[Its Begining]

The Royal Court of Velmora

The Court of Velmora was not its usual self.

Morning light streamed through the stained-glass windows in fractured hues, casting colored shadows across the marble floor.

But the warmth that light might once have brought had long since vanished.

The great hall — vast, echoing — felt hollow, as if grief itself had carved it out.

Shadows pooled in the corners.

Silence draped the court like a funeral veil.

King Halric Velmora sat upon the high throne of obsidian and darkwood, a man worn thin by years, but broken by sorrow.

His crown rested heavily upon silver-streaked hair, and his eyes — once sharp and full of vision — now drifted with a kind of haunted stillness.

Arrayed before him stood the kingdom's pillars — the great dukes of Velmora.

Four of them.

Silent. Grim.

Duke Drenlor of the West, tall and chiseled as a war monument, stood without movement, eyes distant — fixed on a place far beyond the court's walls.

He had not spoken since the survivors returned.

Beside him, Duke Thamric of the North, father to the slain Adam, looked a shade of the man he once was.

His cloak was black, heavy with mourning.

When he finally spoke, his voice cracked like a dying flame.

"Only eleven…" he whispered.

"Seventy-two of our kingdom's finest… and only eleven return."

No one interrupted.

The silence that followed was not out of respect — it was suffocation.

"And my son…" Thamric's voice fell to gravel.

"My heir, Adam.

Slain.

Not by beast. Not by avalanche or curse. But by that… devil."

The word struck the air like flint — sharp, sparking unease through the court.

From the margins, Master Caldus stepped forward — a scholar of the Veilspire, robed in ink-stained cloth and quiet shame.

His voice was soft — not with fear, but regret.

"This expedition… was mine to lead," he admitted, eyes fixed on the floor.

"The theory behind the relic, the Veilspire inscriptions… the inclusion of the elite was sound — on parchment.

But I warned the Crown.

I warned all of you. The risks were known."

The king's reply came slow.

Heavy.

"You shared in the risk.

That spares you from the noose — but not from judgment."

Caldus bowed his head.

There was nothing else to offer.

Halric continued, his voice gathering weight.

"We sought power.

A relic from the old world, hidden in the mountain's heart — a gift to restore Velmora's fading strength.

But what we have returned with is death.

And the tale of a shadowed murderer."

His eyes found Thamric.

"This 'devil' you speak of — what is he?"

Thamric clenched his jaw.

Grief clashed with fury behind his eyes.

"A bastard," he growled.

"A man draped in black, nameless, houseless, faithless.

Our students aided him — aided him — to bring down the cursed undead guardian.

And what did he do in return?"

He turned toward the court, his voice rising.

"He plundered them.

Looted the fallen like a thief in the night.

And when my son—Adam—dared stop him…"

Thamric's voice cracked.

"He was struck down.

Like a criminal.

My son. My blood. Slain by the very man he stood beside in battle."

The air in the court thinned.

Every face was still.

"This was no misunderstanding. No madness. It was rebellion."

Thamric's voice echoed off the black stone pillars.

"He raised his blade against the nobility of Velmora.

Against its future.

If we do not answer this challenge… then we are no kingdom at all."

The murmurs began — whispers twisting through the crowd like smoke.

"Could he be a traitor? One of the expedition turned?"

"No… no one recognized him."

"A sorcerer? The mountain stirs strange powers…"

"Or worse," said a count near the rear, "a relic of the old world given flesh. One of the Forgotten."

The king lifted a hand, but the current of fear had already risen.

"A monster, then!"

"An assassin sent from abroad!"

The court fractured — voices overlapping, speculation turning frenzied.

Then, finally, Drenlor stirred.

His voice came slow, grave — like stone grinding against stone.

"My son, Kael… returned."

The court hushed at once.

"He said little.

Far too little.

But enough to confirm Adam's death… and that this devil was real."

The king leaned forward.

"Did Kael give him a name?"

Drenlor's brow furrowed.

"No. Only a warning."

He paused, then added,

"That the man was not of our world.

That chasing him… might reveal more than we wish to know."

A silence settled deeper than before.

Not fear. Not anger. Something colder. Older.

Dread.

The king exhaled, voice raw.

"Our kingdom bleeds.

Not only from sword and spell — but from within."

He looked down at his hands, as if searching for something he no longer held.

"Mana thins.

The veins that once coursed beneath our lands, our bloodlines, our spellforged halls — they dry by the season.

The academy grows emptier. The graveyard grows full."

His gaze rose.

"If this decline continues, Velmora will become a name — nothing more.

A ghost among stronger nations."

The nobles shifted uncomfortably.

"I will not be remembered," Halric said, voice firm,

"As the king who watched the legacy of giants rot to ash."

He paused.

"But we are running out of time. And of options."

From the gathered ministers, a figure stepped forward — Chancellor Belvain, pale, measured, always watchful.

"There remain… avenues, Your Majesty," he said carefully.

"We could seek the Night Church. Or the Temple of the Wargod.

Their rites are old. Forbidden, yes — but not without merit."

Drenlor scoffed.

"The Night Church peddles madness in riddles.

The Wargod's followers crave war for war's sake.

You do not ask wolves to guard your flock."

Belvain opened his mouth to respond, but fate intervened.

BOOM.

The grand doors burst open.

A courier stumbled in — breathless, wild-eyed, mud-caked.

In his hands, a trembling parchment.

"Your Majesty!" he cried.

"Urgent dispatch from the North — Astania has risen in full rebellion!

Their banners fly in the Frostmarsh!

Border garrisons are falling — we are losing ground!"

The words fell like stone into water.

King Halric swayed.

One hand found his chest, as though to hold his heart in place.

"No…" he whispered. "Not the North. Not now."

His crown tilted. He lurched forward.

"Majesty!" a steward shouted.

Drenlor was at his side in an instant, steadying him with firm hands.

"Easy, Halric," he said.

"Breathe. The crown does not fall from a single blow."

The king inhaled slowly, face pale.

But the moment of stillness shattered again with Thamric's voice — sharp and thundering.

"They come now, like jackals in winter!"

He stepped forward, voice carrying the weight of loss and fire.

"My son lies dead.

My province burns. And now rebellion rises? Let them be crushed."

He turned to the court.

"You speak of diplomacy. Of waiting. No more."

He tore the sigil from his chest — his badge of station — and threw it to the stone floor.

"This is no longer debate. I go."

Without another word, Thamric turned and strode from the chamber.

His cloak billowed behind him — not like a garment, but a war-banner.

The doors slammed shut in his wake.

King Halric reached after him, a feeble motion.

"No… not like this…"

But it was too late.

He fell back into his throne, gaze vacant, breath shallow.

His eyes turned to Drenlor — pleading without words.

Drenlor held that gaze, then nodded once.

Solemn. Inevitable.

"I will go as well," he said.

And so it began.