Chapter 2: The Fire That Never Died
Morning mist still lingered lightly over the palace courtyard when the sharp clang of swords rang out from the direction of the training barracks. Xebec, wielding his blade with only one hand, sparred against three young knights who took turns testing his skill. Sweat streamed down his temples, but his spirit did not waver.
Xebec's movements weren't always precise, but every swing carried the weight of resolve. He wasn't a Swordmaster yet, but he knew time would not wait for him. He had to succeed—not for the crown, but for himself.
At the edge of the arena, Nanea stood holding a jug of water and a clean cloth.
"You're being too hard on yourself, Brother," she said with concern. "Your hand is still—"
"I need to be harder," Xebec replied without looking at her. "Because our enemies won't show mercy."
After the training ended, he accompanied Nanea to the palace's rear garden. Beneath a blooming cherry tree, she leaned her head on his shoulder.
"I remember when we were kids… you used to say we'd never be apart."
Xebec gave a faint smile. "And I still believe that."
But elsewhere, loyalties had begun to falter.
---
In the private lounge of Duke Malefic, Bastian sat across from two men. One was the Duke himself—Lady Astrid's stepfather. The other, Grand Duke Theral, the military ruler of the south. An open scroll lay on the table, revealing the strategic positions of forts and supply routes.
"Xebec is a good man," Bastian said, trying to keep his tone even. "He's my brother. I don't want to take what's not mine."
The Duke raised an eyebrow. "Goodness won't save the kingdom when enemies strike. Look around you, Second Prince. The people want a symbol of strength. You're whole. You carry unblemished noble blood."
Bastian fell silent. His eyes stared at the map, but his mind drifted to childhood—when Xebec had saved him from danger, stood between him and death… losing a hand for all their sakes.
Yet within him, a seed of doubt had begun to sprout. And hidden behind his back, a strange mark shimmered faintly on the skin of his neck—a glowing seal he didn't yet understand, but one that always grew warm whenever his thoughts were in turmoil.
---
Meanwhile, Xebec was preparing for the evening banquet with the nobles. That day's meeting had been filled with veiled insults, whispered rumors, and painful, indirect questions.
"Can a ruler truly wield a sword with only one hand?"
He held back his anger—not with shouting, but with a calm that killed slowly.
In the hallway, he passed by Lord Halverick, the old royal advisor. The wise man looked at him with weary yet sharp eyes.
"Don't trust a noble's smile, Prince. Behind them are teeth ready to bite."
Xebec bowed respectfully. "I've begun to understand that, My Lord."
---
Night fell. In her room, Princess Nanea was writing a letter with a silver quill. She sensed something was changing. Bastian had grown more withdrawn. Xebec was pushing himself harder than ever. And whispers of the throne had started to echo even in the servants' quarters.
Just then, a black owl landed on the windowsill. Tied to its leg was a scroll sealed with red wax bearing an ancient rune. Nanea opened it cautiously. The message wasn't written in ink, but in magic—its letters glowed briefly, then vanished once read.
"Beware the one you trust most…"
Nanea froze. No name was mentioned, but her heartbeat quickened.
---
That same night, far from the palace, in the ruins of an ancient temple, a man in a red hood stood in the center of a magic circle surrounded by black candles. He chanted ancient spells, summoning power from the world's depths.
A voice rose from the shadows, trembling yet grand.
"My seal has grown... within fragile royal blood. When the time comes, let him become the gate."
The hooded man smiled faintly. "Yes, Lord Baal. We will begin soon."
---
A cold wind blew from the east, carrying the scent of damp earth and ash. The magic circle faded slowly, but its dark aura lingered.
At the same moment, in his private chamber, Bastian stood before a large mirror. He pulled down the collar of his nightshirt, staring at his reflection with tired eyes. But what held his gaze wasn't his face—it was the mark glowing faintly on his upper shoulder, near the back of his neck.
A strange symbol resembling a vertical eye surrounded by runes. He tried to touch it, but it pulsed—warm, alive.
"Why are you showing up again…?" Bastian muttered, half afraid, half confused.
The mark had first appeared months ago, after he fell ill following a visit to the southern provinces. The healers had no answers, and he had chosen to keep it secret. But lately—he'd been hearing whispers in his dreams. Voices that called his name… voices that promised power.
And now, the seal was glowing again. Brighter. Hotter. As if responding to something far away.
He hastily closed his collar as a knock came at the door. A servant's voice followed softly.
"Your Highness, Prince Xebec requests to see you tomorrow morning."
Bastian took a deep breath. He looked at the mirror again, deeper this time. Beneath his calm eyes and gentle smile, something was awakening.
Something that wasn't him.
---
The night deepened. The palace fell quiet, broken only by the sound of patrolling guards. But in Bastian's room, peace was far from reach.
After hiding the mark again, Bastian sat on the edge of his bed, holding his head. The faint voices returned—seeming to echo from behind the veil of reality. A deep, slick male voice like a serpent's hiss.
"You know who you really are… not just a shadow."
Bastian clenched his teeth. "Shut up…"
"Xebec… is just in your way. But you—you are the key. That seal didn't appear by chance."
The mirror across the bed trembled slightly, as if brushed by wind from another realm. A shadowy figure appeared faintly in the reflection—tall, horned, with glowing red eyes. But in the blink of an eye, it vanished.
Bastian rose, opened his drawer, and pulled out an old tome—secretly given to him by Duke Malefic. Its leather was pitch black, marked with symbols unreadable by ordinary eyes.
He flipped to the center page, where the same symbol on his skin was engraved. Below it, in ancient script, read:
"Heir of Ruin. Vessel of the Demon King."
His heart pounded.
"I… don't want to be anyone's heir. I just want my brother… to be happy."
But deep down, he knew: that desire was becoming harder to hold onto. Especially as more people began to see him as the more deserving choice.
And when the voice whispered again—softer now, more convincing—he didn't answer.
"Power will come to you… if you open the door."
---
To be continued...