The great hall of Veyloria Palace shimmered like a dream of gold and fire, like a dream of Man and woman. Chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling like constellations of molten light, their glow reflected in the polished marble floors like the star falling from the sky. Music swelled from the royal orchestra at the far end with beautiful and admiring voices, strings and drums weaving a triumphant anthem that echoed through the palace as if the walls themselves rejoiced and the floor was shaking heavenly as if a large troops of Army are approaching.
Prince Mutasa stood beside his father's throne King Quban, wearing a ceremonial cloak of scarlet trimmed with sable in a golden colour. At his early twenty years of age, his face carried the softness of youth but his shoulders bore the steel of someone trained for war,trained to bear many responsibilities beyond his age . Tonight was meant to celebrate the victory of Veyloria's armies over the last southern rebellion, yet his mind drifted from the festivities and celebrations. He had always felt uneasy at such gatherings—too many false smiles, too many fake greetings, too many eyes watching with hungry calculation and unpleasant intentions.
He scanned the crowd: dukes in jeweled doublets, generals with medals glittering on their chests as gift for the victory over the southern rebellion, merchants fat from war profits. There was his uncle, Lord Maleeq, laughing among courtiers near the wine table. Maleeq's laughter never reached his eyes, and Mutasa felt that same coldness now—a flicker of unease, like a chill beneath the warmth of the hall and an unpleasant like the odour of a seven days dead goat.
His father, King Quban, sat proudly on the throne, broad-shouldered, his iron-grey hair crowned with gold , wearing his highly rated golden impérial cloth. He looked every inch the monarch Mutasa aspired to become—wise, commanding, beloved by the people. Quban raised his cup to the assembled nobles ,the war soldiers and the rich men.
"To Veyloria's enduring strength and might," the king declared, voice carrying above the music and the drum. "And to the promise of peace, for our children and their children to come and future generations."
The hall erupted in cheers and laughter .Mutasa raised his own cup, though his throat felt tight and dry like a traveller in the desert. Peace, he thought. How fragile and soft a thing it is.
As the night deepened , the mid night approachs , servants brought forth roasted boar, honeyed pheasant, chill and we'll ripened fruits and spiced wine with Pleasant and refreshing teste. The hall brimmed with laughter and music, yet Mutasa's unease only grew and stronger . The torchlight seemed too bright, the air too heavy with perfume and smoke and every where seems too noisy.
His childhood friend and captain of the guard, Rhygar, leaned close and muttered under his breath, "You're as tense as a bowstrings disturbed by rolling hands. Expecting an assassin in the pudding?"
Mutasa managed a faint smirk. "Maybe in the wine or the fruits," he replied. "Don't you feel it? Something is… wrong somewhere."
Before Rhygar could answer, the doors at the far end of the hall burst open. A soldier stumbled in, armor scorched, eyes wide with terror and his chest breathing very fast .
"Your Majesty!" he gasped, voice breaking and stammering. "The city—torches in the streets—the barracks are burning—"
He never finished. A crossbow bolt whistled through the air and struck him in the throat like a missile dropping from the sky.
The hall erupted into chaos , fear and panic. Screams filled the air as more bolts flew through the open doors, cutting down guests. Armed men in black surged into the room, faces hidden by iron masks and fully armed. The royal orchestra scattered; nobles shrieked as steel clashed against steel, iron against Iron.
Rhygar shoved Mutasa toward the throne. "Protect the king!"
Mutasa drew his ceremonial sword—more ornament than weapon, but it would have to do something. His father was already rising, fury blazing in his eyes and scared.
"Guards! To me! Protect and guard me !!" Quban roared.
Then Mutasa saw his uncle Maleeq. The man stood calmly fearless even during the chaos and struggles, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. Mutasa's heart turned to ice with a lot of doubt.
"Uncle! Uncle!!?" he choked out. "What is happening, why is everything In Chaos like this?"
Maleeq's gaze met his, they looked face to face , eyeballs to eyeballs, and in that instant Kaelen understood and his suspicions were cleared. This was no foreign attack. The devil smile in Maleeq's face made him realise that the attack was caused and initiated by his uncle , Lord Maleeq. The enemy was already inside the palace undisguise .
And Maleeq had opened the door . Maleeq went out with ease without any of the army attacking them hurting him.
Traitors! You dishonor the realm! Fight, men of Veyloria, fight! And protect the king !"
For a heartbeat, hope sparked. The king still stood, unbowed, his presence commanding and encouraging even amid carnage. But then Mutasa saw the glint of betrayal solidify. Uncle Maleeq walked forward slowly, calmly, confidently,untouched by the bloodshed swirling around him by the invading army.
"Brother," Maleeq called, his voice smooth, almost mournful. "You always were too trusting , my brother."
Qudan's eyes narrowed. "You! You!!."
"I warned you that peace makes kings soft. And tonight, Veyloria changes . The throne will have a new ruler who does what must be done right," Maleeq said, spreading his arms.
"How dare you—" Quban began, but Maleeq snapped his fingers hard .
Two crossbow bolts flew as if conjured from his gesture. They struck the king Quban in his chest. The roar in King's throat choked into silence. He staggered once, dropped his sword like a falling house, and fell across the steps of the throne. The crown rolled away from his head, clinking against marble.
"Father!" Mutasa's scream tore from his chest, raw and unrestrained. The sight of Mutasa collapsing seared itself into his memory. The man who had carried him on his shoulders, feed him , who had taught him to wield a blade and speak with honor, now lay broken on cold stone helplessly.
Rhygar shoved him hard. "Kaelen, we can't stay! We have to go now! They'll kill you next!"
Don't let him escape!" Maleeq's voice cut through the din, cold and commanding. "Bring me his head now."
Why?" Mutasa gasped between breaths. "Why would Maleeq do this? He had everything—title, wealth—"
Rhygar's face was grim. "Some men want everything. Including what isn't theirs, that's life."
Rhygar grabbed him by the shoulders. "Listen to me. If you die here, your father dies for nothing. Veyloria dies for nothing. You must live, so let's run away from this palace for now."
Mutasa and Rhygar ran away from the palace . They passed through the palace fence.
Rhygar didn't hesitate. He grabbed Mutasa's wrist and dragged him toward the parapet.
"Jump!" he barked at Mutasa.
Mutasa looked one last time at the burning palace, the smoke rising like a funeral pyre against the stars. His father's voice echoed in his memory—A true king stands when others fall.
He jumped. They escaped from the palace.
Cold and darkness swallowed him whole.
And Mutasa had run.
The shame coiled around his heart like a moving smoke . He stared at his trembling hands. "They'll call me a coward and powerless," he whispered. "Maleeq will tell them I fled while I killed my Father. And they'll believe him."
Rhygar turned his head sharply. "You didn't run out of fear. You ran because your father would have wanted you be alive and safe. So you can make them pay for what they did. So you can take back what's yours."
Mutasa shook his head, voice breaking. "What do I have? No army, no allies, nothing , absolutely nothing. My name and my reputation were caused already.I can't even protect and be with the people I love."
He took one last look at the palace, its flames flickering against the night Sky . Then he turned his back to it.
"Come," he said to Rhygar, voice steadier now. "We have to move before Maleeq sends his army to hurt us down. We'll need food. Weapons. And allies and shelter. Somewhere out there, there's someone who hates him as much as we do."
"And if there's not?" Rhygar asked.
"Then I'll make them hate him," Mutasa replied.
The river's icy spray still clung to his skin, but the fire inside him had begun to burn hotter. He didn't yet know of the dormant power sleeping in his blood. He didn't yet know the path would lead him across kingdoms, or to the extraordinary women whose love and strength would forge his destiny. All he knew tonight was pain, rage, and the first spark of resolve.
Sometimes that was enough.
The prince who leapt into the river as a hunted fugitive stood, soaked and shivering, on the muddy bank. He began walking into the dark woods, toward an uncertain dawn. Each step felt heavier than the last, but he kept going.
Behind him, the night of flames raged on.
Is mind was prepared for Revenge.