The throne room of Dawnmoor Castle was colder than usual, despite the sun bleeding crimson light through the stained-glass windows. A court assembled, but no joy hung in the air. No celebration. No fanfare. Just the weight of judgment.
Prince Elric Dawnmoor stood at the foot of the marble dais, alone in his armor — not the ceremonial kind, but worn leather and chain, as if he had just ridden from the battlefield. His golden eyes, a rare inheritance from his mother's line, scanned the room. They searched for compassion, but found only indifference. Some nobles averted their gaze. Others smirked.
Above him, seated on the black throne carved from obsidian mined from the Ashfang Mountains, sat King Thandor — his father. A monarch with a jaw carved from stone, and a heart to match. His royal robe, embroidered with the sigil of a flaming sword, barely moved as he leaned forward.
"Elric Dawnmoor," the king's voice rang out like a death knell, "you are hereby relieved of your claim to the throne of Dawnmoor. By the power vested in me by the Twelve Houses and the gods above, I strip you of title, privilege, and inheritance."
Gasps rippled through the hall. Elric remained still.
The king did not blink. "You will leave by dusk. Report to the Eastern Border to serve as a watchman for the realm's edge. Perhaps the wilderness will teach you humility."
"You're sending me into exile," Elric said, his voice hoarse.
"I'm sending you where you belong — out of my sight."
No trial. No explanation. No accusations of treason. Just the cold sword of a father's rejection.
Elric felt the ache deep in his ribs, but he refused to bow. Instead, he locked eyes with his father. "And what of my mother's legacy?"
King Thandor's jaw tightened. "Your mother's blood made you weak."
There it was. The final betrayal.
---
Later that evening, as the sun dipped behind the towers of Dawnmoor Castle, Elric stood before his mother's crypt beneath the castle's chapel. The flickering candlelight danced across the marble effigy of Queen Ilyana — serene, beautiful, carved in silence.
He placed his palm against the cool stone. "They've erased you, Mother. As if your grace was poison. As if your love was weakness."
The door creaked open behind him. Ser Gareth, his old sword instructor and the last loyal friend he had in the castle, entered. His beard was greyed with age, but his eyes were sharp as ever.
"They won't even let me say goodbye properly," Elric muttered.
Gareth handed him a small, wrapped bundle. Inside was a steel medallion bearing the symbol of the House of Eldros — a silver dragon curled around a star. His mother's crest.
"I kept it hidden for years," Gareth said quietly. "Ilyana gave it to me before she died. She said it might be the key when all doors are shut."
"What does it open?"
Gareth glanced toward the stained-glass window — an image of the goddess Lumina and her dragon knight. "I think it's not a door it opens... but a truth. One that could change everything."
---
At the castle gates, Elric mounted his horse. The guards refused to look him in the eye. He wore no royal sigils. No banners marked his departure. Just silence.
High Priest Caelen approached at the last moment, his purple robes fluttering like ink in wind. The man's expression was unreadable.
"Elric," he said, "the winds whisper strange omens. What lies ahead will burn and reshape you."
"I've already been burned," Elric said. "There's nothing left to scorch."
Caelen reached into his sleeve and handed Elric a scroll. "Then rise from the ash."
Elric tucked the scroll inside his cloak without reading it. He looked once more at the castle he had called home — and turned his back on it.
---
The Eastern Border was wild and barren, kissed by the breath of ancient magic and forgotten gods. Snow fell even in spring, and wolves howled longer than they should.
The outpost he was assigned to was little more than a crumbling stone watchtower. No soldiers, no banners — just silence and wind.
He spent the first few days alone, rebuilding what little he could. Gathering firewood. Hunting. Reflecting.
But something inside him had changed. The rage no longer sat on the surface. It boiled, quiet and deep, like a dragon slumbering beneath his ribcage.
Each night, Elric dreamed.
Of flame.
Of wings.
Of blood.
And always — of her voice.
"Ilyana…" he would whisper. "What did they fear about you?"
---
One night, while meditating near the frozen spring by the ravine, the steel medallion around his neck began to glow faintly. Soft pulses of silver light flickered like heartbeat.
Startled, Elric held it up. The warmth radiating from the medallion seeped into his palm, up his arm, and into his chest — igniting something old.
He opened the scroll from Caelen for the first time.
Inside was not writing — but a map. Not of Dawnmoor. Not of any known region.
A place shrouded in mist, marked only with one word:
"Aetheryon."
He stared at it long and hard. And as he did, the medallion pulsed again — stronger this time.
Then the wind shifted. A howl in the distance. Not a wolf.
Something older.
Something… watching.
---
The next day, Elric ventured farther than he ever had — to the ruins beyond the border cliffs. Old stones half-buried in snow, claw marks on trees, statues of gods whose names were forbidden.
There, he found something impossible: a creature, wounded and bleeding, unlike anything he'd seen before. A beast with scales of obsidian and feathers like midnight. Not a dragon. Not a bird.
A relic of myth.
Its eyes met his, and for a moment, time itself paused.
"You are the last of her line," it spoke — not with voice, but with thought. "The fire sleeps within you, child of Eldros."
He knelt beside the beast, trembling. "Who are you?"
"I am Ashenar. Guardian of the Gate. Keeper of her oath."
"Her?"
"Your mother. Ilyana the Flameborn. Not a queen… a protector."
Elric's world began to fracture.
His mother was not simply a noblewoman from a distant house. She had been something else. Something powerful. Feared.
"What happened to her?" he demanded.
Ashenar's eyes dimmed. "She was hunted. By those who feared the blood she carried — and the son she would bear."
"Why tell me now?"
"Because your blood awakens, and with it… the war begins again."
---
That night, Elric stood atop the ruined cliff, the wind tearing at his cloak. The stars above no longer looked like silent watchers. They looked like scars — wounds left from a battle long erased from history.
He clutched the medallion, and for the first time in his life, he did not feel weak. He felt called.
Not to reclaim a throne.
But to reclaim a legacy.
And in the shadows of the trees, unseen by him, a pair of crimson eyes watched. Female. Ancient. And smiling.