The Kingdom of Thaloria gleamed like a jewel beneath the sun—a paradise of verdant forests, floating crystal towers, and skies patrolled by majestic dragons. It was a land where ancient magic flowed like wind, and nobility carried not just bloodlines but legacies carved through eras of power and purpose.
In the heart of the capital, nested within the grand marble spires of the Starlight Citadel, a boy stood on a balcony carved of white gold.
Barefoot. Silent. Watching the world as if it were a puzzle already half-solved.
Raezion Phaelory—Crown Prince of Thaloria.
He was five years old.
Yet even then, there was something unsettling about the way he carried himself. Not awkward, not childish. He moved with control. Calculated grace. His back was always straight. His hands never fidgeted. His expressions were unreadable, his purple cat-like eyes often lingering too long on the blades of palace guards or the patterns in spell diagrams.
Where most children babbled, Raezion listened.
Where others ran, he walked.
Where others feared the storm, he welcomed it.
And above all, he trained.
Day by day, he practiced sword forms with wooden blades too heavy for his age. He sparred with older retainers and never cried when he lost. Each time he bled, he studied the cut, not the pain.
His sisters, all five of them—each radiant in their magical prowess—found him distant but oddly endearing. Queen Lyxaria often looked upon her son with quiet awe and a trace of unease, for her magic—powerful and refined—could not touch his soul. There was something… other… dwelling within him.
King Aelorys, however, knew better.
"You were born for more than rulership," the Elf King once said, resting a hand on his son's head. "There is steel in you that predates even dragons. One day, it will sing again."
Raezion did not know what his father meant, but he remembered the words.
And then came the egg.