Written by Aelyzabeth von Thors.
Rain descended endlessly from the heavens, its ceaseless weeping echoing against the ancient tiled roofs—a mournful hymn sung by the sky itself, lamenting the fate of man.
Amidst a narrow alley drowned in mud and the remnants of war, a lone figure staggered forward, his cloak tattered and soaked, his wounds bleeding through the fabric. Each step was agony, each breath a struggle against death itself—That man was Zyon Cornelius Thorssius,the forsaken son of the throne, the survivor of his brother's blade, and now but a shadow without a crown, wandering the city that once hailed his name with reverence.
The cold wind whispered across his torn flesh, carrying the sting of rain deep into his bones. He drifted through the labyrinthine streets until his weary eyes fell upon a humble tavern within the blacksmiths' quarter. The old bamboo door creaked open with a sigh, and the scent of herb-laced broth enveloped him like a forgotten memory—a scent that drew tears from a heart that had long forgotten warmth.
The innkeeper, a woman of kind eyes and weary hands, gasped at the sight of him. She rushed to his side, cradled his trembling body, and laid him upon a wooden cot behind the counter.
"My child… were you set upon by thieves?"she asked, but Zyon merely shook his head faintly before succumbing to the darkness of his wounds.
Days passed. His body, though battered, began to heal. Yet the wound within his heart festered still. He would sit by the window in silence, gazing at the rain that blurred the glass like tears of the world. In his hands—an old chronicle of the Kingdom of Romius, gifted by the kindly innkeeper.
He read endlessly, day and night—and within those pages, he beheld the rise and fall of kings.He read of monarchs noble and just, who forsook their joy to guard their people; and of tyrants, whose hunger for power led them to slaughter their own blood for thrones built upon bones.
"My brother…" he whispered, voice soft as rain,"is no different from those kings who drowned their realms in sorrow.If Romius must endure such rule… then its people shall suffer until the end of days."
The gentle light in his eyes had long since faded, replaced by a glacial resolve—cold, sharp, unyielding. He set the book upon the table and rose, though his bones ached and his wounds cried out.The fire within him now burned brighter than any forge.
He took the small pouch of silver he still possessed and placed it in the woman's hands.
"Madam," said he, "I can never repay the mercy you have shown. But keep this, I beg you.I swear before the Lord of the Heavens—one day, I shall return,and when that day comes, you shall not recognize the man who stands before you."
The woman's eyes dimmed with sorrow.
"Do not leave, child… The storm still rages, and your wounds—"
But Zyon did not heed her words. He drew his ragged cloak about his shoulders and stepped into the tempest.The roar of rain swallowed his footsteps, leaving only the silhouette of a youth walking through the veil of night—a ghost of a prince, fading into obscurity.
He made his way to the outer quarters of the royal city, where his once-splendid chamber lay in ruin.The table still bore stains of blood from that night of betrayal, and the bed still carried the mark of the blade that had pierced his heart.
Zyon surveyed the chamber, gathering what little remained of his life—a single book,a silver pendant once worn by his mother,and the short sword with which he had once sworn fealty before the throne.
At last, he turned toward the faded portrait of his family. His gaze trembled for a heartbeat, then steeled once more—tempered like iron drawn from the flame.
"If the heavens still grant me breath," he murmured,"then I shall forge a world without tyrants.Even should my own blood serve as its foundation."
A flash of lightning tore through the sky, and in that fleeting brilliance, the chamber was lit—revealing a boy no longer innocent, but transfigured.His emerald eyes gleamed with fire, reflecting the cold silver of the moon.
He stepped beyond the threshold without a glance backward.Each step was an oath—an unyielding vow carved into the fabric of fate itself.
"I shall return," he whispered into the storm,"when the moon is full, and the court of Romius shall learn—that the prince they cast into shadow...never truly died."
Thus, on that night, beneath the rain and the solemn moon,the Shadow Prince was born.And the world held its breath,waiting to hear the first whisper of a destiny reborn from ruin.
Thus ends Chapter B-III.