In the passing of moons, the realm of Emberhaven fell beneath the shadow of General Thorn, who claimed the throne with iron resolve and crowned himself its sovereign. With his rise, the winds of change swept through the kingdom—but they carried no promise of hope. Instead, they whispered of despair.
In the early days of his rule, a hush fell over the once-vibrant streets. The people's breath grew thin, their bellies hollow, as famine crept across the land like a creeping plague. Granaries stood empty, and merchants' stalls were barren, save for dust and cobwebs. Hunger gnawed at every doorstep, and whispers of rebellion flickered like candle flames in the dark.
Yet within the stone walls of the high keep, Thorn and his chosen blades reveled in excess. Goblets brimmed with wine, platters overflowed with roasted meats and sweet fruits, and laughter echoed through gilded halls—oblivious to the cries that rose from the city below. While the people withered, their king feasted; while hope faded, his power only grew.
Thorn bore no love, no shred of sympathy for the people of Emberhaven. To him, they were not subjects, nor souls worth regard, but beasts of burden—creatures born to toil and obey his every command. His heart, already darkened by hatred for Henry and Solomon, twisted further into madness. And in his blind fury, it was the people of Emberhaven who became the target of his wrath.
Then came a morning cloaked in a restless wind, the sky heavy with omen. As Thorn rose from his slumber, he found Lyra standing silently near the chamber door. She was still as stone, her presence foreboding—calm, yet cloaked in an eerie dread. Her eyes held the stillness of prophecy.
Thorn's gaze narrowed, his voice edged with disdain.
"What brings you here? I already made a deal to the Persians—the throne of Emberhaven is mine."
Lyra's voice flowed like a river, steady and sure.
"I am no ally of the Persians," she said, "nor do I stand with Emberhaven. I come only as a messenger, to speak your fate."
She stepped forward, the air around her swirling with unnatural wind.
"Your hatred shall be your undoing, Thorn. Upon your brow, four feathers shall be set in your crown. You shall light the night sky... and in doing so, summon the day."
Her words struck the chamber like thunder wrapped in silk, and before Thorn could respond, a sweeping gust enveloped her. With a final whisper of wind, Lyra vanished as though she had never stood there.
But Thorn, ever defiant and scornful of omens, dismissed her warning as nonsense. He rose from his bed, casting aside the moment like a dream best forgotten. The scent of scented oils drifted from the next chamber—his morning bath had been drawn by the palace maid, and the day, in his eyes, would begin as all others had.
While the steam of the bath curled around him like a serpent, Thorn reclined in the water, his thoughts adrift in a storm of memory and fury. His mind wandered, unbidden, to the exiled figures of Solomon and Henry—the cursed twins who haunted the edges of his empire like shadows he could not banish. Where had they fled? What caves, what kingdoms, now sheltered them?
He scowled, the water rippling with his tension. Ezra had been the last thread, the only one who might have known the truth of the reincarnated prince's hiding place—and Thorn had already silenced him in blood.
With a low, growling sigh, Thorn muttered to himself, voice thick with venom.
"I will find them. And when I do, I shall crush the breath from their bodies with my own hands."
Once bathed, he returned to his chamber where two palace maids awaited, heads bowed in obedience. As they clothed him in fine linens and adorned him in the dark armor he so favored, Thorn's cruelty did not rest. His treatment of the maids was no secret within the palace walls—he toyed with them like playthings, caring little for their dignity or fear.
Satisfied with his appearance and his wicked indulgence, he strode to the grand dining hall. Upon a long table carved from obsidian wood, a lavish feast lay in wait. Thorn ate slowly, savoring every bite as though the food itself was a conquest. He dined not for sustenance, but for dominion.
Once finished, he wiped his mouth with silk and marched to the war room—a dark chamber ringed with maps, relics, and the ever-watchful eyes of his most trusted warriors and high-ranking captains. The room buzzed with tension as plans were whispered and alliances debated, all centered on one goal: to find and destroy Solomon and Henry.
But Thorn's patience was ever brittle. Mere minutes into the meeting, rage overtook him. With eyes like wildfire and movements like lightning, he lunged at one of his soldiers. In a terrifying burst of violence, he seized the man by the throat and lifted him from the ground. Gasps echoed in the chamber as the soldier's limbs thrashed—then fell still.
The corpse dropped with a sickening thud.
"Forty-eight hours," Thorn snarled, voice like iron dragged across stone.
"In forty-eight hours, I want the corpses of those twins at my feet."
Without another word, he turned on his heel and swept from the room, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow, leaving silence and dread in his wake.
The soldiers, scared of what they had just witnessed, rushed out in search of Solomon and Henry.