A golden light erupted from one of Sky Reaper castle's windows, a beacon of fury cutting through the night, illuminating the night with a blinding glow. The accompanying crash, like thunder, echoed throughout the floating city.
The scene of chaos radiated from a room inside the castle, a circular chamber of white and gold marble, used only for meetings of utmost urgency.
The room's walls, normally adorned with tapestries narrating the glorious history of the Black family, now showed deep cracks, a result of King Rogan's fury.
The instant the wall was damaged, an almost imperceptible golden mist began to emanate from the fissures, weaving an intricate web of light threads that, in seconds, sealed the cracks, restoring the structure's integrity.
It was
In the center of the room, five figures stood immersed in an atmosphere thick with tension and fury. King Rogan, fists clenched and golden eyes blazing like flames, barely contained his wrath. His body emanated heat, a dangerous heat, that made the wooden furniture crackle and the surrounding air shimmer.
Documents scattered across the table began to char at the edges, threatening to ignite at any moment. It was the first time in many years the King's fury had manifested so destructively. The reason? His son, his heir, had been taken.
Beside him, Queen Gália, normally the epitome of calm and serenity, displayed an aura so frigid and menacing it made the very air freeze around her. Her red eyes, once warm and gentle, now blazed with a cutting intensity, like rubies in a snowstorm.
Where her breath touched, the air crystallized into delicate frost patterns, spreading across surfaces like a silent plague. Her power, once restrained and elegant, now manifested in its purest, most destructive form; time itself seemed to bend to her presence, objects around her aging and decaying at an accelerated rate.
Magnus Frost, the loyal commander of the Royal Guard, stood rigid as an ice statue, an expression of shame and fury etched onto his face. Guilt gnawed at him like acid. He had failed in his most sacred duty: protecting the royal family.
His son, Blake, and Prince Logan, both under his responsibility, had been taken. The pain of loss and the shame of failure mingled in his chest, fueling a flame of vengeance.
Beside Magnus, soldier John, the sole survivor of the carriage attack, trembled, not just from fear, but from shame. His face was pale, marked with scratches and bruises, and his right arm was bandaged and supported in a makeshift sling. He had failed. He had allowed the prince to be captured. The sight of the King and Queen in their current state amplified his guilt, making him wish he hadn't survived.
On the other side of the room, observing the scene with a grave expression, stood Arthur Ironheart, General of the Sky Reaper Army. A tall, imposing man with black hair cut close to his scalp and a short, thick beard peppered with gray. His dark brown eyes, normally full of humor and wit, now reflected the gravity of the situation.
Arthur was a brilliant strategist and a formidable warrior, as powerful as Magnus, though their styles were completely different. Magnus was the unshakeable wall, the impenetrable defense; Arthur was the sharp spear, the lightning strike.
This fundamental difference was the basis of their rivalry, a constant tension that, in normal times, generated barbs and provocations, but which, at that moment, dissolved into mutual respect and shared determination.
"They were no match for the enemy," repeated John, his voice thick with emotion. "They were fast, strong… and the magic… I've never seen anything like it."
"Clearly someone of Rank A," said Magnus. "Or…"
"Or a Rank S was present," Arthur completed, his dark gaze meeting Magnus's. Both knew the possibility was terrifying. A Rank S was a force of nature, an individual with enough power to challenge entire armies.
Magnus and Arthur exchanged a long look. The ever-present rivalry was replaced by a tacit understanding. The situation was dire, and they would need to set aside their differences if they wanted any chance of rescuing Logan and Blake.
John, noticing the exchange between the commanders, felt a lump form in his throat. Guilt consumed him. He was just a soldier, true, but he had trained his whole life for this moment, to protect the royal family, and he had failed miserably.
"I… I am sorry, my King, my Queen," he said, his voice faltering. "I failed to protect the Prince and young Blake. I should have…"
"Enough, John," King Rogan interrupted, his voice surprisingly calm yet laden with an authority that made John shrink back.
"You fought bravely. The blame is not yours." He dismissed John with a wave of his hand. "Go rest. You will need your strength."
John gave an awkward bow and left the room, feeling even worse than before. The King's kindness, instead of relieving him, only increased his sense of failure.
"The army is patrolling the city and the areas near the attack site," Arthur reported, filling the silence left by John.
"Expand the search," ordered Queen Gália, her voice cold and sharp as a shard of ice. "To the forests, the mountains, the villages. Leave no stone unturned. Use the elven scouts, Magnus's wolves, whatever is necessary. I want my son back!"
"Dismissed," said King Rogan, and the two commanders bowed and withdrew, leaving the royal couple alone.
Rogan turned to Gália, fury still blazing in his golden eyes, but now mingled with deep concern. "Too much coincidence, don't you think?" he asked, his voice low and tense. "The attack, Kassia's birthday, Edric Grey's absence…"
"Yes…" Gália replied, rising and walking to the window, observing the floating city under the pale moonlight. "If the Greys have any connection to this, if they dared plot against us… I swear by my ancestors, there will be no Grey family left in Sky Reaper."
Rogan approached his wife and placed a hand on her shoulder, a rare, warm smile appearing on his lips. "Not just in Sky Reaper, my dear. In the world."
Gália nodded, a dangerous glint appearing in her red eyes. Then, she raised her hands and began to recite, her melodious voice filling the room with ancestral energy:
"Shadows that move, whispers on the wind, eyes that see all, ears that hear all. By the webs of fate, I summon you. By the threads of magic, I command you. Go, my spies, my messengers of darkness. Bring me news, reveal the secrets hidden in the shadows. Go!" She paused, focusing all her will into one final command:
Suddenly, thousands of creatures emerged from the room's shadows. Rats, bats, crows, wolves, and other nocturnal creatures, all formed from a dark, ethereal substance, as if made of darkness itself.
They spread throughout the room, their red eyes gleaming with the Queen's magic, and then, one by one, disappeared through the cracks of windows and doors, seeking the four corners of Sky Reaper.
Queen Gália closed her eyes, concentrating. She now saw through the eyes of her familiars, felt through their senses. It was a dizzying experience, a torrent of images, sounds, and smells flooding her mind. She needed to focus, filter the noise, and find her son.
"I will need time," she said, her voice weak but determined. "To search every corner of this city."
Rogan nodded, understanding the magnitude of the power his wife was wielding. "I will handle the battle preparations. If we don't find Logan soon, we will rain fire and blood upon those who dared defy us."
***
Logan awoke with a start, his entire body aching and his head throbbing. He was lying on a cold, damp floor, and the darkness around him was nearly absolute. He tried to move but realized his wrists were chained to metal rings set in the wall. The cold metal of the shackles bit into his skin, and he felt a shiver run down his spine.
"Blake!" he called out, his voice hoarse and weak. "Blake, are you there?"
A faint groan was the answer. Logan strained his eyes, trying to see in the gloom, and made out Blake's silhouette, slumped on the floor a few meters away, also chained.
"Blake!" Logan called again, this time louder. Blake stirred, groaned again, and opened his eyes.
"Logan?" he asked, his voice faint and confused. "Where… where are we?"
"I don't know," Logan replied, trying unsuccessfully to pull free from the chains. "We were kidnapped. Remember the carriage? The attack?"
Blake sat up with difficulty, putting a hand to his head. "I remember… a man… dark magic…"
"We need to get out of here," said Logan, looking around, searching for a way to escape. "There has to be a way."
The place they were in was cold and damp, with a strong smell of mold and wet earth. It looked like a cave, or perhaps an underground cell. The walls were rough, uneven stone, and the floor was packed earth, with a few loose stones scattered about. The only light source was a small beam entering through a crack in the ceiling, too high to reach, barely illuminating the space.
"Damn it!" Logan cursed, frustrated. "I can't see anything that could help us break these chains."
Suddenly, a hoarse, sinister voice echoed through the space, startling both boys.
"I see you're awake, young princes." A man emerged from the shadows as if materializing from the air itself. He was thin, with short black hair and piercing blue eyes that glinted in the darkness.
A cruel smile played on his lips, and he exuded an aura of danger and power. On his left arm, Logan noticed a tattoo: a circle with three straight lines cutting through it vertically, forming an ancient and sinister symbol. It was the symbol of the Arcane Hunters, an obscure sect that, for generations, had hunted and killed magical beings in pursuit of power.
"Who are you?" Blake asked, trying to keep his voice steady despite the fear consuming him. "What do you want from us?"
The man laughed, a dry, harsh sound that made Logan shiver. "From you, young Blake, nothing," he replied, his gaze fixing on Logan. "But from you, heir of Fenrir, I want your power."
"Power? Fenrir?" Logan repeated, confused. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't play the fool," the man said, approaching. "You carry the blood of an Arcane Beast. Immense power, dormant, waiting to be awakened."
Logan felt a chill run down his spine. How did this man know he was different? That he was a hybrid? This information wasn't public knowledge. He knew the man was dangerous, very dangerous, and judging by his tattoo, he wasn't playing games.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Logan said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "I am just the King's son, nothing more."
The man laughed again, a laugh full of scorn. "Don't lie to me, brat. I know what you are. A hybrid, a mix of races, with a dormant power inside you. A power I will extract, whatever the cost."
"You underestimate the Black lineage," said Blake, who had finally regained his senses and, despite his fear, placed himself in front of Logan. "We will get out of here. And when we do, my father and the King will hunt you to the ends of the world."
The man looked at Blake for a moment, a flicker of interest in his blue eyes. "Interesting," he said. "You have courage, boy. But courage isn't enough to face what's coming."
He turned back to Logan, his cruel smile widening. "Soon, your power will be mine," he said. "And then, neither your father, nor anyone else, will be able to stop me."
"What are you talking about?" Logan insisted, trying to understand. "What power? I'm just an apprentice, I don't even know my ability yet…"
"Nonsense," the man interrupted impatiently. "You feign ignorance, but your body carries the mark of something ancient, something powerful. Maybe you don't know it yourself; maybe your parents hid it from you, to protect you. But I know. I can feel it. The power of an Arcane Beast runs in your veins. Fenrir, the giant wolf, the devourer of worlds. Nonsense, of course. Arcane Beasts are legends, myths to frighten children. But the power… the power is real. And I will have it."
Logan shuddered. Fenrir. The name echoed in his mind, a word he had heard before, in old stories, tales whispered by the fireside. A mythical creature, colossal, of unimaginable power. But what did that have to do with him? He was just Logan, a thirteen-year-old boy, still discovering his place in the world. The idea that he could be linked to such an entity was absurd, frightening.
Logan and Blake exchanged a terrified look. They were trapped, helpless, at the mercy of a lunatic obsessed with power, a power Logan didn't even know he possessed. Fear enveloped them like an icy shroud, and hope seemed a distant dream.
What would he do to them? How did he intend to steal Logan's power? And, more importantly, how could they escape this desperate situation?
The darkness around them seemed to deepen, and the silence was broken only by the boys' ragged breaths and the sinister echo of the kidnapper's words. The game had begun, and the fate of Logan, and perhaps all of Sky Reaper, was at stake.