Written by Aelyzabeth von Thors.
When the sun descended, bleeding its crimson tears upon the vault of heaven, the capital of Romulius lay veiled in a hush — the kind of silence that heralds the turning of fate. And there, beneath that dying light, returned Zyon Thorssius, his body marred by wounds of war and his breath heavy with exhaustion. He had thought to find solace within the walls of his home, yet fate, cruel and unrelenting, had long abandoned mercy.
As he pushed open the oaken door that groaned in protest, he found only darkness — and within that shadow stirred two silhouettes, silent as the spirits of the abyss. From the gloom emerged assassins, eyes like frost, hearts devoid of life. The clash of steel filled the chamber, echoing like thunder beneath a starless sky. Though wounded, Zyon stood steadfast; his resolve burned brighter than pain. Steel met steel, breath met blood — until at last the sound of bodies falling marked the end of that bloody eve.
Panting, Zyon steadied himself. He gathered what few belongings he could, for he knew this city no longer belonged to him. Mounting Rex'don, his swift-scaled beast of burden — the great saurian hunter that bent its will to none but him — he fled into the night. Together they rode through the veil of darkness, leaving behind the kingdom's walls for the boundless countryside, where only the wind and the stars bore witness to his exile.
Time, the silent sculptor, passed as the river of fate does — unseen yet unstoppable. At eighteen years of age, tidings of sorrow reached him: the king, his true father, had perished in quiet death. The throne fell to his half-brother, Marcus Pompey Thorssius IV, whose heart was corroded by fear. Suspicion whispered that Zyon would one day claim the crown, and so the new monarch unleashed an army to hunt him down in the humble village he called home.
The sound of iron boots crushed the earth; the storm of war approached. The village was encircled, the torches of thousands flaring like a serpent of flame. Zyon took up his sword, for though his strength was waning, his will was unbroken. He fought, not for glory, but to shield the innocent. Yet when the blood of his people began to stain the soil and the flames devoured their homes, he chose surrender — for the life of a hero weighed less than the lives of the many.
Thus he was bound in chains of iron, dragged through the streets of Romulius as a traitor, and cast into the dungeons deep beneath the palace — where neither light nor mercy reached. Ten long years he endured the gnawing cold and the silence that devoured the soul. The cruelty of man and the indifference of fate forged within him a will unyielding, harder than the chains that held him.
But Zyon's faith in himself did not die. His blood, his scars, his pain — all were tempered into the steel of defiance. He remembered his mother's words: "He who endures the darkness shall see the light more clearly than any other." And one fateful night, when the guards grew drunk and careless, he broke free — not through magic, nor by divine favor, but by sheer will alone. The sound of shattering chains echoed softly through the depths: the sound of liberty reborn.
He fled into the storm, eyes ablaze like embers of the underworld. Through mud and rain he walked, bearing the weight of memory upon his back — awaiting the day when justice would return to the hand of the wronged.
I, Aelyzabeth von Thors, bow my head in reverence before the spirit of that man who refused to yield before the injustice of the world. He did not merely escape a prison of iron, but the prison of fear that binds the hearts of men. And thus, from his suffering, was born anew the undying soul of House Thorssius.
Hereby, I proclaim before all creation:"The will of Zyon is the eternal oath of our blood."
Thus ends Chapter B-IV.