The ceaseless drizzle felt like a part of the curse itself. Every cold drop mingled with the mud on the streets of Camain Village, creating brown puddles that reflected the grey sky. The air was filled with the scent of wet earth and despair, a fragrance that had become all too familiar to Arion Valerius over the last six months of his exile.
With the hood of his coarse cloak pulled low to shadow his face, he walked with his head down. His steps were quick yet careful, trying to blend into the bustling, damp afternoon market. His goal was simple: a rickety bakery at the end of the street. Buying a piece of warm bread was the only luxury he could imagine in his now-destitute life.
However, fate seemed to possess a cruel sense of humor. A hurried porter, shouldering a wet sack of grain, bumped into him hard. The impact was enough. His hood flew back, revealing what he had been trying so desperately to hide.
Instantly, his stark white hair, which should have been a symbol of his mother's noble lineage, looked ghastly in the dim light. And his eyes—fiery red eyes, his father's legacy—now looked like two embers that refused to be extinguished.
The clamor of the street, once a cacophony of haggling and footsteps, fell silent. All eyes turned to him. The quiet lasted only a moment before sharp, venomous whispers began to crawl like snakes through the crowd.
"Look... it's him."
"The tyrant's blood..."
"That monster is still alive!"
Arion stood frozen, his back as rigid as a sword drawn from its sheath. His hands, hidden in the pockets of his cloak, clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white, holding back the familiar, hot wave of fury. He put on his cold, expressionless mask—a shield he had perfected over months.
Then, a rotten tomato flew through the air, landing with a sickening splat on his shoulder, leaving a red stain and a sour smell.
Mocking laughter began to bubble up, and from the middle of the crowd, an old woman with eyes full of hatred stepped forward. She had lost both her sons in the brutal "Festival of Conquest." Her voice was hoarse and thick with grief as she screamed, tearing through the cold air.
"You should have burned with the rest of your family!"
Those words were the trigger.
The world around Arion vanished, replaced by the echoes of fire and screams. He was back in that night of hell. The magnificent corridors of Eldoria Palace were now charred and blackened. The tapestries woven with gold thread were now ash. The smell of smoke and burnt flesh stung his nostrils.
Through a crack in the wall, he saw the shadow of his father, King Malakor, fighting like a demon in the throne room before finally falling, the tower of power crumbling into a corpse. He felt Elara's trembling but firm grip, pulling him away. He glanced back, and there it was, the final image forever seared into his mind, replaying again and again in his nightmares.
His ten-year-old sister, Liana, lay near the secret passage's threshold, her blue dress now stained red. Beside her, his mother, Queen Lyra, stood tall. Her gentle face was now as hard as steel. She wasn't looking at Arion, but at the approaching soldiers with a defiant gaze. With his remaining strength, Arion saw his mother push the stone door shut, locking herself outside to buy them time. There were no goodbyes. Only the thud of the stone door, sealing him off from the world he once knew forever.
"Arion!"
Elara's sharp voice pulled him back from the hell of his memories. A small stone had just struck his temple, leaving a stinging scratch.
Elara swiftly moved in front of him, her small frame becoming a living shield. She said nothing to the angry mob; her blazing glare was warning enough. She grabbed Arion's arm and pulled him away, away from the endless scorn and hatred.
They walked in heavy silence, leaving the village behind. After a good distance, on an upward-sloping path, Arion finally spoke. His voice was hoarse, thick with suppressed rage.
"One lion's den traded for another," he hissed.
"What's the difference between this street and that academy?"
Elara paused, patiently wiping the tomato stain and mud from his cloak with the end of her sleeve. She looked straight into her prince's stormy eyes.
"The difference, Young Master..." she said, her voice soft but firm,
"...is that in the next lion's den, you will be given a sword. It is a chance to sharpen your fangs, not to hide them."
They continued their journey until they reached the top of a small hill. The rain had subsided, leaving a thin mist that veiled the valley below. In the distance, piercing through the fog, they could see the silhouettes of tall spires reaching for the sky like the fingers of a giant skeleton.
Amabel Academy.
Arion stared at the magnificent structure. The fury in his eyes slowly receded, replaced by something else. Something colder, sharper, and far more dangerous.
Resolve.
He looked at the academy not with the fear of a victim, but as a strategist surveying his new battlefield.