The flames danced like demons around the iron gates of Lurien Keep, casting a violent glow across the blood-soaked courtyard. Zion Thorne, the Commander of the Silver Blades and Defender of the Southern Realms, stood tall even as his knees buckled from the sword plunged deep into his chest.
His most trusted general—Kael Duram—looked him dead in the eyes as he twisted the blade.
"I served you for ten years," Zion rasped, blood bubbling at the corners of his lips, "and you stab me for what… a crown?"
Kael leaned in, his voice a whisper laced with venom. "Not for a crown. For a future where I matter."
The silver-lined armor Zion once wore with honor fell heavy around him as he dropped to his knees. Behind Kael, the others watched—silent, unmoved. The same men who once saluted him with reverence.
Betrayal had never tasted so bitter.
Thunder cracked the sky as if mourning the fall of a legend. Zion's hand reached toward the heavens—not in prayer, but in defiance. And then, the fire swallowed him whole.
The darkness was endless.
Time didn't pass here. There was no pain, no breath, no body. Only memory. Zion relived every scar, every battle cry, every betrayal—again and again—until even hatred began to fade.
Then, something called to him. A whisper in the void.
"He has not fulfilled his name..."
"Not yet."
The world tore open like parchment set aflame, and a blinding light consumed him.
Zion gasped—alive.
The air was colder. His lungs smaller. His limbs… softer. He wasn't in armor. He was in a cradle.
He blinked at the stone ceiling above him. Gold-lined. Royal.
A woman leaned over him, her eyes wide with both awe and fear. "The prince… he's awake again."
Another voice, older, trembling. "He shouldn't be. He was stillborn."
Zion tried to speak but only a cry escaped his infant lips. This wasn't resurrection. It was rebirth.
In this new world, he was not a warrior.
He was Prince Raen of Elyndor—a child born from flame, to a kingdom ruled by secrets.
And somewhere in this life… Kael Duram lived again.