Prince Daemizio, with the child's calloused hands in his arms, smiled like an angel. The dirt under the child's nails told stories of hard work on their poor family farm. The farmer parents beamed with joy, witnessing their humble home blessed by royalty.
Daemizio distributed seeds and animals, a boon for their struggling economy. In contrast to the past 11 years, prosperity seemed within reach. Yet, in their hearts, a daring thought emerged: perhaps the demise of King Aeron's lineage was a blessing. King Daemon, too, excelled—his knights safeguarding Adri's lands.
Comparison was inevitable.
"Is this enough?" Daemizio's voice held genuine concern. "I've studied farming from books and articles, but hearing directly from my people matters." The parents assured him, "Your highness, this abundance surpasses our dreams! Seeds and cattle for a lifetime—we'll honor your gift." The mother, in tattered peasant clothes, radiated gratitude.
Chuckling, Daemizio replied, "It's my duty as Prince of Adri." He gently set down the gleeful child, who clung to his legs. "I depart for the capital,to check for our trades. May Adhara bless you with prosperity and abundance."
The humble peasant farmers bowed as Prince Daemizio stepped out through their weathered door. His presence was a refreshing breeze in the kingdom—attentive, caring, and vigilant. The memory of the fallen kings gradually faded, replaced by hope. Eleven years of poverty seemed poised for transformation.
And the whispers of regicide? Buried deep, never to resurface.
Daemizio's smile waned as he stepped into the Royal Carriage, the weight of grave matters settling upon him. After hours of relentless travel, he arrived at the capital—a bustling metropolis teeming with secrets and shadows. His destination, however, lay beyond the grandeur of palaces and marble facades.
The building he sought stood forgotten—an ancient stone structure, its surface moss-covered as if nature herself had claimed it. Torches lined the entrance, casting flickering light on the worn steps. Daemizio descended, each spiral leading him deeper into the city's underbelly.
Here, in this underground hub, the air tasted of desperation and whispered alliances. Mercenaries leaned against the walls, their eyes assessing every newcomer. Contracted assassins exchanged coded glances, their daggers hidden beneath tattered cloaks. And illicit traders, masters of clandestine deals, huddled in corners, their wares concealed within hidden compartments.
Daemizio pulled a worn-out cape over his features, obscuring his identity. The scar on his cheek throbbed—a reminder of past choices, of blood spilled and debts unpaid. He settled onto a bar stool, its wood groaning under his weight. The bartender, a grizzled soul who had seen too much, acknowledged him with a single nod.
From the shadows emerged a lone figure, their aura calculated and dangerous. "Have you retrieved it?" Daemizio inquired. "No signs of Datura's body at Verdant," The man replied. "Kiev's words likely hold truth. I can't sense the aether crystal in the area."
Silence hung heavy as Daemizio pondered. What fate had befallen Datura? Perhaps the creatures roaming Verdant had consumed him. "I saw the crate," he continued, "and no evidence of a creature feasting upon it. It's possible his body was stolen or sold. Kiev insists he looked too vital to be dead."Daemizio's ears perked up at the last words. His eyes widened slowly, and his brows furrowed. "Are you sure? His body is supposed to decompose within a week." He had cast a spell on Datura's body, ensuring its fate. Something must have gone awry.
"Yes," the lone figure replied, their voice resolute. "This will be tough. We'll retrieve it before anyone else does. But I fear someone more powerful might already possess it." Confidence laced their words.
Daemizio excelled at maintaining composure, concealing his true emotions. Yet, his eye twitched—an urge to punish his own father for his carelessness.
"Go," Daemizio commanded, anger simmering. "Retrieve the aether before I change my mind and have you kill my father instead. Do what you must. If he's somehow alive, I'll ensure he dies again." A sinister grin escaped his lips, revealing the darkness beneath his princely facade.
The lone figure was swallowed by darkness, dissipating like a breath of dark smoke. His form vanished from the air, a manifestation of forbidden magic. Such sorcery suited his clandestine profession. He navigated Adri's hidden realms: back alleys, narrow streets, and shadowed crevices.
From the depths of obscurity, he conjured a dark horse—an ethereal creature that oozed smoke. Its snout blazed black, and its neigh echoed like nightmares. As the moon loomed closer, he rode through the night, leaving the capital of Adri behind. Emerging from the sacred shrines and humble abodes, he plunged into the heart of the mountainous woods. His path, muddied and veiled in a dense, swirling mist, led him onward. And there, nestled within the rocky crags, stood a stone cave—an enigmatic meeting place.
He was a man divided, straddling loyalty to two masters. Yet, paradoxically, this duality aligned with his ultimate purpose: to retrieve the Aether Spheres, the very essence of the gods coveted by both mortals and divine beings alike.
These mystical orbs bestowed unparalleled power upon their wielders, enhancing innate abilities. Just as Narakadhara, the god of the underworld, had granted him dominion over shadows, the aether sphere amplified his strength and prowess. Now, he could summon shadow creatures at will, weaving darkness into a formidable weapon that unsettled his adversaries' minds.
Within the stone cave, he contemplated the delicate balance between servitude and ambition. The Aether Spheres pulsed with ancient energy, whispering secrets of creation and destruction. As he reached out to touch their ethereal surface, he wondered: Would he emerge from this cavern as a savior or a harbinger of chaos?
Dismounting his steed, the horse of nightmares dissipated into the wind, vanishing like tendrils of smoke. As he lowered his hood, revealing a face chiseled by fate, the world seemed to hold its breath. His jaw, honed to precision, could slice paper with ease. His eyes, reminiscent of a drowsy siren, bore the weight of countless secrets in their gray depths.
Yet it was the scar that commanded attention—a jagged path etched across his features. It began at his furrowed brows, traversed the bridge of his nose, and terminated at the corner of his mouth. Each inch of that scar told a story—a tale of battles fought, betrayals endured, and sacrifices made.
Eternal anguish clung to him, woven into the very fabric of his existence. The scar was more than a physical mark; it was a reminder of a past that refused to release its grip. Pain, like an unyielding companion, trailed him relentlessly.
Stepping into the stone cove, its entrance flanked by flickering torches and an array of protective talismans, he felt the weight of ancient magic settle around him. The air hummed with enchantments—a seal woven to ward off harm and danger. The path ahead descended gradually, reminiscent of an underground ant hill, its twists and turns revealing hidden openings. Yet, he needed no guidance; instinct led him unerringly.
Before him stood a gathering of men, their robes mirroring his own, yet each set adorned with intricate details that set them apart. These were no ordinary acolytes; they were seekers of the Aether Spheres, like him. Their eyes bore the same hunger—the desire to harness the gods' essence for their own purposes.
Around a long mahogany table, strewn with trinkets, ancient scrolls, and meticulously drawn maps, they huddled. Each artifact held a clue, a thread connecting them to the elusive orbs. Nine in total, scattered across realms and guarded by both mortal and divine forces. Only two rested in their possession—one of them his own.
"Caelun," the name resonated through the dimly lit chamber, its syllables heavy with purpose. The hooded figure who spoke possessed a voice that seemed to emerge from the very abyss—the deep void itself. Shadows clung to his form, dancing in reverence. "Have you had any leads?"
"Verdant," Caelun replied, his gaze unwavering. "A trail that led to whispers and half-truths. I treaded the forest's edge, where leaves whispered secrets and roots cradled forgotten bones. Aether left a trace but nowhere to be found. I'll be visiting Valadri to check, my lord." The other nodded in affirmation, his face concealed by the shadows of his drape, harboring secrets and prowess that dare challenge if provoked.
"Keep up the good work, Caelun," the hooded figure's voice resonated, a blend of reverence and urgency. The torchlight flickered, casting elongated shadows on the stone walls.
Caelun's jaw tightened, the scar on his cheek throbbing in rhythm with his heartbeat. The Aether Spheres, those elusive orbs that held the fate of realms, weighed heavily upon him. Their energy pulsed through the cavern, intertwining with his resolve.
"Once the Aether Spheres are all sealed," He replied, his voice steady, "We can break the prophecy." The words hung in the air, laden with both hope and trepidation. The prophecy—the ancient thread woven by gods and whispered by seers—threatened to unravel existence itself.
He glanced at the maps, their inked lines tracing paths to hidden realms. "We just have to be fast," he continued, eyes narrowing. "Before they can even get to it."
The hooded figures leaned in, their breaths mingling with the cave's dampness. The double man, scarred and resolute, knew that time was a merciless adversary. The gods' gaze bore down upon him, their cosmic eyes unblinking.