"My king, everyone has gathered outside and awaits your presence. Lyrris the seer has arrived also. What shall we do now, my king?" Ronan said to an anxious but determined king who was pacing up and down in the palace chambers.
"Good. This has to be it. I can't fail now. This is the day of salvation, a day of deliverance. I know it, I can feel it. Today is the day we root out this curse. Go on, Ronan, gather the generals: Tharic, the army commander; Draven, the mage; Valtheron, the high warden; Caidric, the grand marshal; and Tyrannis, the blade sovereign. I want all to witness this moment."
"Yes, my king," Ronan said as he bowed and left the room.
Outside the palace, the masses were gathered, an ocean of faces filled with both hope and trepidation. Expecting mothers clutched their infants close, their tears betraying the terror that words could not express. The air was thick with tension as Kaelion emerged, his armor gleaming under the oppressive sun, his presence commanding silence.
"My people," Kaelion began, his voice resonating with authority and determination, "today is the day we root out this evil. Many kings before me, my forefathers, fought hard-through blood and sweat-to make Eryndral the great kingdom it is today. And it shall not fall in my reign! I vow to preserve a kingdom fit for my heir and his heirs to come."
The crowd erupted in a mix of cheers and cries. Mothers wept silently, clutching their children tighter, while others looked on with hollow eyes, their hope slowly fading.
Kaelion raised his hand, silencing the tumult. "Lyrris, step forward. I command that all babies less than a year old be brought forward to be examined by Lyrris. She will find the cursed child, and we will ensure this darkness is eradicated."
Lyrris, draped in her mystical robes, stepped forward. Her presence alone demanded reverence, her eyes glinting with an otherworldly light. As the trembling mothers approached, their children clutched to their breasts, an unnatural stillness enveloped the crowd.
Suddenly, the sun's brilliance dimmed, its golden light turning a deep, blood-red hue. Panic spread like wildfire. The air grew suffocatingly hot as chaos erupted. Mothers screamed, dropping their children in terror as they fled. The once orderly gathering devolved into pandemonium, trampling the helpless underfoot. The wails of infants pierced the thick, stifling air.
The ground beneath their feet began to tremble violently, splitting open with a deafening roar. Fissures snaked across the land, swallowing entire homes and market stalls. The palace walls groaned under the strain, crumbling inward as if consumed by an invisible force. Massive stones tumbled, crushing all in their path. Kaelion tried to move, but his feet were rooted to the ground. He watched in horror as his people stumbled blindly, their eyes scorched by the crimson glare. The heat intensified, searing flesh and setting homes aflame. The acrid stench of burning wood and flesh filled the air. The king's heart ached as he heard their cries:
"Save us, my king! Do something!"
Desperation overtook him. "Ronan! Bring me Lyrris! Where is she?" But the seer was nowhere to be found.
In his desperation, Kaelion thundered, "Generals, hear me! Kill every child, every infant, even the unborn! Do not spare a single one! The cursed child must be among them."
A maid rushed toward him, her face streaked with soot and panic. "My king! Her Majesty calls for you. She has gone into labor!"
Kaelion's breath caught. "Ronan! Fetch the royal physician immediately! Move as if your life depends on it!"
As he turned to follow the maid, he saw the palace stairs drenched in blood-innocent blood. The bodies of mothers and children lay strewn across the courtyard, lifeless. The streams of crimson seemed endless, pooling at his feet. His generals, the bravest of men, had crumbled. One by one, they fell-Tharic with his sword still clutched in his hand, Draven's staff broken beside him, Valtheron's armor cracked, Caidric sprawled on the blood-soaked ground, and Tyrannis lying motionless, his legendary blade dulled. Even their strength could not withstand this calamity.
Kaelion fell to his knees, trembling. The ground beneath him quaked, splitting open as flames burst forth, consuming the remains of his once-great kingdom. "I tried... I tried to save you," he whispered to no one in particular. Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the sweat and blood. His hands clawed at the earth as if to anchor himself against the crushing tide of despair.
The cries of the dying and the wails of the survivors filled the air, a mournful symphony of hopelessness. "My king, save us!" a woman screamed, her voice breaking as she was dragged away by the chaos.
Through the haze, Kaelion saw a figure approach. Draped in the king's royal robes, the figure wore the crown of Eryndral, yet its features were obscured. Kaelion squinted through the tears and smoke, his heart pounding.
The figure stopped a few feet away. "You sought to fight what is fated, yet you ignored the shadow within your own walls."
The voice was calm yet menacing, dripping with cryptic malice. The figure drew a blade, its edge gleaming with an unnatural light. Kaelion froze, unable to move, as the sword arced toward him.
"My king! My king!" Queen Aradelle's voice jolted Kaelion awake. His chest heaved as he gasped for air, his body drenched in sweat. His heart raced, and his hands trembled as he clutched the sheets.
"My king, are you all right?" Aradelle asked, her voice laced with concern.
Kaelion struggled to compose himself. "Yes... yes, it was just a bad dream."
Aradelle placed a hand on his shoulder, her gaze searching his. "You've been troubled ever since the prophecy. Will you tell me what haunts you?"
Before Kaelion could respond, a knock at the door interrupted them. "My king," came Ronan's voice. "The people await you in the palace chambers."
Kaelion's blood ran cold. The scene felt hauntingly familiar. Deja vu wrapped around him like a noose. For a moment, he said nothing, staring blankly at the door. Then, with a deep breath, he rose, donning his armor.
"It was just a dream," he whispered to himself, though he knew better. The shadow of the prophecy loomed ever closer.
CHAPTER 3: Eryndral
"Beneath its golden towers lies a past steeped in betrayal-a secret that binds the prophecy to its curse."
What lies at the heart of Eryndral's grandeur? What truths linger in its shadows? Turn the page, for the answers await...