The grand halls of Vaeloria's Silver Keep gleamed beneath the glow of a thousand torches. Tapestries woven with gold and scarlet draped the walls, depicting the kingdom's victories, its lineage stretching back to the days of the First Kings. Nobles clad in shimmering silks and polished armor filled the throne room, their laughter ringing like chimes in the autumn air.

It was a night of celebration. A night that should have marked the beginning of Kaelith Dravenmoor's reign. Instead, it would be remembered as the night his world was set ablaze.

Kaelith stood at the foot of the Celestial Throne, his father—King Aldred Dravenmoor—watching him with weary yet proud eyes. The old king, battle-worn yet regal, raised a hand to quiet the revelry. The murmurs of nobles and lords faded as all eyes turned toward their sovereign.

"My son," Aldred's voice carried through the great hall, solemn yet filled with warmth. "Tonight, I pass the burden of the crown to you. You have been trained, tested, and tempered by fire. And though your heart may still be restless, I trust that in time, you will become the king this realm needs."

Kaelith's breath was steady, his hands clenched at his sides. He had always known this day would come, yet the weight of the moment pressed upon him like an iron chain. His father had ruled with wisdom and strength, but Kaelith was not his father. His rule would be different. Better. Stronger.

Aldred stepped forward, the Crown of Vaeloria—blackened silver adorned with a single crimson gem—held in his hands. Kaelith knelt, bowing his head as the king lowered the crown toward him.

Then—

The world shattered.

The first scream tore through the hall like a blade.

Kaelith barely had time to rise before blood splattered across his face—his father's blood.

Aldred's body jerked, his regal robes suddenly drenched in crimson. A dagger had embedded itself in his side, buried deep between the ribs. The old king staggered, choking, and Kaelith lunged forward, catching him before he could collapse.

"F-Father—!"

The throne room erupted into chaos. Nobles screamed, knights drew their swords, and the guards rushed forward—but the shadows moved faster. Figures cloaked in black emerged from the pillars, assassins wielding curved daggers and poisoned blades.

Kaelith gritted his teeth, lowering his father gently to the floor. His hands were slick with blood, warm and thick. Aldred gasped, fingers grasping weakly at Kaelith's tunic. The prince's heart pounded. He could see the light fading in his father's eyes, the once-mighty king crumbling before him.

The crown lay at their feet, forgotten, its crimson gem catching the firelight like a single, unblinking eye.

Rage surged through Kaelith's veins. He reached for his sword, his pulse a war drum in his ears. But before he could rise, heavy boots struck the marble. A voice, cold and sharp as winter steel, rang through the hall.

"Seize the traitor."

Kaelith froze.

A dozen blades gleamed in the torchlight, all pointed at him. The royal guards—the men sworn to protect him—stood in a ring, weapons drawn. Behind them, stepping into the fire's glow, was a man Kaelith knew too well.

Duke Varcen Halecrest.

His father's most trusted advisor.

His father's murderer.

Kaelith stared, his mind refusing to grasp the betrayal before him. Varcen's dark eyes gleamed with triumph, his lips curling into a smirk.

"By order of the High Council, Kaelith Dravenmoor, you are under arrest for the assassination of King Aldred."

The words slammed into him like a battering ram.

He looked down at his hands, covered in blood. His father's lifeless body cradled in his arms. The throne room was spiraling into madness, but all Kaelith could hear was the roaring in his skull.

"No…"

Varcen's smirk widened. "Your ambitions were too obvious, boy. A prince desperate for power, willing to kill his own father to claim the throne. What a tragedy."

The guards advanced. Kaelith's grip tightened around his sword, rage burning through the shock. But there were too many. His own men, men he had fought beside, now saw him as a traitor.

Steel flashed. A gauntleted fist struck his jaw, sending him to the floor. His vision blurred, pain blooming in his skull. More hands grabbed him, tearing him away from his father's corpse, wrenching his arms behind his back. Chains clamped around his wrists, heavy and cold.

The last thing he saw before darkness swallowed him was Varcen's victorious smile.