A terrible vision of the future flashed before Allen's eyes. A world engulfed in flames, with His Grace standing at its center. Among all the destruction, Xion was nowhere to be seen.
He had always known how His Grace was cursed to be alone. That anyone who dared step too close to Darius Rael Darkhelm was doomed to a terrible fate.
It was not just a belief, or some foolish superstition whispered among the nobles. It was a fact, carved in blood, etched into history itself.
Take Lord Ethen Blackthorne, for example.
The son of a Marquis Blackthorne. A child born into privilege. He had once stood close to His Grace under the disguise of the well-wisher.
Not as a real friend, of course, but as someone who believed himself clever enough to use the young lord of House Darkhelm to do his dirty work.
At that time, Ethen had been nothing more than an arrogant youth. He was too blinded by his ambition to realize he was playing with fire.
