Vem Arson was called again, the voice deep and commanding. He hated the voice, it chilled him to the bone, constantly reminding him of the difficult task ahead. As the sound echoed through his rooms, a fleeting memory surfaced—of a time when he was just a mischievous boy who couldn't sit still. He jumped on desks, launched paper airplanes at the teacher's back, and more than once "accidentally" dropped something just to look under her skirt. Ah, those carefree days seemed like a different life.
Everything was different now. His next mission loomed before him like a thundercloud, another escape; another exiled soul.
Sighing, Vem got up from his chair, opened the door, and went out into the corridor, the soft red velvet carpet muffling his footsteps. The splendor of the palace, with its tall arches and marble columns, seemed to close around him as he headed toward the source of the voice that was now impatiently calling his name.
As he approached the grand staircase, Vem ran his fingers along the smooth walls. He turned sharply to the right, and with every step down the wooden stairs, his mood darkened. He knew what was waiting for him.
Finally, he found himself standing in the center of a large hall. The air was cold and heavy with silence. The tall windows were covered with snow-white curtains. Lord Uwell sat in the center of the room, slouched on his huge throne. His figure was indistinguishable in the dim light. From where Vem stood, it was hard to tell if he was awake or just resting, a sapphire crown hanging low over his thick gray beard.
Vem's gaze slid over the leather bandage covering Uwell's left eye. It was a constant reminder of the past, the wound inflicted by his own sister, Loiva, whose existence had been erased from history, except for the scars she left behind.
Lord Uwell was not always destined for the throne. The Uwells always planned that their firstborn, Loiva, would rule, until Konstantinos, the youngest son of Uwell, was born, and with him the prophecy of his reign. At the time, Loiva was just a child, devastated.
As she grew up, rage consumed her, secretly accumulating. The morning she learned of her brother's fate, the anger in her soul darkened into something more sinister. When night fell and silence reigned in the palace, she refused dinner, locked herself in her room, and waited for everyone to fall asleep. When nighttime arrived, she took a dagger from under her pillow and crept through the quiet corridors to the nursery.
She found his door ajar, as if it were a silent invitation. She approached the cradle stealthily, like a ghost, where her little brother slept peacefully. Without hesitating for a second, Loiva raised her dagger, aiming at his heart, but missed in the dark. Instead, the blade stabbed into his eye.
The consequences were swift and brutal. In desperation, Loiva jumped out of a window in an attempt to flee. But she was caught, and her mother dragged her back to the palace with her own hands. The next morning, at the age of fourteen, she was hanged for her crime. But Konstantinos, who was barely a year old, survived. His mother made up a story to protect him from the truth, that his sister had run away to marry a prince.
But when he turned seven, he began to dig for the truth himself, asking for permission to visit Loiva's grave. The gardener, disobeying orders, revealed everything. That day, he ordered the gardener to exhume her coffin, but it turned out to be empty. Since then, Lord Uwell has carried the burden of this secret.
"You know why you're here," Lord Uwell's voice broke the silence, his one good eye fixed on Vem. "Take off your shirt."
Vem gritted his teeth but did as he was told, turning his back to the throne. Under the lord's gaze, goosebumps ran down his skin, a discomfort he had become accustomed to over the years.
"Why do you always make me do this?" Vem asked in a low voice. "You never tell me why."
"It's not for you to know," Uwell replied coldly. "Not yet."
Vem frowned but said nothing, waiting for the inevitable order that would follow.
"The fallen angel has been banished again," Uwell continued.
Pilor, the royal bird, had been an envoy between the kingdoms for as long as Vem could remember. The bird sat silently nearby, its emerald eyes carefully watching the conversation.
Vem shook his head, feeling a growing disappointment. "Don't you think it's time to release those I've already saved? We keep them locked up in this dungeon, but they're not evil. They don't belong there."
"They are not ready to be released," Uwell's voice darkened. "You know the rules. We can't trust them."
Vem took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. "If only I could talk to them—"
"No!" The word thundered through the hall, shaking even the stones of the palace. Uwell's single eye glittered with anger. "You shouldn't talk to them. Ever. They will use their words to distort your consciousness, to seduce you. Don't forget where they come from, boy. They need our help, which is why I'm sending you out there."
Vem wanted to say so much more, but he held his tongue. Lord Uwell leaned forward and whispered something in Pilor's ear. The bird flew up to Vem and dropped a small black stone at his feet. Vem bent down to pick it up, already knowing what it meant.
"The volcano," Uwell said in a low but firm voice. "Mount Emeron. You know what to do."
Vem nodded and turned to leave, but the weight of Uwell's words did not disappear. "Be careful," the lord called after him.
Vem did not answer. When he entered the palace doors, the moon flooded his skin with its pale light, illuminating two sharp bones sticking out of his back.
Taking a deep breath, he arched his back, and his wings, once bright and shining, opened in an explosion of dusty silver feathers. In his hand, he held his trusty sword, Seraphina. Together with Pilor, Vem soared into the sky, cutting the cool night air with his wings, and headed for Mount Emeron, feeling the weight of another rescue pressing on him.