Karl didn't know if he was dead.
His body felt lighter, like the wind could lift him—but his chest ached, and his fingers still trembled with cold. The floating citadel above him pulsed with golden veins of light, suspended in the sky by nothing but glowing chains of energy. Birds made of living flame soared between towers that defied gravity, and a massive throne of obsidian stone floated at the very center of the courtyard.
He stood up slowly.
King Aethros watched him with the stillness of a mountain.
"Where… where am I?" Karl asked, voice hoarse.
Aethros turned and began walking. "You are where fate has led you. The rest of the world calls it myth. I call it home. This is Vael'Arcanum—the Last Citadel of the Monarchs."
Karl's legs carried him forward on instinct. Behind them, the sky shimmered like a broken mirror, reflecting not just light—but memories. One flickered and vanished: a mother's hand, reaching through smoke.
"You're not real," Karl whispered. "This is a dream. Or a spell."
Aethros stopped and turned.
"Dreams do not bleed," he said, and held out a small cloth. Karl touched his nose—blood. The sudden movement must have reopened a cut.
"But why me?" Karl asked, finally. "Why pick someone like me?"
Aethros regarded him for a long time. Then, for the first time, his voice softened—not with kindness, but with recognition.
"Because I know what it is to lose everything. Because when I looked into your soul, I saw a silence so loud, it shook the Flame itself. And because your magic woke a seal buried for five thousand years."
He pointed to Karl's chest. "That pendant is not wood. It's mythwood. It responds only to Monarch-blood."
Karl blinked.
The pendant was burning again—softly this time—glowing with a steady red light.
---
The Citadel Doors Opened
Two massive stone gates parted ahead, revealing a bridge of floating runes that led into the heart of Vael'Arcanum.
"Walk with me," Aethros said. "There is much to unlearn."
As Karl followed him, he saw figures standing in formation on either side of the bridge—mages, knights, assassins, and smiths. Some human, some not. All bore crests of forgotten houses and wore masks of silver and jade.
"These are my Shadows. My Guard. My last faithful."
He gestured toward them. "They will be your instructors. You will learn magic, yes—but also war, diplomacy, loyalty, and control. You will build with your hands. Fight with your mind. Bleed with purpose."
Karl's voice was barely audible.
"…and if I fail?"
Aethros did not stop walking.
"Then you will die, and the Flame will choose again."
---
Inside the Citadel
The interior was a world of its own. Libraries with books that whispered when you passed. Forgehalls where blacksmiths shaped metal that sang. A garden where trees grew upside down, their roots glowing with elemental crystals.
A great stone room awaited Karl. Simple. Clean. With a basin of water, a bed of rune-stitched cloth, and a single word etched into the wall:
"Begin."
As the door shut behind him, Karl stepped forward and sank to his knees. He wasn't ready. He was just a street rat. A boy with nothing.
But as his fingers brushed the pendant, and the red glow pulsed stronger, Kael whispered something he hadn't said in years:
"…thank you."
Somewhere far above, the Flame stirred.