The warmth of the Orc King's blessing still lingered in the air as Min Khant Thu Ya and his companions made their way back through the dense undergrowth of the Nethergrove. With each step, the forest felt less oppressive—less like a place of death and exile, and more like a living witness to a turning tide.
But even as the sunlight peeked through the cracks of ancient trees, Min Khant's heart remained heavy.
"You've been quiet for a while," Aren said, walking beside him. "Thinking about the poison dragon?"
"No," Min Khant replied softly. "I'm thinking about what comes after this. We've made allies out of monsters, but the real threat hasn't even begun to move yet."
Aren didn't press further. Instead, he tightened the grip on the hilt of his blade. He, too, could feel it—that strange pressure building on the wind. Something was coming.
As they returned to the main road, a strange figure awaited them at the edge of the forest. Cloaked in violet and gold, the woman stood unmoving, her eyes hidden behind a porcelain mask carved in the likeness of a smiling fox.
"Prince Min Khant Thu Ya," the woman said in a melodic tone. "I bear a message. One from the heavens, and one from the pit."
Barbarekhan, already on edge, stepped in front of the prince. "Who are you to speak like that before royalty?"
The woman only chuckled. "I am neither enemy nor friend. Merely... a messenger." She extended a scroll sealed with a sigil of both light and shadow—a sun split by a blade.
Min Khant took the scroll. As he opened it, a wave of mana surged out, temporarily blinding everyone in the group.
"To the prince who chose death..." the letter began, "...your role is not yet complete. You were reborn not to die again—but to decide who lives and who doesn't. War is coming. The Hero moves. The King suspects. And the Saint... she remembers."
Min Khant's brows furrowed as he finished reading. The message ended without a signature—only a single line of glowing script that faded the moment he touched it:
"Return to the castle. The throne trembles."
—
The group made camp that evening near the Whispering Ravine, where the winds carried voices long lost to time. Around the fire, Barbarekhan shared stories of his people's legends—of the three thrones that ruled the world in secret, and of a prince whose blood would break their balance.
"You mean... me?" Min Khant asked, half-joking, but the look in Barbarekhan's eyes said otherwise.
"No." The orc's voice turned serious. "Not you yet. But the world... is shifting. If you are not careful, you will become that prince."
—
Far away, within the Everain Royal Palace, a cloaked figure stepped into the throne room under cover of night.
"My liege," the figure said, kneeling before King Everain. "Your son—the one you cast aside—has made a pact with the orcs. He now carries the poison dragon's mark."
The King's eyes narrowed, but his voice remained calm. "Let him gather allies. The more he gathers, the more I learn. And when the time is right... I will end them all in one strike."
But someone else was listening.
In the royal garden, hidden among the shadows, a girl with silver hair and violet eyes clenched her fists.
"So… you're still trying to control everything, Father." She looked toward the sky. "But he's not the same anymore. He's no longer the villain you wrote into this world. He's becoming the hero you fear."
And with that, she vanished into the night.
—
To be continued