beneath the megacity's polished surface—just another graveyard from a time before the monarchy perfected silence.
We had followed his thermodynamic trail through the chaos of downtown. The team aboveground was still putting out fires—literally and politically. But down here? Down here was our battlefield.
Thermal scans pulsed in our visors.
Fluctuating heat signatures.
A mix of steam… and ice.
He was here.
"Spread out. Standard pincer."
Captain Yurek's voice was calm. Focused.
He always was. Even when we stormed the Gobi Colonies. Even when our own squadmates bled out in the mud.
But tonight felt different.
This was Isaac Draven.
A founding member of Ghost Team Seven.
Their brother.
We weren't just tracking a fugitive.
We were hunting a ghost.
We found him standing on the old platform, cloak draped around him like a funeral shroud. Behind him, a ruined locomotive rotted under flickering halogen lights. The air shimmered with rising heat and freezing cold at once—a thermodynamic storm held barely in check.
He didn't turn to face us at first.
Just whispered, "I knew it'd be you guys."
None of us answered.
"Do you even remember what we swore?" he asked, voice echoing through the station. "To protect the people… not the throne."
Yurek stepped forward. "You've crossed a line, Isaac."
"I haven't crossed it. I just stopped pretending it wasn't there."
We tightened formation.
Isaac finally turned.
Even through our helmets… we felt it.
Sadness.
Regret.
And underneath it all—unbreakable conviction.
"I watched civilians get dragged into 'research facilities,'" Isaac said, pacing slowly. "I saw what they did in District 16. I read the documents. The curses. The bloodlines. Albion's hands are soaked in it."
"You sound like one of them now," muttered Captain Solen Vire. "Those backwater preachers and domestic freaks shouting about angels and blood kings."
"Those 'freaks' are the only ones trying to wake you up."
Captain Yurek leveled his weapon. "This is your last chance. Come quietly. You'll be given a tribunal."
Isaac laughed bitterly. "I trained with you guys. Bled with you guys. And you still don't see it. You think they'll give me a trial? They're going to make an example."
"We don't want to kill you, Isaac," said Selene, her voice cracking through the comms. "But we will."
Isaac's hands ignited—one wreathed in violet flame, the other freezing the air around it. "Then die trying."
The fight was brutal. Personal.
Every punch we threw, he countered with impossible precision. Every time we adapted, he shifted. His fire scorched the air. His frost locked our weapons mid-swing. He was stronger than before—faster, angrier, more… desperate.
But we were trained for this.
We landed hits. Nearly took him down twice.
"You don't have to die!" Yurek shouted, pinning him against a shattered pillar. "You can still come back!"
Isaac smiled, blood pouring from his lip.
"I'd rather die on my feet… than kneel to the throne of monsters."
He slammed his fists into the ground. Fire exploded. Ice cracked. The metro station shook.
"MOVE!!"
We scrambled as the ceiling collapsed. Rail lines burst in showers of sparks. Ancient piping erupted, flooding the chamber in boiling steam. Support columns fell like dominoes. Dust and fire engulfed everything.
When I opened my eyes, we were buried beneath rubble, coughing, bleeding—but alive.
But Isaac was gone.
He'd used the chaos to escape—slipping into the old sewer systems. Gone like smoke in the wind.
Yurek slammed his fist into the wall.
Selene didn't say a word. Just stared at the crater where Isaac once stood.
Captain Solen Vire radioed command. Confirmed we'd failed to neutralize the target.
But no one said what we all thought.
They never wanted to catch him.
We wanted to save him.
But some ghosts don't want redemption.
They want revenge.
And somewhere, down in the dark veins of the city…
Isaac was still moving.
Still planning.
Still burning.
Time: 03:17 a.m. — Location: Unknown Tunnel Exit
Smoke cloaked the underground like a veil.
Isaac dragged himself through the emergency maintenance duct, barely alive. His left arm was scorched to the bone. His right leg shattered. His heart… burned with purpose.
"I'll make them see…" he whispered, barely able to hold his consciousness. "If they won't believe me, I'll carve the truth into the throne itself…"
Behind him, the heroes pulled civilians from rubble, weeping at the sight of lifeless children crushed beneath collapsed shelters. Medical drones hovered overhead. Screams echoed in the night.
But Isaac was gone.
And in the shadow of Britannia's shame, whispers began to spread. Of a rogue soldier wielding both fire and ice. Of a man who stood against the House of Albion alone.
Some called him a villain. Others a madman. But that didn't stop him from carrying out his mission.
"A tyrant's peace is more deadly than a rebel's war."
Hours Later…
District 1 – Inner Ring Collapse Zone
The fires still burned.
From the ashes of the common districts, teams of emergency responders, military personnel, and enhanced recovery drones scoured every collapsed sector in search of survivors. But what they truly searched for—desperately, obsessively—was Isaac Draven.
His name alone sent shivers down their spines. A name once spoken with honor was now whispered with fear. The reports were scrambled, unconfirmed, scattered like shattered glass:
"Possible sighting near the Botanical Gardens—evacuate civilians!"
"No, he's in the Central Medical Archive. He's after patient records!"
"Wait, thermal spike at the Core Transit Tunnel—he's under the city!"
But every lead was a ghost trail.
Isaac was gone.
Meanwhile…
Beneath the polished steel and shattered pride of the city's lower half, a solitary figure crawled up through the underbelly of civilization. His fingers gripped the edge of a rusted manhole. He pushed the lid aside.
And emerged into another world entirely.
Gone were the charred ruins and weeping crowds. Here, the streets were wide and empty, trimmed with imported marble and radiant crystal lamps. White drones hovered in silence, humming like guardian angels. Water fountains glistened with exotic swans swimming about. The air was different—filtered, as if the screams below had never reached these gilded halls.
Isaac stepped out of the sewer, bloody and limping. His eyes narrowed.
He had reached the opulent side of District 1—the sanctuary of the privileged.
Here lived the royalists, the untouchables: politicians, lawyers, military commanders, and above all… members from the House of Albion itself.
"All this, bought with our suffering," Isaac whispered, his voice hoarse. "While we starve in ration lines… they drink wine on balconies carved from the bones of the poor."
He limped through the silent streets, passing mansions with ten-story glass walls, châteaus with private security drones cloaked in active camouflage, and billion-dollar penthouses.
But his eyes were set only on one destination.
He knew where the king would be.
Thanks to a trusted source on the inside—a shadow who had fed him royal schedules, defense layouts, and security blindspots—Isaac knew that tonight, tonight, the patriarch of the House of Albion would return to his private estate on the outskirts of the upper city. Vulnerable. Unprotected.
Perfect.
And yet, as Isaac stepped beyond the last stretch of white-paved roads and into the silent gardens of the king's domain, a chill ran down his spine.
Something was wrong.
Too quiet.
Too still.
The security systems didn't react to his presence. The guards were gone. The air didn't buzz with surveillance.
Then—he heard it.
Footsteps.
Measured.
Calm.
Deliberate.
Isaac raised his head—and saw him.
The King of Britannia. The Father of the Empire. The Serpent on the Throne.
He stood at the garden's edge, framed in moonlight, dressed not in regal robes but in polished military armor streaked with crimson.
And he was alone.
Isaac's heart sank.
He staggered back a step. "No… it can't be…"
"I see betrayal still cuts deeper than your frost, Captain Draven," the king said with a look of sadness in his eyes. "You were always brilliant… but not brilliant enough to realize I've been watching you since you defected."
Isaac clenched his fists. Fire burst from one, ice from the other.
"You set me up," he growled. "You knew I'd come."
"I counted on it."
Isaac's breath hitched. "The informant… they were yours."
The king's look of sadness turned cold and stoic. "Of course. And you followed every breadcrumb like a faithful dog, right to my doorstep."
The betrayal hit Isaac harder than any blade. "All those deaths… all the blood on my hands… you used me."
The king stepped forward. "You were always going to break, Isaac. I just gave you a stage for your performance."
Isaac's jaw tightened. "This empire will burn."
The king's eyes—glowing with subtle, unholy light—narrowed.
"No, Captain. You will."
Isaac lunged.
He unleashed everything: a tidal wave of fire that turned the marble to magma, a glacial barrage of jagged ice that froze the air solid. His roar echoed into the heavens as he tried to carve down the man responsible for everything.
But the king moved like lightning.
Before Isaac could finish his charge—
SHNK.
It was done.
The blade was clean, precise—too fast to see. It gleamed with an unnatural black shimmer, a weapon forged from ancient world, passed down through blood rituals unknown to the world.
Isaac stood still for a moment—his body frozen in time.
Then…
His head fell from his shoulders.
The heroes hot on Isaac's trail when they arrived they found Isaac's body sprawled on the edge of the royal gardens, steam rising from the grass where fire and ice had raged together. His blood painted the king's boots.
Yet the king stood untouched.
"Captain Draven," he said solemnly, "chose a path of madness. He endangered us all. But tonight… order has been restored."
The drone cameras captured every moment.
By morning, the footage would go viral.
Later That Night – Hero Recovery Zone
I sat in a med station, uniform shredded, head ringing.
The broadcast came on overhead.
The king smiled from behind a podium. Clean. Charismatic. Divine.
"Citizens of Britannia… the traitor Isaac Draven has been identified. His uprising was contained. The kingdom remains secure."
People cheered.
My hands trembled.
Because I had seen something none of them had.
Not just Isaac's destruction…
…but his desperation.
Maybe he was crazy. Maybe he wasn't.
But as the fires died and the survivors wept…
I couldn't shake the sound of his voice.
"You're not protecting peace. You're enforcing tyranny."
And part of me wondered…
What if he was right?
What if everything I believed was a lie?
What if this kingdom we swore to protect…
…was already damned?
The Next Morning – National Broadcast
Across all thirty districts of Britannia, from the arid outlands of District 27 to the coastal megatowers of District 4, every screen flickered with the royal seal: a silver lion wrapped in chains, crowned in fire. Families gathered in high-rises and slums alike, military units stood at attention, and children in state-run schools paused their morning drills as the broadcast began.
A golden podium emerged from a circular dais inside the Temple of the Eternal Crown, its white marble columns glowing in radiant light. The royal banner swayed behind it, pristine and unshaken.
Then he appeared.
King Magnus Albion IV, the 77th monarch of the Great House of Albion, ascended the platform. Draped in sapphire ceremonial robes lined with gold thread, a platinum circlet on his brow, his presence commanded silence.
His smile was warm. His voice was silk over steel.
"Citizens of Britannia…"
The crowd on the Capitol Promenade erupted into thunderous applause before he even finished the sentence.
"I speak to you today not as your king… but as your brother in arms—your humble servant in this divine kingdom forged through sacrifice, honor, and unwavering unity."
He lifted his hand, and all fell still.
"Last night, a traitor rose from our ranks. A former officer… twisted by lies and consumed by delusion. His actions brought fire and blood to our beloved District 1. Lives were lost. Families shattered."
He paused, letting the grief settle.
"But let me be clear…"
The cameras zoomed in. His eyes were sharp now, glowing faintly beneath the glamour of televised sanctity.
"This kingdom will not fall.
We will not crumble.
We will not falter."
Another wave of raucous applause thundered across the broadcast. Some wept. Others raised the flag of the empire. Fireworks burst in simulated displays across the skyline, painting the air in red, silver, and gold.
"We will stand taller. March stronger. And love our nation and the people who reside in it more deeply than ever before. For we are Britannia! And no sword—no fire, no frost, no whisper of rebellion—shall ever breach our unity!"
He smiled again. Holy. Invincible. Eternal.
"I, Magnus Albion, swear upon my ancestors and the sacred bloodline of kings—so long as I breathe, you shall be safe."
The broadcast ended with a swelling orchestra. The empire cheered. The people chanted his name as if invoking a god.
The people wept in relief.
The media praised the king's swiftness and strength.
Children slept easy again.
And the empire sang.
"Our king has saved us!"
"The traitor is dead!"
"Glory to the House of Albion!"
"Terrorist neutralized. Order restored. Long live the King."
Citizens of Britannia rejoiced. The streets of Ivory Citadel rang with celebration. Candles were lit. Banners raised. The people felt safe.
Later That Night – The Palace Sanctum
Beneath the temple, buried deep within layers of ancient stone and consecrated steel, a great obsidian table stretched beneath a dome of silent light. Ten men cloaked in crimson priestly garb sat in a circle—the High Priests of the Flame, guardians of the empire's spiritual authority and keepers of the esoteric knowledge buried before the great and ancient War.
At the head of the table, King Magnus sat like a lion resting in the lair of serpents.
A priest with serpent tattoos slithering up his neck broke the silence. "Your Majesty… your speech was, as always, divinely inspired. But… there remains concern."
Another leaned forward. "Yes. The death of Isaac Draven, though necessary, may stir unrest. The destruction of District 1's infrastructure… the casualties… there are whispers of protests. Maybe even riots."
Magnus sipped from a silver chalice, the wine inside black as oil.
He placed it down and smiled. "There will be no riots."
"But Sire—" one started.
The king raised a hand.
"I presented Isaac's severed head to the public myself. Alongside the heads of his wife… his brothers… even his infant daughter."
The priests bowed their heads, murmuring reverent approval.
"Any fool thinking to follow his path saw the cost of dissent. They now understand what it means to rise against Britannia."
He leaned forward, voice cold as winter steel.
"Let them grieve. Let them whisper in the dark corners of their hovels. But none will rise. They are broken. And broken dogs do not bark."
One priest, older than the rest, stroked his beard and dared a question few would ask.
"Your Majesty… forgive the question, but… do you believe Isaac may have been…" he hesitated, "...the Grim Harbinger spoken of by our oracles and mentioned in the Zionite scrolls? The one foretold to bring the fall of the kingdom and the cleansing of divine fire? The writings say he would rise from the empire's own womb—trained by our blades, yet wielded by our enemies."
The king's eyes narrowed.
The flame-lit banners swayed. A distant bell tolled. Somewhere in the palace, a chorus chanted prayers to Albion's divine right. But here, the tension thickened.
Aurelius stared into the stained glass above—into the image of Seraphiel the Radiant, the winged throne-bearer who had first crowned his bloodline.
He did not speak for a long time.
Then, softly—almost wearily—he answered.
"No. Isaac was not the Harbinger. He might have thought he was. That was his final delusion." He turned back to them, eyes gleaming with something deeper. "But I know this much… the Harbinger will come."
His voice dropped like a sword cleaving stone.
"And when he does, I will cut him down before he breathes his first prophecy."
The priests bowed lower, trembling beneath the weight of that certainty.
"Your Majesty," whispered Sura'al, "the Zionite texts speak of signs. Storms of fire. Blood in the rivers. Children born with the voice of angels. These things have begun."
"Then let them begin," Magnus growled. "Let the heavens scream and the oceans turn to pitch. The gods of the Zionites have no dominion here. Their power ends at my borders. Their words hold no law in my throne room. And if their Harbinger rises—"
He unsheathed his sword, and a silent quake ran through the chamber as its edge flashed like judgment itself.
"—then I will put his head beside Isaac's. And burn his scrolls with the breath of dragons."
He held the blade out—not in challenge, but in a quiet, final decree.
"Now go."
The priests did not argue. They bowed again, robes dragging across the floor like funeral veils, and departed one by one.
When the final echo of their steps had faded from the throne room, the king remained alone.
And in that silence—deeper than any sermon—King Magnus turned toward the stained glass window again.
For a moment, his reflection stared back at him.
Not as a monarch. Not as a god.
But as a man—one whose rule was built on foundations of light.
And though the wind outside howled through the towers, he whispered just one line:
"Let him come."
(12 years later)
Somewhere far beyond the districts and the capital, in a forrest far away. A band of maroons came across a grizzle scene. 30 people, men and women were strung up and hung from a large poplar tree. The look of terror was plastered on their faces before they died. Among the dead was a woman whos belly was cut open and a baby attached to his mother by the umbilical cord was hanging on silently swaying in the wind. One of the members of the band of maroons, a young man around the age of 17 approached the boy and severed the cord that kept him attached to his mother. As the young man analyzed the baby he noticed that the baby still had a heart beat, and was slightly breathing. He also noticed that the baby was a boy. And when the baby opened his eyes for the first time… the earth trembled.