CHAPTER II: The First Omen

The Grand Hall of the Yvraendre Palace was bathed in golden torchlight, its towering pillars stretching high above like the ribs of a great beast. Massive banners of deep crimson and gold hung between them, bearing the royal sigil—an eagle with its wings spread wide, the symbol of dominion and strength. The polished marble floors reflected the flickering flames from the chandeliers, casting restless shadows that swayed as if whispering among themselves.

Yet despite the grandeur, a heavy tension filled the air.

King Maric stood at the head of the long, polished table, his fingers resting on its cool surface. His dark brows were drawn together, his sharp green eyes scanning the gathered men before him. His once-golden hair, now streaked with silver, was neatly tied back. His presence carried an air of absolute authority.

To his right sat Sir Edward, the kingdom's General, his broad shoulders clad in dark steel armor. His expression was grim, his hand resting near the hilt of his sword as if expecting a fight even in a place of council. Beside him, a group of wizards in long, dark robes sat in uneasy silence, their hoods drawn low over their faces.

At the far end of the table, standing slightly apart, was The Royal Sorcerer, a man draped in thick black robes embroidered with ancient purple sigils. His dark black eyes flickered like onyx, his sharp features unreadable. Even the most powerful wizards lowered their gaze in his presence.

Tonight's meeting was not one of war or politics—it was something far worse.

A storm had been brewing outside the palace. Not one of rain, but of something unseen. The air had shifted, heavy with an unnatural stillness. Then, without warning, the flames of the chandeliers trembled as a powerful wind rushed into the hall.

The torches flickered wildly. The banners above twisted and flapped, though there were no open windows. A deep, echoing howl filled the chamber, carrying something with it—a voice not of this world.

Maric stiffened as the wind pressed against him. He heard nothing but the roaring gusts.

But the wizard at the farthest end of the table—an old man of white beard and hair—stiffened suddenly, his eyes widening in silent terror.

He alone heard the words.

A whisper. No, a prophecy.

"The First Omen has begun."

"The youngest, the most cherished, will be the first to fall. The weak shall wither, their breath stolen by the unseen hand of fate."

"No healer's touch, no mortal prayer will undo what is written in the stars."

"The cure does not rest in the land of men. It lies beyond the shroud, where light dares not reach."

"And yet, not all may pass the threshold of shadow."

The wizard gasped, his hand gripping the table. His face turned pale as the voice faded, as if it had never been there at all.

The wind stilled. The flames calmed.

The room fell into an eerie silence.

The Sorcerer turned his sharp gaze upon the wizard. "You heard it, didn't you?"

All eyes turned to the trembling man. King Maric studied him carefully, noting how his hands shook, how his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

The wizard hesitated—then took a deep breath.

"…The First Omen has begun," he repeated slowly, voice hollow. "The plague will strike the youngest and the weakest first. And once it begins, nothing can stop it."

The wizards exchanged tense glances. The General's fingers curled into fists.

"And the cure?" the Sorcerer asked, his tone unreadable.

The wizard hesitated again—but this time, his expression hardened.

"…There is no cure."

King Maric felt something in his chest that he can't decipher. The hall fell deathly silent.

"No cure?" King Maric repeated, demanding answer.

The wizard lowered his gaze, gripping his robes. "This is divine punishment. We cannot undo what has been foretold."

Maric clenched his jaw. He wanted to believe it was a lie. That there was something they could do. But deep inside, he knew—the heavens never granted mercy easily.

And this was only the beginning.

---

Charlotte's POV

The rain poured endlessly.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, the wind howling through the trees, making the candlelight in the house flicker. I pulled my cloak tighter around my shoulders, watching the storm from the kitchen window.

It had been an oddly quiet morning. Willow had been distracted all day, barely speaking, his silver eyes lost in thought. He had forgotten what today was.

His eighteenth birthday.

Lilith and I had spent all morning preparing a small surprise. Nothing grand—just a warm meal, a few decorations, and a gift I had saved up for. He had been so absent-minded lately, lost in his strange dreams. He needed something to remind him that he was loved.

Lilith had been the most excited, practically bouncing around the house with nervous energy. "He's going to love it," she had said, placing the last candle on the table. "He deserves a moment of happiness."

Now, as we all sat at the table, the warmth of the food filling the air, I watched as Willow finally smiled—a small, surprised smile—as Lilith placed a crown of wildflowers on his head.

"You forgot, didn't you?" I teased, nudging him.

His expression turned sheepish. "I… might have."

Lilith pouted. "How could you forget your own birthday?"

Willow chuckled softly. "Guess I've been thinking too much."

But before I could reply—a sudden chill swept through the room.

The candles flickered violently. A strong wind rattled the windows.

Then—Willow gasped.

His silver eyes darkened, his breath catching as if something had seized his chest.

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor.

"…Something's wrong," he whispered.

Then—he collapsed.

"Willow!"

I shot up from my seat, rushing to him. Lilith was already at his side.

His skin had turned deathly pale, his lips tinged blue. His breath came in shallow, uneven gasps. He was cold—colder than the storm outside.

Lilith let out a strangled sob, hugging him tightly. "No, no, no! Wake up... Willow..."

I pressed my trembling fingers against his wrist—his pulse was fading. He was freezing, but there was no reason for it.

I gritted my teeth, holding back the panic rising in my chest.

Then—a whisper.

A voice not my own. Dark. Cold. Yet familiar.

"Seek the one who knows...."

I stiffened. The air around me shifted, curling like unseen fingers.

"Find the wizard."

My breath caught.

I turned toward the window, staring into the storm beyond. The rain pounded harder, the wind howling like something alive.

There was no time.

I had to find him.

Before it was too late.