Two days had passed since Mathew's hunters entered the Forbidden Forest.
Each day, messengers came. Each day, their words fueled his growing confidence. Maps were drawn. Tracks followed. Fires found. Even the faint remnants of spell residue—Aeloria's most gifted mage-trackers confirmed it. They were close.
Mathew had been waiting, counting the hours.
He would have Luther's head on a pike. He would look into Selena's eyes once more—and ask her, gently, lovingly, one final time to be his queen.
This time, she would not refuse.
Not with nowhere left to run.
He lounged on the throne, wine in hand, surrounded by the quiet bustle of courtiers and advisors. The golden canopy above him gleamed with midmorning light. Another messenger entered the throne room—this one walked tall, draped in white and gold robes that shimmered like sunlight.
The room hushed.
The man did not kneel.
"Paladin Duma," Mathew said, setting his goblet aside.
The name alone commanded respect. Duma the Lightbringer. The greatest healing paladin in Aeloria. Unlike the other warriors, Duma's magic wasn't fire or steel—it was light itself. On the battlefield, his presence made warriors invincible. None could fall when Duma walked beside them.
"I expected a message," Mathew said with mild curiosity. "Not a visit."
"I came personally, Your Majesty," Duma replied, voice calm but firm, "because I believe the matter deserves it."
Mathew's brows arched. "Go on."
"They are close," Duma said. "Luther's trail leads deep into the western reaches of the forest. By our estimate, we'll have them within two days."
A grin began to bloom on Mathew's lips.
"But there's more," Duma continued.
Mathew frowned.
"In the direction we track them," Duma said, his voice dipping low, "there is a growing force—unlike anything I have ever felt."
Mathew leaned forward.
"A magic unlike any I've studied. Not dark, nor corrupted—but old. Deep. Living."
He hesitated.
"And powerful."
"Enough to threaten me?" Mathew asked, more intrigued than worried.
Duma nodded. "Perhaps not now. But whatever it is, I believe it may one day become a danger to your reign. The boy—Kael, I believe—carries something more than talent. He may carry legacy."
Mathew stood, pacing slowly down the steps of his throne.
"Then capture them," he said, his tone turning icy. "Bring the source of this power to me. I want to see it for myself."
Duma bowed.
"If it is as dangerous as I suspect," he added, "I may be forced to act… to protect the kingdom."
"Do as you must," Mathew said. "But bring it to me alive."
Duma turned and left, his white cloak trailing light across the stone.
Mathew remained still for a moment.
Alone in the hall, he turned his gaze to the fire crackling beside his throne. His thoughts spun.
What is this power?
Was it something Luther discovered? A magical artifact? A hidden prophecy? Or worse—a child?
He had never been one to believe in fairy tales. But lately, the world itself seemed to whisper ancient secrets.
And then, as if summoned from thought itself…
He heard it.
A voice—barely a whisper.
"Mathew…"
He turned sharply, hand flying to the hilt of the royal sword. The steel shimmered in his hand like a living flame.
He scanned the room. No one.
"Who's there?" he demanded.
Silence.
Then—
Laughter.
Soft. Mocking. Not Duma's. Not anyone's he recognized.
But ancient.
The flames in the brazier flickered, and the shadows danced.
The laughter echoed again.
And Mathew's heart, for the first time in years, skipped a beat.