The winds howled high above Crystal Peak, sending eddies of dust spiraling across the jagged cliffside. Blood seeped into the cracks of ancient stone, soaking the sacred earth once tread by kings. The sky overhead was bruised with storm clouds, tinged red by the dying sun, as if the heavens themselves mourned what was about to come.
Marcus Roland stood tall at the cliff's edge, his chest heaving with every breath. His once-white tunic clung to his body, now stained crimson and torn to shreds. Cuts, bruises, and burns marked every inch of his exposed skin, yet he still radiated authority—his posture unbroken, his eyes unwavering. Even bloodied, he carried the weight of a crown not yet placed on his head.
The Crown Prince of Albion was surrounded.
Over a hundred mercenaries had formed a loose, uneven ring around him, each clad in matching blue armor, blades drawn, eyes wary. Their boots crunched over loose gravel and the remains of fallen comrades. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, steel, and death.
None of them had expected this.
The mission briefing had sounded simple enough: track the Crown Prince to Crystal Peak, retrieve the stolen Black Book, and ensure minimal resistance. In and out. Quiet and clean. The only non-negotiable? Marcus Roland was not to be killed.
They had laughed when they heard that part. He was just one man, after all.
But no one had told them what kind of man he was.
Now, eighty of their finest lay dead or dying.
One man.
One sword.
A nightmare wrapped in nobility.
"He's not even human..." one mercenary muttered, stepping back, his hands trembling despite the sword he gripped.
The leader of the group—a tall man with greying hair and a scar running from cheek to collar—gritted his teeth. He'd led dozens of missions. He'd brought down rebel generals, sorcerers, even a minor royal once. But this… this was something else.
He stepped forward, lifting his blade slightly. "Prince Marcus," he called out, voice cutting through the moaning wind. "Enough blood has been shed. You're injured. Exhausted. Hand over the Black Book, and this ends peacefully."
Marcus didn't answer immediately. He shifted his weight, breathing through gritted teeth, and raised his head to look the man dead in the eye.
There was no fear in those eyes.
Only fire.
"You want the book?" Marcus rasped. His voice was hoarse, barely more than gravel, yet it rang with authority. "It's safe. Hidden. You'll never find it. Not even if you tear this world apart stone by stone."
The leader narrowed his eyes. "Then you leave us no choice."
Marcus chuckled—low and bitter. "You never had a choice to begin with."
The mercenary leader turned to his men and gave a single command. "Take him."
They rushed in.
Marcus didn't wait.
His body moved on instinct, worn muscle guided by years of battle. He ducked under the first blade, twisted the attacker's arm, and drove his elbow into the man's throat. Another came from the side—Marcus sidestepped, grabbed the wrist, and redirected the blade into a third man's gut.
He wasn't just fighting—he was dancing. Every step precise. Every motion honed. Even injured, even bleeding, he was devastating.
They came in waves. Ten at a time. Twenty.
They fell like wheat before a reaper.
Marcus felt everything—his wounds screaming, his breath burning, his heart thundering against his ribs. But he didn't stop. He couldn't.
He was Marcus Roland.
Crown Prince.
Commander of the Royal Vanguard.
The man who turned the tide at Black Hollow.
He would not die running. He would not beg. He would not surrender.
A blade cut across his ribs. He grunted, kicked the attacker back, and turned, slashing another mercenary down.
Blood stained the rocks.
His vision blurred.
His left leg gave out for half a second—but it was enough.
A spear grazed his side. He twisted, broke the shaft, and used the jagged end to drive it into his assailant's neck.
But the pain was mounting.
Another hit. Then another.
He was slowing.
They knew it too.
The mercenary leader's face twisted. "He's faltering! End it! Forget the damn order—kill him!"
From beneath his cloak, the leader pulled out a small red vial. It shimmered faintly, even in the dusk. Marcus's eyes narrowed.
Poison? No… something else.
The leader hurled the vial.
Marcus tried to move, but his legs betrayed him.
The vial exploded mid-air.
Flame erupted in a controlled blast—searing his skin, blinding him with sudden heat. He cried out, staggering back.
And in that moment, they struck.
A dagger sank into his back.
A blade pierced his abdomen.
Another stabbed into his chest, just below the collarbone.
The pain was white-hot. Blinding. Unrelenting.
His sword dropped.
He fell to his knees.
The sounds around him faded—screams, orders, footsteps—all turning into a distant hum.
He raised his head.
The sky above was clearer now. The clouds had parted, just slightly. A single beam of light pierced the gloom and bathed the cliff in gold.
He smiled.
So this is how it ends.
He didn't regret it.
Not the blood. Not the pain. Not even the secrets he took to the grave.
He had lived as a prince.
He would die as one.
"I die… standing," he whispered.
And he collapsed.
Moments Later
The mercenary leader approached cautiously. He crouched beside the fallen prince and pressed two fingers to his neck.
No pulse.
He stared at Marcus's face—bloodied, still, yet strangely at peace.
With a scowl, he stood and shoved the body over the cliff.
It vanished into the mist below.
"Search the valley," he barked to the others. "The ruins. The palace. Find the book. Now."
One of the men hesitated. "And if we don't find it?"
The leader turned slowly, his eyes dark. "Then we pray we die before the Cymry Kingdom learns we failed."
Elsewhere…
Far from the blood and stone of Crystal Peak, beyond the borders of Albion, beyond even the constraints of time and realm, something stirred.
A ripple.
A soul—fractured but unyielding—resisted the pull of death.
Marcus Roland's essence, shaped by battle and bound by purpose, refused to scatter.
It drifted.
Through planes. Through shadows. Through forgotten spaces between lives.
It passed burning stars and sleeping gods.
Until it found a spark.
A boy.
Broken.
Alone.
Unwanted.
Barely clinging to life.