The throne of Arvandor was not a seat of honor.
It was a prison of power.
Forged from blackstone mined from the Hollow Mountains, cooled in rivers of blood, and sealed with the dying curse of the gods themselves, the throne had swallowed generations of rulers. Kings and queens had fought, betrayed, and murdered their own kin to sit upon it. And each one had whispered the same vow: Better to die upon the throne than to live without it.
The people of Arvandor had a saying. The throne chooses. The throne devours. The throne never forgives.
That was why the prophecy mattered.
Ten years ago, when the exiled prince Adrian Stormborn vanished into the wastelands, many believed the throne had rejected him. He was the son of a disgraced queen, a child cursed with lightning in his veins, and the heir to a bloodline that half the empire wanted erased.
But the prophecy was not so easily silenced.
It lingered in whispers: The exiled prince will return. Fire and lightning will clash with shadow. The true heir will spill blood beneath the twin moons, and the throne will choose its master.
And on this storm-drenched night, the whispers came true.
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The gates of Arvandor creaked open, ancient hinges groaning as though they, too, feared what was about to pass through. The storm outside roared with unnatural fury. Bolts of lightning split the skies, each strike illuminating the figure who walked beneath them.
Adrian Stormborn.
Ten years of exile had carved him into something unrecognizable. The boy who had fled in chains was gone. In his place stood a man cloaked in black, his face shadowed, his body lean but strong from battles fought far beyond the empire's reach. His boots struck the cobblestones with a rhythm like thunder, steady, unyielding.
Eyes peered from behind shuttered windows as he passed. Mothers pulled their children close, muttering hurried prayers. Drunkards sobered instantly, their mugs slipping from trembling hands. Even the city's stray dogs tucked tail and fled into alleys.
For the storm in the sky was not the only one that had returned.
It lived in him.
Sparks of pale-blue lightning flickered across his fingertips when his cloak shifted. His eyes glowed faintly with the storm's reflection—no, not reflection. Power.
The Lightning Prince had come home.
But home no longer welcomed him.
As he crossed into the palace courtyard, dozens of armored soldiers lined the walls, their spears leveled. Shields locked together, forming a wall of steel. Their commander barked an order, but his voice cracked beneath the weight of the storm.
"Stormborn!" the man shouted. "By decree of Queen Morwen, you are forbidden from stepping foot upon this soil. Surrender, or be cut down where you stand!"
Adrian's steps did not falter.
His gaze swept across the courtyard, lingering not on the soldiers, but on the figure who stood at the far end. Elevated upon the marble steps of the palace entrance, bathed in the pale glow of the twin moons, stood Selene Veyra.
Her beauty was the kind that demanded silence. Her gown shimmered black and silver, threads of starlight woven into the fabric. A circlet of obsidian crowned her brow, sharp and cruel. But it was her eyes that held him captive—dark, fathomless, and yet glimmering with secrets.
To the people, she was the untouchable daughter of the queen. To Adrian, she was a memory carved into his soul. The last night before exile. The almost-kiss beneath the sacred oaks. The betrayal that had torn them apart.
And now she was his enemy.
Her voice cut through the storm like a blade. "Stormborn… you should have stayed dead."
The soldiers tightened their grip on their weapons. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
Adrian smirked, the faintest curl of defiance tugging at his lips. His hand fell lazily to the hilt of his blade, but he did not draw it yet.
"Funny," he said, his tone low, rich, dangerous. "I was about to tell you the same thing."
The commander shouted, and the first wave of soldiers surged forward.
Adrian moved.
He became the storm.
Lightning erupted from his palm, crackling across the courtyard and shattering spears like brittle twigs. He spun, his cloak whipping around him, and steel met steel with a scream of sparks. His blade, forged in exile from sky-iron, carved through armor as though it were paper.
The first soldier fell. The second followed.
A third lunged, spear aimed for his chest, but Adrian sidestepped, caught the shaft, and sent a bolt of electricity coursing through it. The man convulsed, his scream lost to the thunder, before collapsing in a smoking heap.
Gasps echoed from the walls. This was no broken exile. This was a prince reborn.
But still Selene did not move.
She watched him, her lips curving faintly, not in fear, but in amusement. Her eyes gleamed with something darker, something hungry. She was testing him. Measuring him.
When the last soldier fell, Adrian straightened, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths. His blade dripped with rainwater and blood. Sparks still danced across his knuckles.
"Is this how you welcome a prince home?" he asked, his voice carrying through the rain.
At last, Selene descended the steps.
The storm bent around her. Shadows curled at her feet like living things, slithering across the marble, reaching for him. Her gown whispered against the stone, each step slow, deliberate.
"You're no prince," she said softly, though the words cut sharper than steel. "You're a mistake that refuses to die."
Adrian's smirk faded. For a heartbeat, silence. Then lightning split the sky, illuminating the rage in his eyes.
"Maybe," he said, his voice steady, unyielding. "But mistakes… have a way of rewriting destiny."
Her shadows surged. His lightning answered.
The clash was cataclysmic.
Darkness and storm collided in the courtyard's center, the explosion hurling soldiers into walls, shattering windows, and cracking the stone beneath their feet. The air burned with ozone and frost. Lightning spears shattered against shadow claws, sparks and smoke tearing through the night.
Adrian's heart thundered. Her power was not just shadow—it was hunger. It sought to consume him, to erase his light entirely.
And yet, beneath that consuming dark, he felt it—the pull. The same magnetic force that had nearly bound them ten years ago. The pull of something forbidden, something unbroken by betrayal.
"Why are you holding back?" he roared, forcing his lightning forward, teeth gritted.
Her smile was devastating. "Because this isn't your battle, Adrian. Not yet. The throne doesn't belong to you. And when the time comes, you'll understand why."
Her shadows coiled, swallowing his lightning, forcing him back step by step. Sparks danced across the courtyard, illuminating his defiant glare as her power pressed harder.
Then—
A horn.
Deep. Hollow. Ancient.
It blew once, echoing across the city. The storm seemed to pause.
Adrian faltered, his blade still raised. Selene's shadows flickered. Her smirk vanished. For the first time, he saw it—fear in her eyes.
The horn blew again, closer, louder, shaking the palace walls. Soldiers broke ranks, panic in their faces. Whispers spread like fire.
Selene took a single step back, her shadows retreating. Her lips parted, and her voice trembled with something Adrian had never heard before.
"The prophecy… it begins tonight."
The palace gates groaned.
Then, with a deafening crash, they burst open.
And something stepped through.