The ruined throne room of the fallen kingdom, its pillars scorched, its banners torn. King Varek sits upon the conquered throne, his armored fingers tapping impatiently. Before him, Lord Toran kneels, cradling the near-lifeless Prince Kael,his small body feverish, his magic already ripped from his veins and given to another.
Surrounding them, the four clan leaders argue over the child's fate.
Lady Ysara of the Frost Serpents Coldly pragmatic—."Let the boy die with his kin. Mercy is a luxury for peacetime."
Warlord Draven of the Blood Fangs– A brute with a jagged scar across his face. "I'll snap his neck myself if it'll end this debate."
High Priestess Eliana of the Dawn Order– A woman of calculated piety. "The gods demand justice, not slaughter. But neither do they reward fools who spare vipers."
Lord Malric of the Shadow Hounds – A sly spymaster. "Or… we keep him. A living seal to ensure the conquered never rebel."
Lord Toran does not rise, but his voice is steel. "He is a child. Not a symbol. Not a weapon. Look at him."He shifts his arms, revealing Kael's ashen face, his tiny fingers trembling against Toran's chest.
Lady Ysara arches a brow. "And when he learns what we've done? When he hungers for vengeance?"
Toran:"He will learn loyalty—to the kingdom that spared him."
Warlord Draven scoffs. "Or you'll make him a pet. Weakness."
High Priestess Eliana studies the boy. "His magic is already bound to Princess Aelara. He is no threat… only a potential martyr."
Lord Malric smirks. "Then let Toran take him. If the boy rebels, it's his house that burns for it."
A tense silence. Then—
King Varek leans forward. "You swear it, Toran? You will erase his past? Make him yours?"
Toran:"On my honor."
Varek's smile is thin. "Then take him. But if he ever remembers… if he ever *whispers* his true name…" His gauntlet creaks as he grips the throne. "You will kill him. Slowly."
Beyond the Throne Room, in the Sunlit Palace Gardens…
Princess Aelara clutches her doll, her golden eyes wide as the court mage checks her pulse.
The mage forces a smile. "A gift from your father, little star. It will make you strong."
But Aelara frowns. That morning, she'd woken screaming from a dream of a boy with sad eyes, drowning in darkness.
Toran stands, the boy limp in his arms. "He will never have to."
As he turns to leave, Lord Malric calls after him, mocking: "Raise him well, Toran. We'll be watching."
The hall erupts in murmurs—some approving, others already plotting.
---