The first light of dawn broke over the capital of Lothara, casting soft golden rays across the white spires and polished stone streets of Drakhalis. The twin moons of Orano faded gently into the sky’s brightening canvas, yielding to the sun’s rise as a new day began. All around the city, life stirred into motion.

  Shutters creaked open and the warm glow of lanterns dimmed as natural light poured into bakeries and shops. The scent of rising bread and sizzling meats began to mix with the crisp morning air. Merchants pulled carts into position beneath colorful awnings in the Grand Market District, and city guards changed shifts with practiced precision, their armor glinting faintly in the growing light. From the watchtowers to the canals, the capital awoke in harmony, unaware that something had already gone terribly wrong.

  Within the towering walls of the royal castle, the staff had begun their morning routines—sweeping grand halls, preparing breakfast platters, tending to gardens enchanted to bloom year-round. Among them was Thessa, a young satyr maid with cinnamon-brown skin, gentle features, and soft spiraling horns that curled neatly behind her ears. Her cloven hooves tapped steadily across the marble floor as she carried a silver tray of food down one of the east corridors—steam rising from the spiced tea and warm fruit pastries arranged with careful care.

  Thessa smiled softly to herself, her short tail flicking with each step. Mornings with Prince Joran were, without question, the part of her day she most looked forward to. He wasn’t like the other nobles—aloof or demanding. He was shy, certainly, and withdrawn most days. But he always met her with quiet politeness and those thoughtful eyes that seemed older than his years. Some days, he would even ask her questions about the outside world. She treasured those rare conversations like secrets.

  As she neared his chambers, she passed two guards marching in formation down the opposite hall. She gave them a courteous nod—received only with curt acknowledgment—and continued on, her hooves clicking against the smooth floor until she stopped before the ornate double doors that marked the prince’s room.

  Balancing the tray carefully with one hand, she knocked gently.

  “Prince Joran?” she called softly, her voice lilting. “I’ve brought your breakfast.”

  Silence.

  She blinked, leaning in slightly. That was… odd. Usually by this hour, the prince was already up—either pacing restlessly from another nightmare or standing near the window, lost in thought. Often, he was right at the door, opening it before she even finished knocking.

  “Prince Joran?” she called again, this time with a note of concern. “Are you well?”

  Still no reply.

  A frown tugged at the corners of her lips. The tray felt heavier in her hands now, the steam from the tea curling up between her fingers as the silence deepened.

  “I—I’m coming in,” she said nervously. “Just to make sure everything’s alright.”

  She turned the handle slowly and nudged the door open.

  The room was still.

  The morning sun filtered through the tall windows, casting warm stripes across the polished floor and the sheets of the large, neatly made bed. The tray in her hands trembled slightly as her eyes swept the space—empty. The bed hadn’t been slept in. Not a single pillow was out of place.

  “Prince Joran?” she said again, more softly, as though hoping he might be hiding just out of view.

  She set the tray on the edge of the bed and crossed the room quickly, peeking into the private bathing chamber. Empty. She turned toward the wardrobe—it was partially open. Several pieces of his usual attire were missing.

  Her heart began to race.

  She stepped back into the bedroom, her hooves clacking anxiously against the stone as she looked around with new eyes. The signs were subtle, but now they jumped out at her—his travel bag was gone. The rug near the balcony was slightly scuffed. One of the decorative cloaks that always hung on the far hook was missing.

  Thessa felt a chill crawl up her spine.

  Without another moment’s hesitation, she turned and bolted from the room.

  She moved like wind through the castle corridors, her satyr speed and agility carrying her effortlessly through stairwells and archways. She checked the library—no sign of him. She ducked into the training yard—empty. The dining halls, the observatory, the garden terrace. All silent. All wrong.

  With each empty room, the dread coiled tighter in her chest.

  “Have you seen the prince?” she asked a pair of maids polishing the stair rail.

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  “No, not since yesterday,” one said with a puzzled look. “Why?”

  Thessa didn’t answer. She was already gone, hooves pounding down another hall.

  When she passed the guard barracks, she grabbed the attention of the first knight she saw—Ser Ravelin, one of the few who’d ever shown warmth to the staff.

  “The prince—he’s missing,” she gasped. “I’ve searched everywhere. His room was untouched. I think he’s… I think he’s gone.”

  Ravelin’s face darkened. “Gone?” he echoed, straightening immediately.

  “In the middle of the night, it looks like. His bag’s gone. His cloak. His sword. No signs of struggle, but he—he’s not here.”

  The knight’s eyes narrowed. Without another word, he turned and barked a command to a nearby guard. “Alert the captains. Begin a full sweep of the castle. Lock down the gates, all of them. No one enters or leaves without my word.”

  Within moments, the quiet morning spiraled into organized chaos. Guards scrambled through the halls, their armored boots thundering across the stone. The castle staff whispered in frantic confusion, messengers raced between wings, and search parties fanned out across the palace. The entire castle was searched with no sign of the prince being found and thus they had to alert the king.

  __________________________________________________________________________________________

  The sun crept over the horizon like a cautious sentinel, casting its pale light across the capital of Lothara. Its rays stretched long fingers over the walls of Drakhalis, bathing the city’s towers and crystal domes in gold. In the uppermost chamber of the palace, behind thick curtains and high arched windows, the Dragon King stood in solemn silence. His eyes—molten gold, bright and terrible—remained fixed on the portrait before him.

  It was her. The Queen.

  The painting had been done in secret shortly before her death, commissioned by the king himself. She sat in the image beneath a flowering tree, her sunset-red hair loose and wild, her expression serene. Scales shimmered faintly along her cheekbones and neck, a subtle reminder of her lineage. Her eyes were a deep, impossible blue—like the ocean after a storm—and they watched him still.

  He remained still for a long time, hands clasped behind his back, his night robe wrapped tight around his scarred frame. The silence of the room was thick, broken only by the soft creak of aged wood as the door behind him opened.

  “Enter,” he said, his voice low and commanding, like distant thunder.

  The satyr maid stepped inside cautiously. Sara, he recalled. Young, gentle, and one of the few attendants Joran would speak to without coaxing.

  She bowed deeply, the tray she carried trembling slightly in her hands. “Your Majesty… forgive the intrusion.”

  He turned slowly, studying her with narrowed eyes. “I gave orders not to be disturbed until noon. Unless it concerned—”

  She flinched at his pause. He saw it, the fear in her eyes before she found the courage to speak.

  “It’s Prince Joran, sire… we… we can’t find him.”

  The words echoed through the room, hollow and distant. The king did not speak at first. His face remained unreadable—cut from stone, eternal. But something in the air shifted. Something cold. Something ancient.

  Sara’s voice trembled as she went on. “We’ve searched the entire castle, Your Majesty. The guards, the staff, even the royal wing’s restricted halls. The beastkin, the librarians, the kitchen hands—no one has seen him since last night.”

  Silence.

  Then the king’s voice—measured, quiet. “How long has he been gone?”

  “We don’t know. The satchel he keeps his belongings in is missing, and his bed looks like it was never slept in.”

  He turned away again, back to the painting, the light in his golden eyes dimmed by something deeper than anger.

  “Have the royal mages and beastmen search his chambers. The scent of his magic, the faintest trace of aura—they may find something.” His tone was even, but beneath it, Sara sensed the pressure of a growing storm.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Go to the relic vault,” he added, his voice dropping. “Bring me the dagger.”

  Sara blinked. “Sire? The—”

  “Now.”

  She fled, hooves clicking hurriedly down the marble corridor.

  The king remained still for several long moments, alone again with the portrait.

  “My love…” he murmured, his voice like a breath caught in time. “Our brave—but foolish—boy has left the palace.”

  He did not need a mage to confirm it. He had felt it the moment he woke. The air had changed. The castle’s heart beat slower. Something essential was missing.

  And not for the first time in his life, the Dragon King felt fear.

  His eyes shifted to the window, to the sun rising above the distant peaks beyond Drakhalis. The city below stirred with life—unaware that the last barrier between peace and something far darker had just walked beyond its walls.

  His hands curled into fists, the veins on his forearms rising like rivers beneath skin. A scar on his side ached with phantom memory.

  “He has no idea what he carries…” the king whispered. “No memory of what nearly happened. Of what he nearly became.”

  The night the Queen died… it was supposed to be a quiet evening. And then… the screams. The power. The destruction. Not even the palace walls could silence it. He had been forced to act.

  He turned from the window, striding toward the center of the room where a heavy obsidian table sat carved with old runes. His reflection followed him in the polished surface, broken and fragmented. Just like that night.

  “He has a kind heart,” the king said quietly. “But hearts like that don’t survive the world outside. Not unless they’re tempered in fire.” He stared down at the flame-shaped emblem in the center of the table. “And he carries more than kindness in him. He carries a threat.”

  His voice dropped to a whisper, not meant for anyone but himself—and the woman in the painting.

  “If it stirs again… if that thing awakens…”

  His golden eyes narrowed. “Then no throne, no legacy, no realm will matter. Only the boy.”

  There was a knock at the door. The king did not answer. He closed his eyes, willing himself to stay composed.

  “May the gods help me find him…” he whispered. “Before the rest of the world learns what sleeps inside him.”