Mark stirred awake beneath a soft linen blanket. Light trickled through the slits in the palace windows, and for a moment, he thought he was dreaming. Then a blur zipped past him.
"Finally awake?" a young voice chirped.
Mark sat up quickly. At the edge of his bed stood a child—no taller than a twelve-year-old—but his eyes were ancient, his stance too confident for someone that small.
"I'm David," the boy said, arms crossed. "Speedster. Guide. Your shadow... and if necessary, your end."
Mark blinked. "You're what?"
"I'm here to guard you. Show you around. Keep you from dying—or kill you if you turn into a problem. Depends how your story plays out."
Mark stared. "You're a kid."
David smirked. "I'm older than you, soldier boy. Let's go."
---
The Tour
They walked the marbled halls of the Guardian King's palace, past golden murals and stained-glass ceilings. Servants bustled, preparing decorations and setting long tables.
David spoke as they walked, not breaking stride. "This is Eden, our home. And those murals? The Founders. You'll hear the names a lot—Keth the Creator, Zillah the Keeper, Rex the Flame, Mariah the Mercy— she may look soft, but she's more dangerous than you know
And the last one… we don't say his name."
"Why not?" Mark asked.
David glanced at him. "Because he's the Dark One now. Betrayed his own, killed kings, broke the world. Now we call him the Dark One."
A chill crept into Mark's chest.
David continued. "Rex is the Grandfather of the island, we are his children. Most of us are soft compared to him. Then there's the Guardian King his son, head of the island. The Huntress is his sister and his wife, she doesn't speak that much —unless it's death. And the Silent One, Lamech… no one remembers if he ever spoke at all."
They passed a servant carrying a tray of grapes. Mark reached out, hungry.
"Don't," David said.
Mark paused. "Why?"
"Those are poisoned," David said casually. "To us, poison is like wine. Harmless. Tasty. To you? Death."
Mark's hand snapped back. "You poisoned your food?"
David shrugged. "We like the taste. Also keeps enemies from snacking."
A moment later, Mark picked up a small purple mushroom near a statue. David sighed. "Seriously? Ask before you eat anything."
Mark laughed nervously. "Noted."
---
The Founders' Dinner
Mark noticed the palace growing busier.
"What's going on?" he asked.
David's tone turned reverent. "Founders' Dinner is coming. Once every few years, all the tribes and clans gather here. We feast for weeks—sometimes months. It's how we remember we're a family."
They entered a large hall, voices echoing under its domed ceiling. Mariah stood near the far balcony, sunlight turning her hair to gold.
She smiled. " Looks like you've made a friend."
Mark grinned. "The friend made me."
Mariah smiled as they stepped onto the balcony, a warm breeze brushing past them. Below, the kingdom bustled with life—flags waved, servants moved in lines, laughter from children echoed faintly from the distant gardens.
Mariah leaned against the railing. "It's beautiful from up here, isn't it?"
Mark nodded. "Yeah… doesn't look like a place that holds prisoners."
She glanced at him. "You're not a prisoner anymore. You're a guest. A guarded one, but still a guest."
Mark raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't change the fact that I was about to be executed yesterday."
Mariah looked away for a second, the sunlight catching the curve of her cheek. "I stopped it, didn't I?"
"…Why?" Mark asked quietly.
Mariah was silent. Then, "Because something in you reminded me of mercy. Of someone I lost. And perhaps… of someone I might need."
Mark looked at her carefully. "You speak like someone who's seen too much."
"I have," she replied. "And I still see too much. Even in my dreams."
They were quiet for a moment, watching a group of winged servants pass across the sky.
Mark broke the silence. "They all call you 'Mother Mariah.' Why?"
She turned to him, voice soft. "Because I made them. Some of them, literally. Others I've raised, protected, or forgiven. I carry their burdens. And in some ways, I carry their pain."
Mark looked down. "Do you carry your own?"
Mariah met his eyes. "Every day."
He hesitated, then asked, "And… your child?"
She blinked, and something deep shifted in her expression. But before she could speak, a servant approached and bowed low.
"Mother... Lady Rachel of Cain has arrived. She awaits you."
Mariah placed a hand gently on Mark's shoulder. "Another time, maybe."
He opened his mouth to say something, but she was already walking away, her white robes brushing the marble like waves.
He watched her go for a some moment, his heart uneasy.
"You're staring," David said, now perched on the railing behind him.
Mark jumped. "Don't sneak up on me like that."
David grinned. "She's been looking more beautiful lately, don't you think?"
Mark turned, smiling. "Yeah. She is beautiful."
David dropped from the rail. "Wipe that smile. She's not your level. She's centuries old. And carrying a child."
Mark froze. "What?"
David blinked. "I told you earlier. You weren't listening."
"You said she was—wait." Mark paled. "Is she… pregnant?"
David nodded.
Mark's jaw dropped. "What in the name of the fallen guardians…"
---
Elsewhere — The Camp of Tiras
A lone tent flapped in the wind outside the stone circle of Salem.
Abinadab stepped inside. Amariah sat cross-legged on a woven mat, holding her father's chain tightly in her hands. A dim flame burned in the corner.
He didn't speak at first.
Then softly, "Are you ready?"
Amariah looked up. Her eyes were cold steel, reflecting the flame.
"Yes."
In front of her, a polished mirror caught her gaze. In it, her eyes burned with something old—grief twisted into resolve.
The storm was about to begin.