The sound of tree logs being chopped echoed through the backyard. It was steady and rhythmic, like a heartbeat.
Richard was there, swinging a steel axe with precision. Sweat dripped from his face as he cut through the wooden logs, each strike strong and deliberate. The sun hung high above him, casting a golden sheen across his tanned skin. He kept working, his muscles tightening with every motion, chopping log after log in the backyard of their house.
Meanwhile, at the front of the house, Elyon sat cross-legged, deep in thought. His face was focused, eyes fixed on his hands as he brought them together slowly, trying to channel something that refused to come.
"Man, I'm tired," he thought. "I thought it was going to be easy to cast spells. But it seems like I can't even cast one properly."
His frustration grew as he stared harder at his palms, trying to will some kind of magic into existence. Still, nothing. Not even a spark. He clenched his jaw, focusing harder, but his hands remained empty.
Eventually, exhaustion took over. Elyon collapsed backward onto the ground with a sigh. He stared up at the clear blue sky above, its calmness mocking the storm inside him.
"Why can't I do this?" he thought again, lifting his hands into the air and examining them.
"This is hard… but not as hard as the training in the camps."
As his eyes began to drift closed, a strange image came to him—one that burned into his mind like fire on paper. A small girl with black hair stood barefoot on an ashen battlefield, the ground scorched and smoldering. Broken chains hung from her legs. She stared into Elyon's eyes—eyes full of pain, mystery, and something else: warmth. Then, she smiled.
The smile startled him. Elyon's eyes shot open as he gasped and sat up straight.
He clutched his head, breathing hard.
"There's no time to be weak," he told himself. "The only way to survive… is power."
His expression shifted. The doubt in his eyes was gone—replaced by a flame of determination.
He paused.
"Wait…" he muttered. "I have a personal assistant who knows everything."
He slapped his forehead lightly.
"I'm such an idiot."
"Elren!" he called out loudly.
In a flash of soft blue light, a figure appeared before him—his personal assistant, Elren, glowing faintly with magical energy.
"Yes, Elyon?" Elren asked, calm and collected.
"How can I cast a spell?" Elyon asked immediately, not wasting a second.
"To cast a spell, you must understand the basics of your essence type," Elren replied smoothly. "You possess the essence of Arcane. This means your magic relies on your own creativity and imagination. Would you like me to explain further?"
Elyon shook his head. "No. That will be all."
Elren gave a short nod before vanishing, leaving only a shimmer in the air.
Elyon stood there, absorbing the information.
"Relies on imagination, huh?" he thought. "Okay then. Let's try this."
He took a deep breath, brought his hands together again, and closed his eyes.
"Light… I want to create light," he thought. "A small glowing ball… right in the palm of my hands."
He imagined it clearly—a warm sphere of light floating above his skin. As he focused, he felt a strange warmth building between his palms. Slowly, he opened his eyes.
There it was.
A glowing orb of light hovered in his hands, small but real, shining softly.
Elyon's face lit up with joy.
"Yes! Yes! Yes! I managed to do it!" he shouted.
Grinning from ear to ear, and still holding the glowing ball, he rushed into the house and went straight to the library, where Lenea was reading a book at the table.
"Mom! Look what I just made!" he said, holding the light ball in front of her.
Lenea looked up from her book, blinking in surprise. Her eyes widened as they locked onto the glowing orb in his hands. She jumped up in excitement.
"Elyon! Did you make this on your own?" she asked, clearly astonished.
"Yes!" Elyon replied proudly, still smiling wide.
Without hesitation, Lenea turned toward the window and shouted at the top of her lungs, "Richard! Come here right now!"
Outside, Richard had just sat under a tree to rest, wiping his brow with a cloth. He nearly fell backward when he heard Lenea's voice.
He bolted upright. "What now?!" he muttered to himself, dropping the cloth and rushing back into the house.
Meanwhile, far from their peaceful home, deep within the Drywood Forest near the border of the Liria and Doroska Kingdoms, a carriage traveled slowly along the worn road. Horses pulled it steadily, and knights on horseback surrounded it, their armor gleaming under the forest light.
Inside the carriage sat three people. One was a man who appeared to be in his late forties. Beside him sat two boys. One looked about four years old, with black eyes and blonde hair, clutching a small toy flintlock pistol. The other, perhaps ten to thirteen, had piercing blue eyes and fiery red hair. Their clothing was lavish, clearly marking them as nobles.
The older man glanced at the red-haired boy.
"Prince Regan," he said cautiously. "Are you certain about this journey?"
Regan let out a long sigh and rolled his eyes. "I really don't know why you ask me that every time, Bernard."
Bernard cleared his throat. "It's because you're next in line for the throne, sire."
"Yes, I know," Regan said flatly.
He shifted his gaze to the younger boy across from him, watching as he happily played with his toy.
Regan's expression darkened slightly.
"This is truly sad," he thought. "To see someone so happy… not knowing that their end is coming soon."
He narrowed his eyes.
"After I've gotten rid of this half-blood thorn… the path to the throne is slightly cleared."
His jaw tightened as he looked out the window. His thoughts were cold, serious, and calculated.
The sun began its slow descent behind the towering trees of Drywood Forest, bathing the dense woodland in a deep golden hue. Shafts of fading sunlight pierced through the thick canopy, casting long, flickering shadows across the forest floor. The royal carriage, flanked by armored knights, came to a gradual halt beside a clearing.
Horses huffed and pawed at the ground, their riders dismounting with practiced ease. Metal clinked softly as tents were unfurled and campfires sparked to life. The rustle of leather gear and the low murmur of commands passed between the soldiers created a hum of disciplined activity. Dry twigs snapped underfoot, mingling with the gentle crackle of flames and the ambient calls of birds preparing for nightfall.
At the heart of the camp, young Prince Charles sat alone on a fallen log. The polished brass and carved wood of his toy flintlock pistol caught the firelight, gleaming in his small hands. He grinned to himself, pointing the toy at invisible enemies among the trees.
"Bang! Bang!" he whispered under his breath, his voice filled with glee and wonder. In those moments, he wasn't the younger son of a royal bloodline. He was a fearless adventurer in his own imaginary world, defending his caravan from bandits or leading soldiers into battle. The pressures of nobility did not reach him here. He was simply a boy, free and wild, enchanted by the world around him.
A few paces away, Prince Regan stood silently, watching his half-brother from behind crossed arms. His sharp blue eyes, thoughtful and distant, softened at the sight of Charles playing. For a fleeting second, even Regan, the crown prince of Doroska, let the weight of politics and inheritance slip from his shoulders. A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
Beside him stood Bernard, ever the vigilant attendant. Clad in a dark green cloak and simple leather armor, the older man watched the young princes with a cautious eye. His grizzled beard twitched as he leaned slightly closer to Regan.
"You should get some rest, Your Highness," he said in a low voice.
Regan didn't take his eyes off Charles. "Not yet."
Bernard followed his gaze. "He's full of energy. Can't say I envy your mother," he chuckled.
Regan didn't respond. His expression was unreadable now.
As the last light of day began to fade, the shadows deepened and the soft lull of the camp grew steadier. Soldiers settled into place. The scent of cooked meat and damp earth filled the air.
But Charles had already grown bored with camp life.
Drawn by a fluttering butterfly with wings like flickering embers, he rose quietly from the log. No one noticed as he slipped away, his steps light and careless. His toy flintlock remained clutched in one hand, the other reaching out toward the butterfly as it danced through the underbrush.
By the time Regan noticed his absence, the boy was already out of sight.
"Charles!" he called out, not loud enough to alarm the guards, but with urgency in his tone. His boots moved swiftly over the leaf-strewn earth as he followed the faint trail of crushed grass and disturbed soil.
He ducked under low branches and pushed aside thorny bushes, the forest whispering around him as he went. The path grew narrower the further he went, swallowed by undergrowth and shadows. Distantly, he heard a faint giggle.
After a minute or two, Regan spotted him—Charles crouched beside a moss-covered stone, completely captivated.
Regan slowed his steps, his breath measured, keeping his voice calm.
"What are you doing?" he asked as he approached.
Charles didn't look back. "Come look," he whispered. "It's beautiful."
Regan stepped closer and looked over his brother's shoulder. On the rock was a beetle, large and strange, its shell shimmering with iridescent colors—violet, gold, emerald. It moved slowly, legs twitching as if dancing across the moss.
Regan knelt beside him, eyes narrowing—not at the beetle, but at the boy.
Charles leaned in, completely mesmerized. "It looks like stained glass…"
Regan didn't respond. His hand moved quietly toward the hilt of his sword.
Now, he thought. No one will hear. No one will see. It will look like an accident in the wild.
He drew the blade slowly, the metal whispering as it left the scabbard.
Charles didn't turn around. "Brother?" he asked softly.
Regan's expression twisted into one of cold resolve. He stood, raising the sword high with both hands, eyes filled with a grim sense of duty.
"I am truly sorry, brother," he said at last, his voice emotionless. "But you are one of the many things standing in the path to victory… so you must die."
But before he could strike, Charles moved. He didn't turn around. He didn't scream. He simply raised his toy flintlock and, with a small devilish smirk, pulled the trigger.
Click.
The sound echoed unnaturally through the trees—louder than any toy should make. There was a flash of bright, golden light.
Then silence.
Regan's body jerked as if struck by an unseen force. His sword slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the mossy ground. His eyes widened in disbelief, staring not at the sky, but directly at Charles.
His lips parted slightly.
Then he collapsed backward.
The forest seemed to hold its breath. Birds fled from nearby branches. The golden glow faded from Charles's pistol, returning it to its harmless wooden form. A soft curl of smoke rose from the barrel.
Charles finally turned around.
He stared down at Regan's lifeless body, unblinking. The smirk had vanished, replaced by something colder. Older.
He bent down, gently closing Regan's eyes with a small hand.
"Couldn't agree more," he whispered, echoing his earlier words.
Then he stood and looked up at the tops of the trees. The stars were starting to appear in the sky, peeking through the canopy. He heard shouts in the distance—soldiers calling their names, voices growing closer.
He turned his eyes toward the approaching sounds, then at the flintlock in his hand.
Still smiling faintly, Charles tucked the toy into his coat pocket and began walking back toward camp—his pace calm, unrushed.