Chapter 1: Kairah and Izkandar
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting an eerie orange glow over the village of Onan. Smoke rose in thick, choking columns from the scorched earth, where screams of anguish echoed through the ruins. The once-thriving village was now a graveyard of shattered homes and smoldering debris.
Grace stumbled through the wreckage, her vision blurred by tears. Her voice, hoarse from screaming, broke the heavy silence.
"Izak! Izak!" she cried, her heart pounding against her chest.
She pushed past the jagged remains of a fallen roof, her hands trembling as she steadied herself. All around her, villagers scrambled to save what they could. Cries of grief and desperation filled the air as loved ones searched for those who hadn't survived.
As Grace rounded the corner to the village square, her heart sank. There, at the base of the old stone well, lay a small, lifeless body.
"No," she whispered, her steps faltering. "No, no, no!"
She fell to her knees beside the boy, pulling him into her arms. It was Izak, her only son. His face was pale, his eyes closed, his body still.
"Izakā¦" she sobbed, rocking him gently. "Wake up, honey. Please, wake up."
But he did not stir.
For what felt like an eternity, Grace cradled her son, her cries lost in the chaos around her. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed somethingāor someone. A figure lay motionless in her potato field, half-buried beneath the ash and dirt.
Her breath caught.
Gently, she laid Izak's body down, brushing a hand across his face one last time. With a deep, shaky breath, she rose to her feet and made her way to the field. As she drew closer, the figure became clearer. It was a boy, younger than Izak, dressed in clothes unlike anything she'd ever seen.
"Whoā¦?" Grace murmured, kneeling beside him.
His skin was unmarked, his breathing faint but steady. His hair shimmered in the fading light, and his clothingāwoven from an unfamiliar fabricāseemed untouched by the fire that had consumed everything else.
"Hey," she said softly, shaking his shoulder. "Can you hear me? Wake up."
The boy did not respond. Grace pressed her fingers against his neck, feeling the weak but steady rhythm of his pulse. Relief washed over her.
"You're alive," she whispered.
Without hesitation, Grace lifted the boy into her arms. Though he was heavier than he looked, her determination gave her strength. She carried him back to her homeāwhat little remained of itāand laid him on the only intact bed.
Far away, in the grand city of Turac, a different scene was unfolding.
Seto, the king's advisor, approached the throne room with urgency. His robes swished as he knelt before King Urak, whose imposing figure loomed from his golden throne.
"Sire," Seto said, his voice steady. "The boy you requested has awakened."
The king's lips curled into a grin. "Good," he said, rising to his feet. "Take me to him. I wish to speak with him alone."
"As you command," Seto replied, standing and leading the way.
The halls of the palace were cold and vast, adorned with banners depicting Turac's crest: a roaring lion engulfed in frost. As they walked, Seto ventured a question.
"Do you believe this boy isā¦ one of them?"
King Urak's eyes gleamed. "If he is, Seto, then we are witnessing the fulfillment of the prophecy. And if the gods have sent him to us, I intend to make him mine."
When they reached the boy's chambers, the king gestured for Seto to leave. He stepped inside alone, closing the heavy doors behind him.
The boy was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring out the window. His pale skin glowed in the morning light, and his silver hair fell across his face. He did not turn when the king approached.
"Hello, my boy," Urak said, his voice soft yet commanding. "How are you feeling?"
The boy turned slowly, his piercing blue eyes locking onto the king's. "Where am I?" he asked, his voice high and wavering.
"You are safe," the king replied, sitting beside him. "This is the city of Turac, and I am King Urak. What is your name, child?"
The boy hesitated, his gaze dropping to his hands. "Izkandar," he whispered.
The king smiled. "Izkandarā¦ a name fit for a king."
Urak placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "You have been through much, I see. Tell me, do you remember where you came from? Your parents, perhaps?"
At the mention of his parents, Izkandar's face contorted with pain. Flashes of memory surfaced: two warm faces, a loud explosion, and thenā¦ nothing. Tears welled in his eyes as he shook his head.
Urak pulled him into an embrace, his voice low and comforting. "There, there, my boy. You are safe now. I will take care of you."
As Izkandar wept into the king's shoulder, Urak's mind raced. This boy is no ordinary child. He will be my greatest weapon.
Three Days Later
Izkandar stood in the palace courtyard, dressed in fine garments fit for royalty. His silver hair had been combed neatly, and his small hands gripped the hilt of a wooden training sword.
"Again," a gruff voice barked.
Izkandar swung the sword clumsily, his muscles aching from hours of practice. His opponent, a seasoned soldier, easily dodged the blow and tapped him on the shoulder with his own blade.
"You'll never win like that," the soldier sneered.
From the balcony above, King Urak watched with satisfaction. Beside him, Seto spoke in hushed tones.
"He has potential, sire, but he isā¦ unrefined."
"He will learn," Urak said, his eyes never leaving the boy. "In time, Izkandar will become a warrior unlike any this world has ever seen. He will bring glory to Turac."
Below, Izkandar's grip on the sword tightened. Though his body ached and his heart was heavy, a spark of determination burned within him. He would prove himself worthyānot just to the king, but to the memory of the parents.