As I reached for Cillian's chin, intending to wipe away the sugary residue of the donut, he flinched slightly, his body tensing beneath my touch. It was a subtle reaction, barely perceptible, but it sent a wave of unease washing over me. The warmth of the moment evaporated, replaced by the chilling memory of his earlier abuse.
That's when – "AHEM AHEM," – a voice boomed, laced with a simmering rage that cut through the garden air like a shard of ice.
Cillian and I both turned, our gazes drawn to the source of the interruption. The idyllic scene of blossoming flowers and gentle sunlight seemed to dim, overshadowed by the figure that now stood before us.
It was my father, Helios.
The sight of him sent a jolt of primal fear through my veins. I had never seen him like this before. His face, usually composed and regal, was contorted with fury, his features almost unrecognizable in their rage.
His ruby-red eyes bulged, the pupils narrowed to pinpricks, burning with an intensity that could scorch the very earth. His pale blonde hair, typically styled with meticulous care, was disheveled, as if he had been clawing at it in sheer frustration. His jaw was clenched so tightly that I feared his teeth might shatter under the pressure.
His hands, usually adorned with ornate rings, were curled into fists at his sides, trembling with the effort to restrain himself. The veins in his temples throbbed, a macabre roadmap of his escalating fury. His entire body radiated an aura of raw, murderous rage, the kind of force that could shatter stone and bend steel.
His nostrils flared with each ragged breath, his chest heaving as if he had sprinted across continents solely to ruin my life. The air around him shimmered with barely restrained magic, the temperature fluctuating wildly as waves of heat pulsed from his being.
The ground beneath his feet seemed to groan in protest, tiny cracks spiderwebbing across the stone pathway. Even the surrounding garden recoiled from his presence—flowers wilted, bees fled in terror, and I swore I saw a squirrel in a nearby tree cross itself before scurrying away in frantic escape.
His cloak billowed dramatically despite the complete lack of wind, because of course it did. Every inch of him screamed unholy levels of paternal outrage, a looming storm cloud of pure, unfiltered parental disapproval.
As Helios seized Cillian, the idyllic garden transformed into a brutal arena. His grip, iron-like and unforgiving, yanked Cillian away with such force that I heard the sickening pop of a shoulder dislocating. Cillian's body flew through the air, a ragdoll tossed by a vengeful god, before crashing onto the manicured lawn with a bone-crunching thud.
Before Cillian could even gasp for air, Helios was upon him, a tempest of rage made flesh.
The first punch landed with a crack that echoed through the garden. Cillian's head snapped back, a spray of blood and saliva arcing through the air. The second blow came faster, harder. I heard the crunch of cartilage as Cillian's nose shattered1.
"HAVE YOU LOST YOUR FUCKING MIND?" Helios roared, his voice a primal howl of fury. "YOU DARE TOUCH MY DAUGHTER?"
Each word was punctuated by another savage blow. Cillian's face, once handsome, was rapidly becoming a swollen, bloody mess. His attempts to speak were cut off by a particularly vicious strike that sent several teeth skittering across the grass.
Helios paused, his chest heaving, blood dripping from his knuckles. For a moment, I thought it was over. I was wrong.
With a snarl of pure hatred, Helios drove his foot into Cillian's stomach. The impact was so severe I swore I could hear Cillian's organs bruising. A strangled, wet gasp escaped Cillian's lips, followed by a gout of blood.
"Not even a man," Helios spat, his words dripping with contempt. "A BOY playing at being a prince!"
Another kick, this time to Cillian's ribs. The crack of breaking bones was like a gunshot in the quiet garden. Cillian's body jerked grotesquely, a marionette with its strings cruelly yanked.
"YOU ARE NOTHING BUT A MERE CHILD!" Helios bellowed, his foot slamming into Cillian's ribs once more, forcing another gasp of pain from him. "NOT EVEN A PROPER ADULT YET, AND YOU DARE—YOU DARE TO NOT ONLY KILL MY DAUGHTER BUT ALSO MARRY HER?!"
His voice shook the very air around us, raw and wild, a primal scream of paternal outrage.
Cillian's attempts to curl into a protective ball were futile. Helios seemed to take it as a challenge, his attacks becoming even more frenzied. Each impact sent shockwaves through Cillian's broken body, eliciting whimpers that barely sounded human.
Kyle, Helios's confidant, came sprinting into the chaos, his eyes wide with alarm. "Your Majesty, please!" he pleaded, his voice cracking with desperation. "Stop! You're going to kill him! This is madness!"
Helios whirled on Kyle, his eyes blazing with murderous intent. "Madness?" he snarled. "I'll show you madness!"
With inhuman strength, Helios hauled Cillian up by his hair, forcing him to his knees. Cillian's face was a ruin, one eye swollen shut, blood pouring from his mouth and nose.
"Look at him, Kyle," Helios growled, shaking Cillian like a rag doll. "Look at this pathetic excuse for a man who dared to harm my little girl!"
The brutality of the scene was overwhelming. The once-peaceful garden was now a tableau of violence, the grass stained crimson, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood and the acrid stench of fear.
I remained frozen, paralyzed by the sheer brutality unfolding before me. The horror of what I was witnessing had rooted me to my chair, rendering me unable to move or speak, a silent witness to this savage display of paternal fury, unable to reconcile the loving father I knew with this monster before me.
I gritted my teeth, rage boiling within me as years of suppressed emotions erupted. My mind screamed in anguish:
WHERE WERE YOU WHEN I NEEDED YOU THE MOST? WHEN I NEEDED YOU TO HOLD ME AND TELL ME IT'S GOING TO BE OKAY? WHEN I NEEDED YOU TO BE BY MY SIDE? WHERE WERE YOU? WHERE THE FUCKING HELL WERE YOU WHEN MY WORLD WAS CRUMBLING? WHEN I CRIED MYSELF TO SLEEP EVERY NIGHT, DESPERATE FOR A SHRED OF COMFORT? WHEN I NEEDED A FATHER'S LOVE, NOT A KING'S JUDGMENT?
The bitter taste of abandonment flooded my mouth as the thoughts continued to assault me:
YOU WERE NOWHERE. ABSENT. A GHOST. AND NOW YOU DARE TO PLAY THE PROTECTIVE FATHER? AND NOW WHEN SOMEONE ELSE HAS GIVEN ME THINGS YOU COULDN'T, DO YOU REALLY THINK I'LL WATCH YOU KILL HIM?
My body moved before my mind could catch up. I rose abruptly, my chair clattering to the ground. With a violent flick of my wrist, I summoned an inferno that roared to life around Cillian. The flames danced wickedly, a barrier of searing heat that forced my father to stumble back, arm raised to shield his face.
Helios' eyes, wide with shock and fury, locked onto mine. In that moment of distraction, Cillian struck.
He launched himself from the ground with inhuman speed, his battered body defying logic. Blood still trickled from his split lip as he cocked his fist back. The punch connected with a sickening crunch, striking Helios square in the face with devastating force.
The impact sent my father flying. His body soared through the air like a ragdoll, traveling a full sixteen feet before crashing into the garden wall. Stone shattered on impact, debris exploding outward in a cloud of dust and rubble.
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then, a trickle of blood began to seep down Helios' pale face, a crimson testament to his newfound vulnerability.
Cillian, moving with preternatural grace, closed the distance in the blink of an eye. He dropped to one knee, seizing my father's jaw in a grip that promised violence. His eyes blazed with murderous intent, a cruel smile twisting his lips as he leaned in close.
"I'm so sorry," Cillian snarled, his voice dripping with venom. "I just couldn't understand what language you were speaking. 'Cause it sounded like bullshit. And last time I checked, I didn't buy your bullshit. So fuck off."
He released Helios' jaw with a contemptuous shove, rising to his feet and turning his back on the fallen king. But before Cillian could take more than a step, my father's voice sliced through the air, low and menacing:
"Cillian. Eighth son of the Valentines." The words were a deadly caress. "You fancy yourself a gamesman, don't you? Tell me then, you arrogant little shit - why does your fear stink so goddamn sweet?"
Cillian froze mid-step, his entire body going rigid. Slowly, he turned back, and I saw naked terror flash across his face before he could mask it.
"I-" Cillian started, but Helios cut him off with ruthless precision.
"If it's a game you want, you sniveling brat," my father growled, pushing himself up from the rubble, "then let's play. No holds barred. No mercy. Winner takes all - including that crown you so desperately crave."
As the tension in the garden reached its zenith, I witnessed a sudden shift in Cillian's demeanor. He turned to face me, his countenance a mask of impenetrable calm. The expressionless visage he presented was so complete, so utterly devoid of emotion, that I found myself unable to discern even a hint of his thoughts or feelings.
Though I strained to hear, my father's words to Cillian remained a mystery, his voice too low to carry across the devastated garden. Yet the subtle tightening around Cillian's eyes, a flicker so brief I almost missed it, suggested that whatever was said bore significant weight - and likely concerned something grave.
With a grace that belied his recent injuries, my father rose to his feet. The movement was smooth, almost predatory, as he approached Cillian. I watched, breath held, as Helios placed a hand on Cillian's shoulder. The gesture, which should have been one of reconciliation, instead carried an air of unspoken threat.
To my astonishment, a shimmering veil of energy seemed to ripple upward from the point of contact, enveloping both men. As it passed over their forms, the visible signs of their violent encounter - the blood, the bruises, the torn clothing - vanished as if they had never been. The garden around us, however, remained a testament to the brutality that had transpired mere moments ago.
The surreal nature of the scene was broken by Kyle's voice, formal and measured despite the extraordinary circumstances. He turned to me, his expression a carefully composed mask of deference:
"Your Highness," he intoned, the title hanging heavy in the air, "I must respectfully request that you accompany us."
-Morning in Amoria Palace; Inner Training Ground-
Kyle thrust the door open with a resounding crack, the force of his movement echoing through the cavernous space beyond. As we stepped inside, a wave of nostalgia washed over me.
It's the same as ever, I thought, my eyes scanning the familiar surroundings. The hollow room stretched before us, its walls punctuated by thin, tall windows that allowed slivers of morning sunlight to paint golden stripes across the floor. The usual training equipment was absent, leaving the space eerily empty, as if holding its breath in anticipation.
I hung back, maintaining a significant distance from Kyle, who strode purposefully ahead. Cillian and Father flanked me from behind, their presence a palpable weight in the air. The atmosphere between them crackled with unspoken tension; Cillian's unease was almost tangible, while Father exuded an air of calculated indifference that seemed to unsettle Cillian even further.
Kyle, reaching the far end of the room, pivoted sharply to face us. "Your Majesty," he announced, bowing low with crisp formality.
"Luxana." Father's voice cut through the air like a whip, sharp and demanding. He strode past me, his footsteps echoing in the empty space. Without turning, he issued his challenge: "Define the Dragon's Flame."
The question hit me like a physical blow, memories flooding back unbidden. This very ground had once rung with the laughter and excitement of Myla and Mylo, my first true friends. I could almost hear the clash of their swords, see their playful bickering, feel the thrill as we experimented with the Arm Runic Bands. The recollection was so vivid, it felt like mere hours had passed, not years.
Swallowing hard, I steeled myself to respond. The Dragon's Flame, is a light manifested with heat. It is the heat of the light that is called the Flame, for the Dragons are the ones, who have succeeded in harnessing it, for generations to come."
Father turned slowly, his eyes boring into mine with an intensity that made me want to shrink back. But I held my ground, meeting his gaze steadily.
"Well then," he said, his voice deceptively calm, "Show it."
It wasn't a request. It was a command, laden with expectation and the unspoken threat of disappointment.
I could his expressionless's face's eyes tell me, there was something he's up to. But I complied, regardless, my instincts told me to.
With a flick of my wrist, flames erupted from the marble floor, a tapestry of red, orange, and yellow dancing before us. The heat radiated through the room, a testament to the power I commanded.
"Higher," Father ordered, his voice cutting through the crackle of fire.
I raised my arm, willing the flames to grow. They surged upward, the intensity of their heat increasing exponentially.
"Extinguish," came the next command.
I dropped my arm, and the fire died instantly, leaving only wisps of smoke and the lingering scent of brimstone.
Father's voice was clinical as he explained, "These flames, as of present, feed on your mana." Without warning, he lifted his arm and—
*SHOOT*
A white lightening ball hurtled towards me with frightening speed.
Cillian's expression shifted to one of alarm, his hand rising to intercept. But I was quicker, meeting the attack with my own burst of flame.
The collision of both our powers against father's resulted in a deafening explosion, the shockwave rippling through the room. As the smoke cleared, Cillian stood beside me, his face a mask of barely contained fury.
"You can't photoshop personality," he spat, lowering his hand.
Personality? The word echoed in my mind as I turned to look at him, my own hand dropping to my side. Father stood impassively in front of Kyle, seemingly unaffected by the display.
"The power of Dragon's Flames is inborn within you," Father continued, ignoring Cillian's outburst. "Veles, that dragon you've been with, was your ignitor. His source of power comes from his mana, so your flames, too, feed on your mana." He turned to face Kyle. "But if it were someone else, your flames would feed differently."
Kyle began approaching me, but before he could get too close, Cillian's arm shot out, blocking his path. "That's enough," Cillian growled, his voice low and dangerous.
Kyle's smile was tight with frustration as he bowed, extending his right hand to me. "Your Highness," he said, inviting me to place my hand in his.
To be Continued...