In Harlax's chamber, a sudden burst of black flame lit the cold stone walls. His eyes widened with fear, and he stumbled back.
— "Guards!" he shouted. But his cry fell into emptiness. The door did not move. Time itself seemed frozen.
From within the flames, a voice echoed. Deep, ominous, and strangely familiar:
— "Do not waste your breath, child. In this moment, only you and I exist."
Harlax's breath caught in his throat.
— "Who… who are you?"
A shadowy figure stirred within the fire. The voice thundered again:
— "I am your ancestor, Ostomas. Founder of Harland, master of the flame… And you, Harlax, are the true heir to my legacy."
Harlax's heart pounded. But he forced out the words:
— "If you are truly Ostomas, why do you seek to drown our kingdom in darkness? Did you not build this realm yourself?"
The flames erupted with cruel laughter. Cold, mocking, and suffocating.
— "They taught you only fragments of the truth. Convenient lies, cut away from history. But that is not today's concern. Today, you must choose."
The fire grew higher, shadows twisting across the walls.
— "Your weak father… your half-blood brother Mamir… the foolhardy Krene… the book-blind Visrok… You will see their downfall. They do not carry my blood. You do."
Harlax's voice trembled, both defiant and uncertain:
— "But are they not of our line? Why only me?"
Ostomas's voice sharpened like steel:
— "They carry my name, but not my essence. You alone carry my legacy. Remember, you too witnessed your sister's death. And yet what did Mamir do when he grew? He embraced the very people who killed her! They lifted him up as a hero. 'The good prince,' they call him. And Feiren? She still aids them, still feeds them, still heals them—as if the mob had not stoned her twin Seiren to death!"
Harlax's face twisted in rage.
— "Do not bring her into this!" he roared.
But Ostomas thundered back:
— "Why not? She walks among them, smiling, giving, shining like some 'Sun of the Kingdom.' And your father Visernes—he serves the people, wears the crown like a servant's yoke! Fools praise him as just and noble. But kings are not meant to serve the people—the people exist to serve the crown! You alone see this truth, Harlax. You alone are worthy."
Just then, the chamber door creaked. A woman in long black garments entered—Harlax's mother.
Her eyes met the flame, unflinching. Her lips curled with recognition.
— "So… you have come."
The fire shifted, as if acknowledging her. She turned to her son, her voice trembling with years of hidden fury:
— "My son… That wretched rabble took your sister from me. And your father bends his knee to them, a slave in a crown. But you—you can set things right. Take vengeance for Seiren. Cast down your father. Serve our master, Ostomas. And then give the people the punishment they deserve."
Harlax's heart thundered. He wanted to shout: "My father is strength and honor! I will never betray him!" But in his mind, the memory rose again—Seiren's broken body under the hail of stones, Feiren's sobs, Mamir's frozen terror.
Ostomas struck with the final blow.
— "If not for my black fire that day, would you have lived? Would Mamir? Would Feiren? You would all have perished like Seiren."
Harlax froze. His chest burned with anger, with grief, with the bitter taste of truth. His fists clenched. He closed his eyes and whispered:
— "No matter what… I will claim the throne. I will avenge my sister. And I will repay you, my forefather Ostomas."
The flames surged higher, as if in triumph. Ostomas's laughter shook the chamber.
Harlax knelt, his eyes ablaze with hatred, his soul bound by oath.
And that night, the fate of Harland shifted forever.
📖 English:
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