The winds howling across the desolate plains of Dorshan carried no peace, only the restless whispers of a kingdom unraveling at its seams. Once a land of proud banners and unshaken glory, Dorshan now stood on the precipice of something unknown, its fate twisting like a leaf caught in a gale.
High within the obsidian spires of the royal palace, King Elak stood motionless, his broad frame silhouetted against the storm-lashed sky. The silence around him was thick, suffocating, a stark contrast to the tempest raging beyond the castle walls. His gaze remained fixed on the child before him, a boy who defied all reason, all laws of nature.
His son.
Only weeks ago, the prince had been a mewling babe, small enough to cradle in the crook of his arm. But now? Now, the child stood on unsteady legs, taking his first steps with eerie determination. His tiny fingers clutched at the air as if grasping unseen threads of power. And his voice, gods above, his voice, was no infant's babble, but words. Clear. Precise. As if wisdom far beyond his fleeting days already lived within him.
Then there was the light.
It came without warning, a shimmering radiance that pulsed beneath the prince's skin whenever his emotions surged. Joy, frustration, even the barest flicker of curiosity, each feeling set his small body aglow, casting eerie, dancing shadows across the stone walls.
Elak's jaw tightened. This was no mere child. This was something more.
And Dorshan, brittle with unrest, was not ready for what he would become.
This boy, Elak realized with a heavy heart, was both a miraculous wonder and an ominous curse.
The king was resolute in his stance, there would be no exile for his beloved son or his devoted wife. Let the War Council simmer with their growing impatience. Let the citizens of Dorshan voice their fears and frustrations. Elak had sworn an oath to protect his family, even if that meant standing in the path of a conflagration that threatened to consume the very heart of the kingdom he ruled.
"I will not cast out my blood," he had declared to Queen Arame, whose tears flowed not from fragility, but from the profound burden of being a target of public ire, a queen now besieged by a nation that had turned against her.
Yet, beyond the sanctuary of the palace's chamber walls, Dorshan was bubbling over with aggression and fear.
The War Council, once a bastion of loyalty and unity, had splintered into factions, each grappling with the implications of the young heir's existence. One faction, commanded by the sagacious Lord Makin, argued for a measured approach, advocating for understanding over fear. "He is your heir, yes, but he is also a weapon we do not yet comprehend," Makin urged, his voice ringing with gravity. "We must tread carefully, with wisdom as our guide."
Yet, the contrasting faction, filled with intensity and dread, could see nothing but a growing danger embodied in the child. Their rhetoric transformed the whispers of discontent into a roaring tide, inciting the people to rise against the very notion of the boy's place within the royal family.
During a tempestuous gathering at the Council Hall, where the air crackled with tension, the chiefs demanded immediate answers. "You protect her," one of the more boisterous leaders snarled, his contempt palpable, "because you're bewitched! She bore the son of an angel, and now you hide them both like criminals!"
As tempers flared and voices clashed, filling the room with a cacophony of anger, a singular voice cut through the tumult, steady and commanding. "We have the relic," Lord Dakarai said, his tone imbued with a sense of foreboding. "The divine weapon, entombed since the Great War. It is time we wielded its power before the child brings disaster upon us all."
In that moment, the atmosphere shifted, the room falling into a heavy silence as all eyes turned towards Elak, who remained frozen in contemplation. For the first time, even the mighty king felt diminished, his spirit bruised. With a heavy heart, he retreated from the Council Hall, the weight of shadows gathering around him, far more oppressive than the crown resting upon his brow.
He had made his choices: he had chosen his wife, he had chosen his son. Now, as he stood at the crossroads of loyalty and kingdom, he found himself standing in stark opposition to both his council and the gnawing fear pervading the streets of Dorshan.
Outside the palace, the air was thick with rumor, swirling like wildfire among the citizens. Whispers permeated through the throngs—tales of a boy who could conjure lightning and command stones to move with nothing more than his words. Mothers clutched their children close to them, shielding them from the uncertainty of the future. Meanwhile, priests retreated to their sanctuaries, fervently muttering ancient prayers, desperately seeking divine intervention.
Deep within the kingdom's most guarded vaults, a secretive group of men gathered, their intentions dark and resolute. They were poised to unseal a weapon crafted in the era of angels, a relic that held both hope and destruction, a harbinger of what was to come. The fate of Dorshan hung in the balance, teetering on the brink of chaos, as the king, his family, and the future of the kingdom faced a reckoning unlike any other.