Menacing, deep purple clouds churned above the black crystal tower, the lone monolith piercing through the fabric of the sky. The chamber within stretched into endless shadow, its vastness devouring the sound of every footstep. A throne stood at its heart, a grotesque monument of rubies and pearls, its gold veins darkened by the blood that had consecrated it. Upon it sat a figure, draped in an air of indifference, his eyes flickering with amusement as another presence entered the room.

Zagva: The last fortress has fallen. Shall we halt and consolidate, Lord X'uran, or press forward with the culling?

X'uran: I have not risen from this seat in eons, nor unsheathed my blade in even longer. Tell me, Zagva—have I made my hounds too strong, or has life at last learned its place?

Concluding this remark, his hand extended towards the direction of his loyal subordinate, as she approached and kissed it. Her face clearly showed the joy she derived from such acts of showing her affection and absolute docility in her lord's presence.

X'uran: No matter. Do as you will. The world is already ours.

Zagva: As you command. However, there is something you should know. I have observed an anomaly. Concentrated energy signatures moving in unnatural patterns across Earth. This does not belong to mankind. Shall I look further into it?

X'uran: You are needed elsewhere. Your absence would render the campaign a mess of bickering fools. Send the red one.

Zagva: That is the concern, Lord X'uran. The red one has vanished. He has been on Earth since the slaughter of his kin at the hands of the brothers. There has been no trace of him.

A slow exhale left X'uran's lips, the silence that followed growing thick with something almost tangible. Then, a low chuckle. Then laughter. Deep, rolling, consuming, his entire frame shaking with the force of it.

X'uran: Then let it be! Let the strings of fate tighten around him. Earth is an afterthought, Zagva. Godland is my prize. And as for the brothers—one has already tasted his fate. The other will, in time. Now go, and bring me further amusement.

Zagva: As you wish. We will move against the Silver Gates next. They present the least resistance.

X'uran: Then do so. And leave me. I would have this air for myself.

Zagva bowed and turned, her crimson hair cascading over black and gold robes, the glint of diamonds shimmering in the dim glow. Beneath her cloak, her blade lay dormant, awaiting the day it would drink deep once more. As she stepped from the chamber, X'uran inhaled, his body—more armor than flesh—stirring in the faintest motion.

His eyes burned anew.

The sun had yet to sink below the horizon. Herculon moved quickly, his catch of the day slung over his shoulder, glistening scales reflecting the dying light. Today had been kind; the river had given more than it usually did. His mother would be pleased.

"The logs can wait. She will love this."

The creaking bridge marked the boundary between river and forest, and as he stepped onto it, a voice—familiar, grating—called out to him.

Familiar Voice: Quite the bounty you've got there, boy. Spare some for an old man?

Alphonso. The ever-present smirk, the gaping absence of two front teeth, the scar that twisted his expression into something almost comical. Hunched, wiry, ever the leech, standing at the far end of the bridge in his usual absurd attire—ragged tunic, blue hairband, mismatched sandals.

Herculon: Not today, old man. The gods were generous, and this belongs to my mother's table.

His silver hair, his piercing eyes—he had long stood apart from the rest of the village. Even in his tattered clothes, the strength in his frame was unmistakable. The net of fish slung across his back gleamed, the scent of fresh riverwater still clinging to them.

Alphonso: You used to be kinder when you were smaller, boy.

Herculon: I haven't changed. Perhaps you mistook kindness for something you could take advantage of.

The old man grinned, spat onto the wooden planks, and before another word could pass between them, two more figures emerged from the trees—Ron and Eren.

Ron: Give it up, old man. Stop trying to swindle fish from the kid. He's going places, and he won't forget the rats that tried to chew at his heels.

Eren: Coming from you, Ron, that's rich.

Laughter, a shared clap on the back. The tension dissolved into something lighter as the four of them walked onward, the path through the damp woods winding ahead.

Ron: By the way, the king sent some Imperial Knights here last week.

Herculon: What? I haven't seen them. Did something happen?

Ron: Apparently, the village chief couldn't collect taxes from everyone, and now the knights are questioning his honesty, suggesting he's hiding funds.

Herculon: Is he?

Ron: Of course not! You know him, kid. The man's too honest for his own good. It'll be his undoing.

Eren: Those knights are corrupt. Stealing money, abusing their power to prey on village leaders' wives. I thought they were just stories, but now I'm not so sure.

Alphonso: Compared to them, I'm an angel, young Herca. They're the true scourge of this land.

Herculon: Well, I hope whoever hasn't paid their taxes does so quickly.

Eren: That's just it, kid. I think the knights coerced someone into not paying, just to give themselves an excuse to pressure the chief.

Herculon: All that just to sleep with his wife?

Ron: And to put him in their debt. That's how they operate.

They approached the village. The sign at the entrance seemed as weathered and unremarkable as ever, but the air held a deceptive freshness. The serenity of the village was a facade. As they entered, surrounded by humble huts and the occasional well-built house, a sense of underlying tension became palpable.

Reaching a crossroads, the group parted ways. The two middle-aged men helped Alphonso home as he continued to grumble about Herculon's lack of generosity. Laughing, Herculon waved goodbye and headed towards his own home.

As he drew closer, he heard raised voices, angry and aggressive. Concerned for his mother's safety, he broke into a run. His heart pounded with worry as he neared their hut and saw horses bearing the Imperial flag and sigil.

He burst through the door to find his mother on the floor, injured and distressed. Three Imperial Knights surrounded her. One was about to deliver a vicious kick when Herculon shoved him aside and rushed to his mother's aid.

Herculon: Who the hell are you people?! How dare you lay a hand on my mother!

The Knight that had been shoved aside by Herculon steps closer again. This time, his badge is visible to the young boy. Azraya, it reads.

Azraya: You impudent little shit. You will regret touching me with your peasant fingers.

He kicks Herculon, sending him across the room like a ragdoll. Before the boy can even catch his breath, the other two Imperial Knights seize him, holding him in place—an invitation for Azraya to strike again. Without hesitation, Azraya delivers another vicious kick to Herculon's gut.

Elara: Azraya, please! There is blood between us, not the boy! Let him go. I beg you!

For a moment, the knight pauses. He tilts his head and looks at Elara, his eyes betraying more than he intends—revealing too much of the vile thoughts lurking beneath. He is practically drooling at the sight of her desperation, reveling in the power he holds over her. Stepping forward, he lifts her chin with his fingers.

Azraya: You have one hour. I'm going to deal with the chief of this village—since he is just as much of a dipshit as you are—but by the time I return, I want my hands on it. The time is now. You've been free for far too long.

Herculon (panting, trying to recompose himself, still held by the two knights): What is it? Mother, how do you know this man? What does he want?

Azraya: For a little shit, you sure talk a lot. Perhaps one more hit will make you shut up. This is what happens to children who grow up without a father figure. Who knows, Elara—if you give me what I'm looking for and the king is pleased, I will be a very rich man. I could fill that void in your life.

Elara: You will have it, then. For now, please let me tend to my son's wounds.

Azraya: Don't be so cold, Elara. Are you denying yourself to me?

Elara: I don't have time for your games, Azraya. We can talk about this all you want but first let me tend to my son's wounds.

After throwing the battered boy to the ground, the three knights take their leave. As Herculon groans in pain, Elara kneels beside him, tending to his wounds. She applies an ointment that works almost like magic, soothing his pain instantly.

Herculon: What was that, Mother? What does that bastard want?

Elara, trying to hold back the tears that were trying not to escape her starry eyes, maintains her composure, returning to a stern expression.

Elara: Please, Herculon. There is no time. You have to leave.

Herculon: What? Are you out of your mind?

Elara: It wasn't a question, love. You must go. I tell you this because there is nothing else I can do. What he seeks, why it is with me, why I cannot return it to him—all the answers await you. But right now, you must leave.

Herculon: I am not leaving you here! You must come with me!

Elara: If I do, they will hunt us both down. They will send the entire Imperial Army after us. Bloodhounds. Everything.

Herculon: Why would they send the army after us? We are simple people from a humble village!

Having very little time despite there being so much to tell him, she decides to not consider this discussion for now. The time was of the essence. Every fleeting moment could lead to their demise. Prioritizing her son's health was the least of her motherly prerogatives.

Elara: Trust me, my son. You are my everything. You must believe me just this once. Close your eyes and trust me. Take the route that leads away from the woods, toward the shore of Alais. You will find our friend near the dock.

Herculon: What friend? Why can't you tell me what this is all about?

Elara: Everything awaits you at the Kingdom of Defhatus. The king there is kind and just, unlike King Alcassir. He cares for those in need and those who are worthy. You are worthy. Go, my boy.

Herculon: What will you do, Mother? How can I leave without knowing when I'll see you again—or if I ever will?

Elara: I am your mother, Herculon. I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe. But I won't lie to you—there is a chance we may not see each other for a long time. But you must go. It is our only hope.

With a heavy heart, Herculon rises. He kisses his mother's forehead, then her feet, before turning away—never looking back. He runs. He runs as fast as he can, hoping that the wind will carry away the tears that fall from his eyes.