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The Palace of Eldros stood like a dream sculpted from the bones of the earth and the breath of the heavens. Suspended on a sky-touched mesa far above the clouds, it was a marvel of ancient architecture—a monument not to one tribe, but to all. Veins of glowing crystal ran along obsidian towers. Waterfalls flowed upward through glass spirals. Air bridges, suspended by enchanted winds, wove through flaming lantern trees that never burned out.
Though built long ago by the First Prime King, its design remained unmatched. Fire coursed beneath transparent floors, a living current of red-gold light. Wind turbines whispered constantly, harnessing the eternal storm above. Streams of water curved like dancing ribbons through the hallways, and walls could shift with the will of the ruling monarch. Earth, fire, water, air—all harmonized here. Except lightning. Lightning had been erased.
Since the death of King Alvaryn, that harmony felt… hollow.
Queen Ayelara ruled now.
In the Grand Hall, her silhouette flickered against the light of a suspended lava chandelier. She was seated on a throne that hovered slightly off the ground—held aloft by conflicting bursts of wind and fire. Her robes shimmered like molten gold, and her eyes burned with cold fury. Her mere presence made courtiers sweat and soldiers stand straighter.
Ayelara was a Level 5 wielder—one of the strongest elemental users alive. Fire and air bent willingly to her. Her flames could consume buildings in seconds, and her storms could split mountains. But despite that power, whispers said she feared only one thing:
Lightning.
It had taken her husband from her. That was the story.
They said during an astral convergence, King Alvaryn had touched the lightning—tried to harness it. And something in the sky answered. He never returned from the Peak of Vhalos. His armor was found days later, charred and empty. Ayelara never spoke of him again.
She forbade the teaching of lightning lore. She burned the scrolls. She exiled the Seers.
But lately, rumors had surfaced. A boy in the southern wilds. Eyes glowing. Moving faster than light.
Ayelara gripped the arms of her throne.
"The Prime awakens," she murmured.
---
In the outer courtyard of the palace, her children trained.
Crown Prince Caelen, Level 4, embodied raw discipline. His power over fire and earth let him generate volcanic bursts of molten stone that he used in blunt, devastating strikes. He struck a combat dummy and shattered it to pebbles. His armor gleamed red-gold. His breath steamed in the open air.
Facing him was Master Hadrion, a stoic, aging warrior known throughout the kingdom as the Fire Wall—a former Level 5 who had since fallen to Level 4 with age but retained incredible skill.
"Again," Hadrion barked.
Caelen charged with a blast of fire from his palms, following it up with a rolling wall of molten rock. Hadrion's hands moved in precise arcs, splitting the fire in two and redirecting the earth back toward Caelen's flank.
The prince sidestepped and retaliated with a punch that cracked the flagstone beneath them.
"Good," the master said. "But you're predictable."
Caelen sneered. "So are most of our enemies."
"Then fight like you expect more than mediocrity."
---
High above the training grounds, Queen Ayelara watched from her balcony. Her expression was unreadable.
At her side stood Prince Elisar, the quiet scholar. She barely acknowledged his presence.
"You summoned me?" he asked.
She didn't turn to him. "You read too much. You question too much. That makes you dangerous."
"I only seek truth."
"Truth," she spat, "is for kings. Not for sons who will never sit the throne."
Elisar bowed his head. "As you say, Mother."
She waved him away, already done with him.
Moments later, Princess Serenya approached. Ayelara's eyes narrowed.
"Where have you been?" the queen asked coldly.
"Training. Reading. Breathing."
"You are the weakest of my children. And yet the loudest."
Serenya didn't flinch. "Then perhaps you should listen louder."
Ayelara's hands flared briefly with fire. Serenya held her gaze—and walked away.
---
In the eastern wing of the palace, a dark-uniformed general strode into the War Room, where Caelen now rested after training.
General Vexar, commander of the Obsidian Guard.
He bowed. "Your Highness. The Crimson Fang have reported back."
"And?" Caelen asked, eyes still burning faintly.
"They encountered resistance. Something powerful. Possibly the Prime. They lost two men. But they marked the location."
Caelen clenched his fist. "Mother wants him dead. But I want him understood. Did they confirm lightning?"
"They saw flashes. Unnatural speed. The assassin Sevrik has been dispatched."
"I should go myself," Caelen said.
"That may not be wise."
Caelen's eyes narrowed. "Power like that doesn't wait. And if he is a Prime… he's my rival. Or my key."
Unbeknownst to them, Serenya lingered outside the door, having followed Vexar.
Lightning.
Flashes. Unnatural speed.
She didn't need more.
---
That night, Queen Ayelara stood in the shadowed chambers beneath the throne.
Before her knelt a figure clad in crimson and black, face hidden behind an obsidian mask carved with a single vertical scar.
Sevrik, the Blade of Silence—one of the kingdom's deadliest assassins, and a Level 4 combatant who rivaled even Caelen.
Ayelara extended her hand. "You know what you must do."
Sevrik nodded once. "He will not reach the cities."
"Ensure he does not reach the storm."
Without another word, the assassin vanished into the shadows.
---
Serenya returned to her chamber, packed lightly, and slipped out before the sun could rise. Her horse, a sleek dark charger named Vantor, waited in the lower stables. No one stopped her.
Not yet.
---
That night, in the west wing of the palace, Princess Serenya crept through the echoing archive halls. Her hands ran across tomes long abandoned, dust-coated relics older than the throne. One book glowed faintly when she touched it.
The Song of Storms.
She opened it. A language she could barely understand filled the page:
> "Teleron'shal vahr kun dei... zorneth aes kaelundin... stravoh sel'tar il'korran."
The translation beneath:
> "When the storm walks with flesh, and lightning sings through the cursed one's veins, the fire of kings shall dim... and the throne shall break or burn."
She closed the book.
"If he's real," she whispered, "then I have to find him before they do."
Outside, thunder rolled.
And high above the palace, a single bolt of lightning cracked across a starless sky.
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