I used to dream of the sea. Of its endless waves, the way it called out to me, whispering of a world beyond the edges of my small town. Windmere was a quiet place, nestled between the borders of Azov and Hedar, where the scent of salt and earth mixed in the air. It was the only home I had ever known.
Then, one night, it was gone.
The first thing I remember was the screaming. It tore through the darkness, shrill and panicked, cutting through the cold wind that rushed through the town square. My body jolted awake before my mind even caught up. Then came the smell—smoke, thick and suffocating, rolling in like a storm.
Hedar's soldiers had come.
I tried to move, but the world collapsed around me. The crack of splintering wood and crumbling stone roared in my ears as the house above me gave way. A deafening crash, a searing pain in my side—and then, nothing.
When I woke, it was to darkness.
Dust clogged my throat, thick as ash, as I gasped for breath. My limbs were pinned, my body trapped beneath the weight of broken beams and shattered stone. My fingers clawed weakly at the debris, but it was no use. I was buried, just like the rest of Windmere.
Time lost meaning. The screams faded. The fire dimmed. The world above carried on, unaware of the girl dying beneath it.
And then, voices.
"Dig here!" a man commanded. Footsteps, the sound of shifting rubble. A sliver of light pierced the darkness, blinding and brilliant. Strong hands grasped my arms, pulling me free from my tomb of ruin. The sudden exposure to air made me cough, my body convulsing from the effort.
"She's alive!"
Through blurred vision, I saw a man kneeling before me, his face worn with age and wisdom, his golden crown catching the fire's glow. I had never seen him before, yet somehow, I knew. This was King Cyrus of Azov.