A thin veil of mist draped itself over the kingdom of Almenia, shimmering faintly beneath the pale glow of the moon. The palace, usually alive with music and laughter, had fallen into an unusual stillness.
No celebrations.
No clinking glasses.
No whispered intrigues behind silk fans.
Only silence—heavy and suffocating, as though the entire world was holding its breath.
At the heart of the grand hall, beneath towering pillars and flickering torchlight, a man sat upon a throne of gold.
Dragons carved into its frame coiled upward, their forms so lifelike they seemed ready to breathe fire at any moment. Upon that throne sat the King of Almenia—a ruler tempered by decades of war, betrayal, and power.
Yet tonight… something about him had changed.
His face bore no anger.
No tension.
Only something far rarer—
Hope.
The awakening ceremony earlier that day had shaken the kingdom to its core.
A magic circle brighter than any recorded in history.
An overwhelming pressure that forced even veteran mages to retreat.
And at its center—
A child.
Khan Rodieck.
The name spread through the palace like wildfire. Servants whispered it behind closed doors. Knights spoke it in hushed tones. Even the royal advisors, masters of composure, could not fully mask their unease.
A sign from the heavens.
A power beyond reason.
A future no one could foresee.
But the king… saw something different.
To him, this was not a warning.
It was an answer.
"Khan…" he murmured, the name rolling slowly from his tongue.
His nephew.
His blood.
He closed his eyes briefly, drawing in a measured breath as the memory replayed itself in his mind—the blinding light, the suffocating pressure, and that presence…
Not merely powerful.
But ancient.
As if something long buried had finally awakened.
Is this… the beginning of the prophecy?
The question echoed within him, persistent and unrelenting.
When he opened his eyes again, all hesitation was gone.
In its place—
Resolve.
The king rose.
The soft rustle of his robe echoed through the vast, silent hall. His footsteps rang clearly against the marble floor, each one deliberate, each one final—like the ticking of fate itself.
One step.
Then another.
Guards stationed along the walls lowered their heads immediately. None dared speak. None dared question.
Because they understood—
The king was moving toward something forbidden.
Something hidden.
Something that should never be seen.
He passed between towering stone pillars, shadows dancing along the walls as torchlight flickered wildly. The carved dragons seemed to shift in the dim glow, their eyes following his every step.
At last, he stopped before a heavy crimson curtain.
With a single motion, he pulled it aside.
Darkness awaited him.
A narrow passage stretched beyond—unlit, silent, and cold.
This was no ordinary corridor.
It was a secret path, passed down through generations of Almenia's rulers. A path that existed in no record, no map, no memory beyond the royal bloodline.
Without hesitation, the king stepped inside.
The air grew colder with each step. His footsteps softened, swallowed by thick stone walls as he moved deeper into the hidden passage.
Yet he did not falter.
Every turn, every step—he knew them all by heart.
Until finally, he stopped.
Before him stood a plain stone wall.
No door.
No markings.
Nothing.
He raised his hand and pressed against a nearly invisible point.
At once—
The wall trembled.
Faint golden lines spread across its surface, forming an ancient magic circle. The air hummed softly as the stone parted, revealing a hidden chamber beyond.
The king entered.
And the wall sealed shut behind him without a sound.
Inside, the room was bare.
No windows.
No ornaments.
No trace of royal luxury.
Only a single object rested at its center—
An ancient wooden table.
Darkened by time, its surface bore countless scars, yet it stood unbroken—unyielding, as if it had witnessed centuries and refused to fade.
Upon it sat a small box.
Old.
Worn.
And carved with the symbol of a dragon.
The king approached slowly.
This time, his steps felt heavier.
Not from fear.
But from understanding.
What lay before him was not merely an object.
It was history.
And perhaps… destiny itself.
His hand lifted.
His fingers brushed against the box.
Cold.
Yet faintly… pulsing.
Alive.
He opened it.
The hinges creaked softly, the sound sharp against the suffocating silence.
Inside lay a single piece of parchment.
Yellowed with age, fragile as if it might crumble at a touch.
Yet at its center—
A golden dragon seal still gleamed, untouched by time.
The king stared at it, unmoving.
This was the legacy left behind by the founder of Almenia.
A prophecy.
One that had never come to pass.
Yet had never been forgotten.
Slowly, almost reverently, he took the parchment into his hands.
And began to read.