The royal tutors were baffled.
Raen absorbed languages in days. He deciphered old scrolls like they were picture books. But he wasn't interested in court history, or royal bloodlines, or noble etiquette.
He wanted maps.He wanted tactics.He wanted access to the restricted archives beneath the temple library.
He was barely three years old.
They called it "curiosity." But Queen Arellia called it something else: preparation.
The queen summoned her council in secret chambers. There, behind gold-veined curtains and enchanted wards, they spoke of the boy.
"He's too clever," said Lord Halver, his voice edged with fear. "He listens like a spy."
"He is a spy," muttered the High Chancellor. "We just don't know for whom."
Queen Arellia stood silently at the head of the table. She had not aged since Raen's birth—her beauty still precise, untouchable. But her eyes betrayed the weight of prophecy.
"The seers told me," she said finally. "The flame that returns is not merely reborn. It judges. It burns the rot from the roots."
Lord Therion's expression remained unreadable, but he asked, "And when it turns its judgment on us?"
That night, Raen sat before the mirror in his chamber, tracing the mark on his palm.
It glowed now, faintly. Only when he focused. Only when he remembered the night he died.
The more he focused, the more the world around him seemed to slow. He could hear the heartbeat of the guards in the hall. The drip of candle wax. The scratch of a rat in the ceiling beams.
And then… a whisper from within.
"You are awakening, Zion. But you are still bound."
"You need a vessel. A spark to break the seal."
Raen's hand tightened into a fist.
He needed power. Not just the strength to walk or speak—but the magic that once cracked mountains and silenced armies.
He needed to become whole again.
The next day, the court held a celebration—Raen's third birthday.
Nobles gathered in silk and steel. Gifts were presented. Dancers performed under banners of the sun.
But Raen saw through it all.
He saw the glint of jealousy in the eyes of the elder princes. He saw the forced smile of the King, his father, who had not visited since his birth. And he saw Therion watching him from across the chamber, not as a guest, but as a hunter studying prey.
Raen returned the stare—calm, composed, unreadable.
"You killed me once," he thought. "But this time, I'm the one watching."
And somewhere deep in his bones, the flame stirred again.