[BELAROK]
The sun kissed the golden domes of Belarok as if the sky itself revered the city. Rooftops gleamed with a soft glow, and light poured across the elevated gardens and towers carved from pale stone. The bells of the central temple rang like hymns, and a gentle breeze drifted through the valley, carrying the scent of medicinal flowers and sacred fire.
The city breathed peace. A proud, ancient, self-assured peace.
Between wide stone corridors and flowered alleys, two boys ran barefoot, laughter echoing freely.
Darian Velhorn, the elder, led the crossing of a rope bridge suspended between two watchtowers. His dark hair was tied back in a low knot, eyes fixed on the next leap.
Behind him, more impulsive and always grinning, came his younger brother: Valen Velhorn—blond, light-footed, as if forever caught between laughter and doubt.
"Hurry, Valen! If you don't jump now, the guards will catch us!" shouted Darian, already bracing to leap between two lookout platforms.
Valen hesitated for a second. Below them, the temple's spiral steps vanished into shadow.
"What if I fall?" Valen asked, wide-eyed, pretending fear.
"Then I'll jump after you," Darian answered, serious.
The younger one smiled—that half-teasing, half-pure smile—and jumped.
They landed together, stumbling and laughing, then collapsed in the shade of a gray-leaved tree growing in the inner courtyard of the House of Elders.
There, breathless and dusted in golden powder, they stared at the sky through the twisted branches.
"One day, we'll protect Belarok together," Darian said suddenly, arms folded behind his head.
"Even if we get old and boring like the High Warden?"
"Even then."
Valen turned his head, locking eyes with his brother.
"You swear?" he asked, with an unexpected seriousness for his age.
Darian met his gaze.
"I swear. On our family's name. On Velhorn blood."
"Then I swear too," Valen replied, holding out his pinky.
The two hooked fingers—sealing the sacred pact of brothers who still believed the world would remain just as it was in that moment.
Above them, the bell rang once more.
Darian and Valen ran through Belarok's ancient market, where merchants hung shimmering crystals and linen tapestries on suspended ropes. Every object seemed crafted with care, patience—with pride.
Valen snatched a piece of dried fruit when the vendor wasn't looking, biting into it with a mischievous grin.
"You're going to get caught again," Darian muttered, arms crossed.
"Only if you snitch," Valen replied, already chewing.
"If you do it in front of the High Warden, I'll tell the whole Assembly."
Valen burst out laughing.
"Even after everything I swore beneath the Ancestors' Tree? Your heart's made of stone!"
"And yours is made of air," Darian shot back, pretending to be stern, though the corner of his mouth betrayed a smile.
That night, they climbed the highest towers to watch the stars light up the mountain sky. There, Valen told stories he'd heard from traveling merchants—tales of great cities beyond the borders, of people who flew, of weapons made of thunder.
Years passed, and those stories rooted themselves in Valen's heart. Slowly, the boy began to dream taller dreams—dreams higher than he could ever reach.
And then came the sacred day.
[CEREMONY IN THE CENTRAL HALL]
That day, scarlet banners trimmed in gold danced from every balcony. The people of Belarok filled the stone streets, tossing silver leaves along the citadel steps. Drums beat with a ceremonial rhythm that thrummed in every chest.
At the center of the plaza, before the Temple of Six Arches, the Velhorn brothers knelt in silence.
Now they were men.
Darian, broad-shouldered, eyes steady, the posture of a leader already forged.
Valen, graceful, striking, with a restless gleam in his gaze—and a slight smile even in solemnity.
The High Warden raised his hand, and his voice filled the square:
"On this day, the people of Belarok recognize their sons—of blood and soul. We pledge to them our trust. We pledge to them our gold. We pledge to them our lives."
The elders brought forth the Commitment Sashes—long golden silk strips bearing the city's crest—and placed them over the brothers' shoulders, sealing both their honor and their fate.
Darian and Valen Velhorn, Guardians of Belarok. Brothers by blood. Brothers by oath.
The people applauded. Trumpets echoed along the ramparts. The sky was clear.
It was a day of honor.Of promises fulfilled.
And for Darian, it seemed impossible that the world could ever break.
Time passed like the breeze that descends from Belarok's mountains—constant, quiet, but inevitable.
Darian and Valen Velhorn became faces of reverence throughout the city. Wherever they walked, the people bowed. Wherever they spoke, the city listened.
With each passing season, a new responsibility was placed upon them.
Darian came to oversee the reserve storehouses, then the guard armies, and finally, the central council.
Valen had become the city's diplomat — the smile that eased conflicts, the presence that charmed visitors. Always with new ideas. Always proposing change, improvement… expansion.
The difference between the brothers was subtle at first.
Until it began to hurt.
"Do you see it?" Valen asked one day, after a long silence, his eyes on the horizon. "We're princes of a jewel no one knows exists. We have more gold than a king, more peace than any capital… and still, no one out there even knows we're alive."
Darian raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Valen pressed on:
"We could be more than this. We could trade with the world. Build alliances. Carry the name of Belarok beyond these walls. Do you truly believe it's right to keep everything locked up forever?"
"We have enough to live for generations without depending on anyone," Darian replied, firmly. "Gold, food, knowledge. We are safe precisely because we don't draw attention."
Valen gave a sidelong smile.
"I'm not just talking about gold, brother. I'm talking about… legacy. Don't you ever wonder what lies beyond the mountain ranges?"
"I know what's beyond the mountains," Darian said. "The merchants who come here tell stories all the time."
"But I'm not talking about hearing the world. I mean knowing it. Haven't you ever dreamed of leaving behind a name that echoes outside this closed valley?"
Darian turned to him, eyes harder now. There was weariness in his voice.
"You already have a world to care for, Valen. Your daughter. Your wife. Belarok."
Valen looked away, touched by something between pride and guilt.
"I would never let them come to harm," he said softly.
"Adventure may seem noble…" Darian continued, "but the risks it carries don't fall on you alone. They fall on everyone around you. And you know that."
The silence between them dropped like a stone.
The night breeze swayed the banners atop the tower, and the city below slept in its perfect routine.But between the brothers… something had awakened.
Valen gave a faint smile. But there was sadness in it.
"You've always been the guardian, Darian. Always grounded. And I… I've always wanted to fly."
Darian didn't smile back.
"Flying is beautiful... until the fall."
[THE FALL OF BELAROK]
The sky was black as coal.The towers of Belarok—once golden—were now ablaze.The radiant city burned, as if the gold itself had melted under the judgment of the gods.
The sound of trumpets was not triumph.It was execution.
Darian was on his knees.
His hands bound with rough rope. His knees pressed against the cold marble of the central courtyard.All around him were the last survivors of Belarok. Children. Women. Wounded soldiers.All silent.All in line.
Waiting for death.
At the top of the temple steps, mounted on a black horse, dressed in foreign colors, was Valen.Beside him, riding the same horse, draped in a crimson mantle over her small frame, sat his daughter.
She was still.Her eyes glassy. Her face smudged with ash.But she didn't cry.
Valen held her with one arm.His free hand seemed to weigh a thousand pounds.
And beside him stood the man who commanded the massacre: King Cronos.
His robe dragged across bloodstained steps.His eyes watched the executions with the coldness of one who had destroyed a hundred cities already—and would destroy a hundred more.
Darian raised his head.
His jaw trembled. His eyes were red—but not from grief.
From fury. From disbelief.
And then he saw them:His wife.His sister.His cousins.
All pushed toward the stone altar—where a masked executioner decapitated each one with a curved ceremonial blade.
And in the middle of the group, screaming, fighting to break free—
Valen's wife.
"Valen!" she cried, her hair wild, her arms being held back."Valen, in the name of the gods! VALEN, I'M YOUR WIFE!"
He didn't answer.
He remained there. In silence.
Wearing a mask of remorse that dared not become regret.
Darian couldn't bear it.
He lunged against the ropes, breath ragged.Soldiers kicked him in the face, but he shouted anyway:
"CRONOS! Let me live just long enough to kill this bastard! Let me rip the heart from my brother's chest! Let my blade cleanse the name of my city!"
The king turned his head slowly.
He looked at Darian for a few seconds.A small smile formed on his lips.
But he gave no reply.
Valen's wife continued to scream.
The line kept moving.
The chains on his wrists clanged with every strained movement, veins bulging, muscles burning.Screams echoed all around. But Darian saw only one thing:
Valen.
Suddenly—with a savage roar—Darian shattered part of his chains.
The metal broke with a sharp crack, abrupt, as if the world itself had split in two.
He lunged forward.The soldiers shouted.The crowd froze.And Darian ran with the strength of all the dead of Belarok screaming within him.
"VALEN!!!"
With shackled fists, he charged up the stairs with the force of a condemned soul.But before he could reach the top, four royal guards intercepted him, forcing him down onto the sacred marble, his face pressed against the cold stone—already stained with blood.
"LET ME GO!" Darian roared. "I'LL KILL HIM!"
He thrashed like an animal.His face caked in dust, spit, and fury.His eyes blazed—red, like the king's cloak.
"I'LL EAT THAT SON OF A BITCH'S HEART! GIVE ME A BLADE! I'LL RIP HIS SOUL OUT WITH MY TEETH!"
And then, Valen dismounted.
His daughter still rested in his arms. Or perhaps… simply refused to look.
Valen stepped forward, unhurried.The golden chains of his newly claimed royal mantle shimmered under the burning sky. But his eyes—his eyes were tired.The shadow of guilt was thin… but it was there.
"This was necessary, Darian."
Darian only screamed:
"TRAITOR! BASTARD! CURSED DEMON!"
"You never understood…" Valen said softly. "Belarok caged us. There would never be growth here. But now… now I stand beside the king. Beside the future."
Darian nearly broke free again, but the soldiers pressed his head harder against the stone.
"I'LL RIP YOUR GUTS OUT! I'LL MAKE YOU WATCH YOUR DAUGHTER DIE LIKE YOU DID WITH MINE! I'LL TEAR YOU APART WITH MY BARE HANDS!"
Above them, King Cronos watched. Arms crossed. Silent.
And then, with a slow gesture, he drew his own sword. With his own hands.
The imperial blade cut the air and severed Valen's neck like a fulfilled promise.
A clean cut. Quick. Cold.
The head rolled down the steps.
It bounced once. Twice.
And landed in front of Darian's face, still pinned to the ground.
The eyes—open.The mouth—slightly parted.Valen's last look… empty.
Darian stopped screaming.
He just stayed there.
His brother's blood mixing with his own.The weight of the entire world pressing down on his chest.And hatred…Hatred being born without restraint.
Cronos descended.
Slow steps. Imposing.
The king wore silence like armor. And when he reached the final step, he stood before Darian.The guards stepped back.
Then, with his own hands, Cronos bent down and lifted the child from Valen's lifeless arms.
She did not cry.Her eyes were locked to the ground, still, as if they had seen everything a child should never see.
Cronos held her in one arm.
With the other, he extended a hand toward Darian—not as an offer.As a command.
"You want vengeance, Darian Velhorn?" said the king, his voice like stone being carved.
Darian slowly lifted his eyes.
"Then here is your chance."Cronos lowered the child toward him. Gently pushing her forward."The daughter of a traitor. Blood of blood. Flesh of flesh.Kill her. Here. Now. As punishment. As justice."
Darian only stared at the girl.She was far too small. Far too innocent.But she had his eyes.
Cronos leaned down, lips at the ear of the kneeling man:
"You work for me now. We'll be in touch."
And there, amid the blood of his kin, his brother's child in his arms, and the echo of Belarok's souls being slaughtered, Darian Velhorn looked into the eyes of the king—
—and never forgot them.
[ELOREN]
The fire crackled all around.
The curtains had already vanished.The ceiling creaked as the first sparks rained down from the beams.The house, once a home, was now a prison. A furnace. A tomb.
Darian stood.Heavy. Gasping.The axe still in his hand, eyes locked on the figure before him—
Rael.
The boy stood there, shielding the girl.The daughter that wasn't his.
Just as Darian once had.
But there was something worse.
Something that pierced deeper than memory. Deeper than pain.
The eyes.
Rael had his eyes.Cronos's eyes.
The same steadiness.The same cursed presence.
For a moment…Darian felt the heat of the flames bend around that gaze.And the hatred—The hatred he had held back for so many years—overflowed.