The wind from the highlands of Elsareth howled with an unusual fury, stirring the black dust along the forgotten old roads. Kael walked beneath the shadow of towering oaks, his hood pulled low to hide his face from any wandering eyes. He did not yet know that this night would change his fate—not because of what he sought, but because of what in the shadows sought him.
Since childhood, Kael had learned to live in hiding. The son of a servant woman and the king, born of forbidden love or royal whim—he didn't know which—he had grown up under the silent protection of Maerlyn, an old healer who lived deep in the mountains. The man had taught him more than herbs and remedies: he had taught him discipline, a deep mistrust of power, and above all, a name never to be spoken.
But tonight, the stars had fallen silent.
Kael reached the ruins of the ancient temple of Sol'Nareth, a forgotten sanctuary dedicated to the Moon and Truth. This was where he had been summoned—a message slipped among his belongings without his knowing how, sealed with the mark of a secret order: The Watchers of the Shadow.
Around the sanctuary, the silence was absolute. Not even the owls dared disturb the frozen air. Kael stepped inside.
The temple's heart was circular, pierced at the top by a single shaft of moonlight. There, five hooded figures awaited him, motionless as statues.
— "You have come, Kael of Elsareth," said a deep voice without moving lips.
— "Who are you? Why summon me?"
— "Because the king is dead. And with him, the blood seal was broken."
A shiver ran down Kael's spine. Every word weighed heavy, every silence charged with meaning.
— "We are guardians of forgotten balance. The Watchers of the Shadow. We vowed to protect the truth, even from kings."
Another figure stepped forward—a woman, her sharp gaze piercing from beneath her black silk hood.
— "You do not yet grasp your importance, Kael. But the king's blood flows in you. He chose you before his death."
— He never knew me. "I have no place on that throne. And I want none of it."
The woman smiled sadly.
— "That is exactly why you must take it. Those who desire the crown most are rarely worthy of it."
The Watchers revealed what none dared say aloud. The throne of Elsareth — the Shadow Throne — was not merely a royal symbol. It was an ancient artifact, forged from the chains of a fallen angel and the tears of a cursed king. It recognized only one heir: one whose soul had known darkness, rejection, suffering… and compassion.
Kael, the forgotten son, carried that night within him.
— "The kingdom stands on the edge of an abyss," said the eldest Watcher. "The Crown vanished the very night the king was laid to rest. The High Council prepares to tear itself apart over the succession. But you, Kael, are the only one whose blood can awaken the Throne."
He said nothing. Everything within him screamed to flee, to refuse, to fear. Yet a distant part, a memory faint and buried, of a gaze never given, of a name never spoken aloud, stirred.
— "Why me? Why now?"
The woman stepped closer, holding a sealed parchment. When she broke the wax, Kael recognized the handwriting—it was the king's own. A letter. His name was at the top.
"To Kael, my son.
If you read these words, then I am no longer. Forgive me for never acknowledging you publicly. The chains of the throne are heavier than love, sometimes. But know I have protected you from afar, as much as I could.
You are my heir—not by duty, but by choice. The kingdom does not know what it has lost. But it will know what it must gain.
Your father, Alaric."
Kael stumbled.
He had never cried. Not since Maerlyn died five winters ago. But now, the words of a man he never met, calling him son, shattered something deep inside.
— "What do you want from me?" he rasped.
— "To listen. To learn. To prepare. The Wolves of the Council covet the crown. They will accuse you of bastardy, sorcery, treason. They will seek to strike you down before you stand. But you are not alone."
Suddenly, the moonlight intensified. A stone slab in the floor shifted, revealing a secret stairway leading beneath the temple.
— "Come," said one Watcher. "The Shadow watches. And it wants to see you."
Kael hesitated, then descended.
The stairs led to a crypt bathed in an eerie blue glow. At the center stood a basin carved from black stone. The water inside was frozen still, like a glass mirror. Around it, ancient and forbidden glyphs.
— "This place holds a fragment of the old pact. Here, kings once tested their souls before being recognized. It is where the Throne was born, in the time of the Echoes."
Kael knelt before the basin. He felt as if he wasn't looking at water… but at himself. Or rather, what he might become.
— "What do you see?" the woman asked.
After a long silence, he answered:
— "Someone I am not yet. But could be."
The Watchers nodded.
— "The Throne does not choose a perfect man. It chooses a man willing to be broken… and to rise."
They handed him a ring. A simple band of obsidian.
— "This is the Key of Shadow. It opens the sanctuary of the Throne. But you will still have to face trials. War is coming. And the palace does not yet know you live."
Kael stood, his eyes burning. He understood little, but one thing was clear: if the throne was to choose a king, then the shadow would have its say too.
The next day, in the cold halls of the High Council, a furious noble smashed his goblet of red wine.
— "A bastard! Alive? Are you mocking me?" roared Duke Aramon, the slain king's brother.
— "Rumors, my lord, only whispers," tried to soothe another counselor.
— "Whispers turn to flames. And I will extinguish them before they set Elsareth ablaze!"
In the poisoned gardens of the palace, Ysara, the king's niece, heard these words. She knew the name. Kael. A distant memory. A figure glimpsed once during a royal hunt. A gaze that had unsettled her. She did not yet know this gaze would change her fate—and damn it.
In the forest of Valen, Kael moved away from the temple. The obsidian ring burned in his pocket like an ancient fire. The trees seemed to bow as he passed. The wind sang a strange lament.
He was no longer a forgotten son.
He was the crownless prince.
But in Elsareth, the throne waited for no one.
And crowns, it was said, never forgive.
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