The skies above Morvain shimmered with heat, but it was not the sun that scorched the land—it was the fire of destiny.
In the heart of the ancient city, banners of war now fluttered. The crescent-winged sigil of House Daemon, once faded and forgotten, now stood tall beside the storm serpent of Zar-Khalan, the scroll of wind from Areshia, and the thorned marsh sigil of Gravemire.
The realm's long-forgotten lords and heirs had gathered at Marcus's side. Each one had answered the call—not out of fear, but purpose. And vengeance.
---
But far to the north, in the grand halls of Sapphire, King Cael Daemon wore the weight of his crown like a curse.
It had been months since he had plunged the blade into his father's chest—King Levi, a man once beloved by the realm. The blood had barely dried when Cael claimed the throne for himself, declaring the old king a traitor who conspired with outlanders and enemies of the crown.
The nobles had fallen in line, some out of fear, others out of ambition. The people whispered, but dared not speak too loudly.
Cael now ruled the Eight Kingdoms—or so he thought.
But ruling brought no peace.
He paced the royal chamber more than he sat the throne. His dreams were haunted by his father's dying eyes. The silence of the halls, once filled with Levi's laughter and judgment, now rang hollow. He had expected the crown to make him strong, revered, unstoppable.
Instead, it made him paranoid.
And it was getting worse.
Reports from scouts told of Marcus rising in the south. The bastard son—the hidden ember—was now backed by dragons and steel. He had claimed Morvain, gathered the desert forces, and drawn allies from across the fractured kingdoms.
Even worse, Princess Elira, his sister, had vanished after finding their father's body. Rumors now swirled that she had defected. That she, too, might support the rebellion.
And still, Cael refused to show weakness.
Beside him stood Prince Alric of Velmora, his cold-blooded ally. The two had struck a dark pact: keep Marcus from the throne, and divide the kingdoms afterward. But Cael knew Alric wanted more than alliance—he wanted control.
As Cael stood by the High Balcony of Sapphire, he watched his people move through the city in wary silence. Once, they had cheered for House Daemon. Now, they only obeyed.
And obedience, he was learning, was not loyalty.
---
Back in Morvain, Marcus stood before his war council. At his sides stood:
Prince Darian of Gravemire, a brooding warrior-scholar whose marsh-blades moved like smoke in battle.
Princess Zira of Areshia, cunning and fast, her mind as sharp as her twin daggers.
Princess Ingrid of Zar-Khalan, fierce and fire-hearted, her voice echoing like a war drum.
And of course, Princess Alina, his sister, who carried the truth of their lineage and the fire of their mother's spirit.
"We strike Falstone at dawn," Marcus announced. "We take it, we sever Cael's reach into the south."
Zira nodded. "My riders will take the eastern wall by night."
Darian added, "And my shadows will silence their captains before the first horn."
Ingrid unsheathed her blade. "Let Cael feel the wrath of the blood he cast out."
---
As the war table cleared, Marcus walked alone to the cliff edge, Vayrion behind him, silent and still. His thoughts drifted north—to Sapphire—to the brother who murdered their father and dared call himself king.
"The fire's coming, Cael," Marcus whispered. "And this time, you'll burn."