Before the blood. Before the screams. There was peace.
Verdantia — the land of silver rivers and eternal sun — once stood as a beacon to all kingdoms. No crime. No war. No hunger. A realm whispered of in taverns like a fairytale, where crops grew twice a year and laughter echoed through marble streets.
It was no illusion.
Their first king, Aldren the Wise, had forged it not with sword but with soul. Guided by prophecy and protected by honor, Verdantia had prospered for over two hundred years. Each generation stronger, wealthier, more blessed than the last.
In the capital city of Eloria, crystal lanterns floated through the night sky, glowing with soft blue light. Children chased glowing sprites through gardens that bloomed in every season. Marketplaces buzzed with trade, not just in gold and silver, but in stories, laughter, and song. No one went hungry. Even the beggars wore smiles.
Every spring, the Verdant Festival celebrated the kingdom's prosperity — ten days of music, dance, and magic. Enchanted flowers rained from the skies, and nobles and peasants alike joined in feasts under moonlight. It was a place where even sorrow seemed like a distant myth.
But blessings make men complacent. Power makes kings arrogant.
Where Aldren ruled with humility, his descendants grew proud. Greedy. Vain. The people smiled, still fed, still clothed, but the cracks were forming — in quiet policies, in secret cruelty, in pride left unchecked.
Verdantia's first king, Aldren the Wise, was no conqueror. He forged the kingdom with vision, not violence. Guided by prophecy and guarded by honor, he turned scattered clans into a unified people. His laws were fair. His armies, restrained. His rule, revered. But even he would say that the kingdom's soul did not come from his hand alone.
It came from the Seer.
A nameless woman with eyes clouded by eternity, the Seer was as much a part of Verdantia as the soil itself. She spoke only when fate demanded, and every word she uttered shaped the course of history. Her visions had stopped wars before they began, cured plagues before they spread, and preserved kings from blades hidden in silk.
And so long as the Seer spoke, Verdantia remained untouched by ruin.
The Cost of Perfection
But perfection breeds pride. And pride, like rot, spreads in silence.
Generations passed. The kings that followed Aldren were born into golden halls and velvet dreams. They never knew hardship. Never needed wisdom. Each ruler added another layer of polish to the throne, but chipped away at the virtue that built it.
They surrounded themselves with flatterers. Passed laws to favor nobles. Built statues of themselves taller than temples. Their people still lived in comfort, but the soul of the kingdom had begun to flicker.
King Malerius, the current ruler, was perhaps the most dangerous of all: not cruel, but careless. He spoke of honor, but worshipped gold. He smiled for crowds, but ruled through bribes and whispers. To the nobles, he was charming. To the poor, invisible.
He wore Aldren's crown but none of his heart.
Still, the kingdom endured. The Seer, though now ancient, remained silent. And as long as she stayed silent, the people believed all was well.
They were wrong.
The First Cracks
It began with the land.
The endless golden fields of Verdantia—once fed by magic-kissed soil and sun-blessed rains—began to fail. Crops withered. Rivers receded. No spell could coax them back.
Then came the winds. Traders from distant realms stopped at the borders, speaking of strange storms and broken roads. Bandits, once legends of other lands, crept into the outskirts. Sacred roads turned unsafe.
And then came the hunger.
Children once fed by royal grain woke to empty plates. Markets closed. Temples offered prayers, not bread. The poor gathered at palace gates, only to be driven away with shields.
Still, King Malerius feasted.
Still, the nobles drank.
Still, the songs of glory played.
But the people—the real Verdantia—began to whisper.
Where was the Seer?
Had she not foreseen this?
Was fate finally turning its gaze away?
The Banner of Black
Then came the sixth banner.
From the ivory tower of the Seer's temple, a black flag unfurled—a raven banner laced with silver thread. It had flown only five times before in the kingdom's two-hundred-year history.
Each time, it had preceded a revelation that would change the world.
The people gathered for days. Merchants left their wares. Children were pulled from schools. Even the nobles abandoned their banquets.
The Seer would speak.
And if she spoke of salvation, perhaps Verdantia could be saved.
If not...
No one dared complete the thought.
A Kingdom Holds Its Breath
The Grand Arena, once a place of celebration, became a sanctuary of silence. Ten thousand citizens packed into the seats. Soldiers ringed the stands. Priests lit incense that failed to mask the scent of dread.
The Seer, now barely more than bone and breath, was carried to the center.
Her eyes were closed. Her hands trembled. Her lips barely moved.
But when she spoke—the world listened.
Her voice, soft as snowfall, echoed through the arena.
"A child... soon to be born... will bear a fate that splits the world. He shall be the strongest king Verdantia has ever known... ...either our salvation... ...or our destruction."
Gasps rippled like thunder.
The King stood, pale. "How will we know? How will we tell who he is?"
The Seer's eyes fluttered. Her mouth opened one last time.
"The mark... upon his—"
And then—
She fell.
The Seer collapsed before the final word could be spoken.
The vision was incomplete.
What she had meant to say was this:
"The mark of our kingdom will appear on his shoulder—but only after his Awakening, when he turns ten."
But those words never left her lips.
And with her death, the final truth died too.
The kingdom—already starving, broken, desperate—clung to what little they had understood. And in their panic, they made a fatal assumption:
If the child was born with the mark, he was the savior. If not—he was the demon.
There was no one left to tell them otherwise.
And So Ended the Golden Age
The people still sang of peace. Still clung to hope.
But beneath the songs, fear had taken root.
And in the palace halls, where a queen clutched her unborn child, the question echoed louder than any prayer:
What if he is the one?
Not the savior. Not the king.
But the curse.
The Golden Age had ended.
It had ended with a whisper