The wind tore through the palace banners, carrying the scent of ashes into the cold night air. Below, the burning city stretched into the darkness, its flames licking the sky like the jaws of monstrous beasts. Beneath the fortress walls, the muffled cries of the wounded and the dying echoed through the smoke-filled air.

  Prince Thorven stood atop the highest tower of the citadel. His sword, still wet with the enemy’s blood, rested tightly in his grip, though he paid it no mind. His gaze was frozen on a single sight in the distance—the lifeless body of his father.

  King Eldric had died seated on his throne, a traitor’s dagger embedded in his chest. His lips, once accustomed to issuing commands and declarations of war, were now still. His eyes, once filled with wisdom and power, were empty.

  Thorven dropped to one knee, resting against the cold stone railing. His heart pounded with fury, and the weight of defeat pressed upon his shoulders.

  — “Today, you have died, Father,” he whispered, though his voice trembled with rage. “But tomorrow… vengeance begins.”

  Suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed from behind. Thorven turned to see his most trusted friend, Garan, his face streaked with blood and dust. His sharp eyes studied Thorven with quiet intensity.

  — “Your Highness, there’s no more time,” Garan said. “They’re sealing off all the exits. We either fight or flee to return stronger.”

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  Thorven remained silent. Flee? He was meant to die here, like his father, fighting for what had been stolen from him. But he could not die. Not yet.

  — “We do not flee,” he finally said. “But we must avoid open battle. Let them think they have won. Our revenge has only begun.”

  Garan met his gaze, then gave a slow nod.

  — “As you command, my king.”

  Thorven was not a king yet, but those words lit a spark within him. If he was to be worthy of the throne, he could no longer be a mere man. He had to become something else—a shadow of death that would walk behind them until the last enemy was destroyed.

  Thorven descended into the great hall, where the last of his loyal soldiers had gathered. The flickering candlelight reflected in their weary eyes. Some were wounded, others barely standing, but all of them waited in silence.

  — “Tonight, they have won…” Thorven began. “But the last drop of blood has yet to be spilled.”

  No one spoke. No one needed to. Their eyes said more than words ever could.

  Suddenly, the doors burst open, and Mirra—the healer’s daughter—ran inside, breathless. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with fear.

  — “They… they are coming,” she gasped. “We have no time left.”

  Thorven clenched his fists.

  — “Not yet. We will escape through the hidden tunnels. This city will fall, but we will return. And I swear—they will never sleep in peace again.”

  The night was thick, the wind cold. Thorven and his men moved through the secret tunnels, known only to the royal bloodline. Above them, the fires still raged, but they slipped unseen through the darkened streets, making their way north, where their allies awaited.

  Just as they emerged from the last passage, a distant roar broke through the night. The enemy had entered the palace and realized no one was there.

  Thorven stopped and turned, gazing at the burning castle one last time.

  — “Wait for me,” he whispered, his oath of vengeance carried away by the wind.

  This was only the beginning.