The city roared long before the gates opened.
Grand, thunderous music blasted through the crooked streets—horns snarling, drums pounding like war, flutes trying and failing to rise above the chaos. The sound collided with the everyday noise of vendors, cart wheels, fighting dogs, and shouting customers. The air stank of sweat, spices, and burnt oil.
It was festival noise.
But no one looked festive.
A butcher slammed his cleaver into a slab of orc meat. Blood sprayed his apron as a commoner leaned over the counter.
"I heard the bastard will come today," the commoner exclaimed, eyes wide as he adjusted the strap on his basket.
"No kidding," the butcher grunted, jerking another bone free. "At least he will be improvement from his mad father."
A ragged old man, picking through discounted scraps, spat on the ground.
"As if they give a damn about daily wagers and farmers like u and I. A stale fuckin' kingdom. It reached its peak during my great-grandfather and ended with my father." He sighed heavily. "We cannot leave this place until the spring comes. I thought of going south always, but the long sea scares me. We are basically trapped."
The butcher snorted.
"Do not group us together, old man. I earn handsomely. I can easily buy some half-elf chicks and settle with them in Lower Order villages. Enough chit chat. I ain't discounting u on the orc meat."
"Cheapskate," the customer muttered before walking away.
The butcher only rolled his eyes and slapped another piece of meat onto the block.
Above the marketplace, the castle loomed—cold white stone carved with serpent spirals, draped in banners that fluttered in the winter wind. The people cheered, cursed, bargained, and fought below it, but the castle watched silently, as if the ancient stone already knew what was coming.
INSIDE THE CASTLE — VYOM'S CHAMBER
The palace corridors were far quieter than the streets. The air here felt colder, sharper, touched by incense and old magic. Borgohain Vajradeha moved through the hall with long, purposeful strides. Guards bowed as he passed, though more than one watched him with a mix of fear and awe. He looked different now—stronger, broader, the silver in his veins glowing faintly under the torchlight.
He pushed open the carved door of Vyom's chamber.
Inside, the room was dim. Faint light from the window carved a pale line across the floor. Vyom lay on a high stone bed, frail beneath the ceremonial blankets. His face was sharp, his eyes bright with sickly fire.
Without turning his head, he spoke.
"I see you are in good health, Borgo," Vyom said. "You look twice the size you were 5 years ago. Have you used my pole axe that I gave you?"
Borgo stepped closer, his shadow falling long across the stone tiles.
"I am in good health brother," he replied. "I wish I could ask you the same. Th poleaxe is too heavy for me. But not sooner we will rule the land together."
Vyom let out a thin, cracking laugh—too loud for his weakened frame.
"Ha ha ha ha ha!"
It echoed in the quiet chamber, sharp as splintered glass.
"A cripple king climbing up the throne," Vyom rasped, "is surely what the first Vajradeha would like to see."
Borgo stopped beside the bed. His expression tightened—not anger, not fear, but something older. A loyalty that hurt.
He answered, voice steady:
"Never pay heath to those morons. They are scared couth who ran away from their kingdom to establish themselves as gods in foreign lands."
Vyom studied him quietly then, as if searching his brother's face for a hint of doubt.
He found none.
Borgo looked at him with a pity he tried to hide, but Vyom saw it anyway.
Silence hung thick between them until Borgo exhaled.
"I found your cure, brother," Borgo said, his tone shifting—low, serious, almost desperate. "In the land of Naga, I heard of forest that breeds the cure of your trouble. I venture for it tomorrow. I do not wish to walk on the swaly grounds you walk on. I think it's a blessing that I do not have to put my hand in the mad."
Vyom's eyes flickered—pain, hope, or fear, Borgo could not tell.
Outside the window, the distant music of the city rose again, clashing with the murmur of the wind.
Chaos below. Silence above.
And between them, two brothers—one fading, one rising—bound together by blood older than the kingdom they stood in.
Vyom closed his eyes and whispered:
"Then fate moves, Borgo… and fate hungers."
And somewhere far below, the people shouted again—
"The bastard prince has arrived!"
But inside the chamber, only the breath of two dying futures remained.
ON THE HIGH GARDEN— THE GARDEN OF THORNS
The royal corridor had always reminded Borgo of a serpent—long, polished, winding, decorated with the scales of paintings and ancestral shields. Tonight, its silence felt heavier than usual, as if even the palace stones had grown tired of swallowing secrets.
Borgo's boots echoed softly as he walked, his broad shadow sliding along the walls like a dark omen. A faint breeze carried the scent of crushed petals from the High Garden. Someone was tending to it.
He paused.
For years, he had trained himself not to react when memories drifted through him like ghosts. But this scent—sun-kissed nectar blossom—belonged only to one person.
Lira.
He felt his heartbeat falter. Reflexively, he placed a hand on the corridor railing, steadying himself. His fingers tightened until the gold filigree groaned beneath his grip.
Not now, he told himself.
Not after everything you've become. Not after everything you've broken.
But his legs had already moved before the argument in his mind ended. Borgo walked toward the direction of the High Garden, drawn like a tide pulled by the moon.
And then he saw her.
She stood in the centre of the elevated garden, sunlight filtering through the lattice above her like molten gold. Her hair, braided with tiny metal rings, swung softly as she bent to arrange trays of medicinal seeds. Her slender fingers moved with the precision of a healer, yet her grace felt more like a poem learning how to breathe.
Pijju, the hunch-backed dwarf gardener, hummed nearby.
For a moment, Borgo forgot that time existed. He forgot the curse that anchored itself in his bones. He forgot exile, titles, duties, bloodlines. He forgot the ache that gnawed at him since the day he lost her.
He only remembered her smile—once warm enough to resurrect dying flowers.
He wondered if he had the right to approach her.
If he even deserved to stand in the same air as her now.
She had loved him once. Loved him without fear, before he knew what fear could become. Before he vanished from her world. Before the power in his bloodline twisted and grew fangs.
She hates you, he thought.
She has every reason to.
He should have turned away.
But he didn't.
His feet carried him forward—slow, cautious, as though stepping into a memory that might shatter if he breathed too loudly.
Halfway through the garden, Lira rose suddenly, stepping backward—
—onto the tray of blue healing seeds, she had arranged for drying.
The seeds burst beneath her sandals with soft pops.
She froze.
Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her gaze toward Borgo.
Her eyes widened for a heartbeat. Then her lips curved into a smile—sweet, soft, and absolutely dangerous.
"Well," she said calmly, "look who has returned. I should have known it was you the moment something broke."
Pijju choked on his own spit, trying to hide his laughter.
Borgo blinked. "Lira, I didn't mean—"
She raised a finger, silencing him with a gesture that could tame thunder.
"No, no. Don't strain yourself. We wouldn't want the great Borgo Vajradeha exhausting his… extraordinary talent for stepping on things."
The dwarf bit his knuckle, shoulders shaking violently.
Borgo inhaled sharply. "This was an accident."
Lira sighed dramatically, tilting her head.
"Accidents seem to follow you like puppies, do they not? Seeds, hearts, promises… You step on all of them with admirable consistency."
Pijju snorted, nearly falling into a pot of lilies.
Borgo felt heat rise in his cheeks—not anger, but the sting of truths he had avoided for years. "I only came to talk."
She clasped her hands to her heart, feigning awe.
"Oh, Pijju. Did you hear that? Borgo wishes to talk. A legendary moment. Should we inform the scholars? Maybe compose a festival?"
Pijju nodded. "Aye, madam. Might even deserve a statue."
Lira continued, eyes gleaming with weaponized sweetness:
"tell me, Borgo—did you rehearse your words? Or will you simply disappear midway through the conversation like last time?"
His jaw tightened. "You have every right to be angry. But—"
"But nothing." Her smile sharpened. "I'm not angry. I'm merely enjoying the opportunity to reacquaint you with the consequences of your footsteps."
Borgo exhaled, defeated. He had faced monsters, blades, curses… but none of them could wound him like the melody of her voice.
Still, beneath her mockery, he could sense it—
the tremor in her breath,
the shine in her eyes,
the pulse of something not yet extinguished.
He stepped closer. "Lira. I need to speak with you. Tonight. In the Golden Deer Forest."
Her brows rose slightly. "You expect me to go wandering into haunted woods just because you asked?"
Pijju raised his hand. "They're not haunted on full moons, madam."
"Quiet," she said sweetly.
Then she turned to Borgo, examining him with eyes sharpened by years of unanswered questions.
Finally, she whispered, "Fine. But only because I'm curious which part of you will step on me this time."
And with that, she swept away like a storm wearing silk.
Borgo stood in the garden long after she left, breathing in the crushed scent of seeds and regret.
UNDER THE SILVERLIGHT— A NIGHT OF BLOOD AND PASSION
The Golden Deer Forest was alive with its usual night-song — soft chimes from crystal-leafed trees, distant hoots of moon-owls, and the low hum of ancient magic that slept beneath the roots. Borgo waited beneath the arching golden branches, every breath heavy, every heartbeat a confession he hadn't yet spoken.
He had not seen her in years.
He had not felt her in years.
And yet her presence haunted him like a half-forgotten lullaby.
When Lira finally appeared, she stepped out of the shadows with the quiet authority of someone who knew how deeply she had been wronged. Her cloak shimmered in the silver light. Her eyes were sharp, questioning, refusing softness — but trembling, just slightly, at the edges.
She stopped a few paces away and lifted her chin.
"Well," she said, her voice cools and steady, "I am here. Speak your piece, Borgo. Before courage abandons you again."
He opened his mouth.
No words came.
He had rehearsed apologies, explanations, confessions. He had imagined anger, tears, perhaps even forgiveness — but none of it prepared him for the reality of her standing inches away, breathing the same cold night air.
The moment stretched.
Too tight. Too charged.
Lira's breath hitched faintly.
"Borgo…?" she whispered, not in impatience, but in something softer — something she didn't want to name.
He took one step toward her.
She didn't back away.
Another step.
Still, she didn't move.
Her heartbeat — he could hear it. A trembling, desperate rhythm. A rhythm that had once matched his own.
His hand rose, hesitant, almost trembling. He brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear, his knuckles grazing her cheek.
She closed her eyes — only for a moment — but it was enough.
The dam broke.
Before words could form, before apologies could rise, before explanations could carve themselves into the air — their bodies moved of their own accord. Their lips collided with the violence of longing and the softness of memories. Her fingers found their way into his hair. His hands pulled her closer, gripping the fabric of her cloak like a drowning man clutching the only thing keeping him afloat.
And the years they had lost swallowed them whole.
She gasped into his mouth, a sound torn between pleasure, relief, and unhealed grief. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, pulling him closer still, as if she were afraid he might vanish again if she loosened her grip even slightly.
"Borgo…" she whispered against his lips, voice cracking, "why did you leave me?"
He couldn't answer.
Not in words.
Not now.
He kissed the tears from her cheeks, holding her as though the world around them had stopped turning.
Her knees trembled.
His breath came in ragged bursts.
And the forest itself seemed to bend around them, wrapped in silver moonlight.
She broke the kiss first — barely — her lips still brushing his. Her voice trembled.
"I hate you… for leaving."
A pause.
"I hate myself… for still wanting you this much."
He rested his forehead against hers.
"I know," he whispered. "I know. And if I could burn the past with my bare hands, I would."
Her tears fell again, slow and warm, sliding down his neck. But she didn't pull away. She held him tighter, as if her heart and guilt and fear were all spilling out at once.
Their breaths mingled, slow and trembling, until she finally whispered:
"I lost myself… and I still came back to you."
Her confession — fragile, broken, raw — struck him deeper than any blade ever could.
And that was when it happened.
Not suddenly.
Not violently.
But like a truth too powerful to hide any longer.
A pulse shuddered through his chest.
Then another.
His muscles tightened, breath catching.
Lira felt it — the tremor in him, the surge beneath his skin — and stepped back, eyes wide.
"Borgo…?" she breathed.
He fell to one knee, gripping the earth as shadows rippled across his skin.
A dark, shimmering sheen spread from his neck down his arms — scales, obsidian-black, glinting like moonlit armor. His back arched as a surge of power tore through him, and with a thunderous burst, black wings erupted outward, unfurling into the night sky like a storm breaking free.
His breath became ragged.
His spine straightened with a crack of power.
His eyes glowed silver.
Lira stumbled backward, hand over her lips — not in terror, but in awe so sharp it hurt.
His canines lengthened, gleaming with a predatory beauty that made her shiver.
"Your wings…" she whispered, barely a breath.
He looked up at her, transformed, powerful, terrible, beautiful.
"They answer the truth," he said softly, voice resonant and trembling. "And tonight, they answer you."
The moon framed him in silver — a warrior born of shadow, a prince born of blood, a man torn open by love he could no longer hide.
Lira held her breath, her tears glowing under the moonlight.
And for the first time since their parting, she saw him — all of him — not the prince, not the monster, not the exile.
But the man who had always belonged to her.