The metallic echo of the unlocking bolts was a brutal intrusion into the damp, oppressive corridors of the Hollow Bastion. The cell door slid open with a rusty shriek, and a beam of outside light cut through the gloom like an icy blade, searing Aiden's weakened eyes.
A man of about thirty lay motionless on a hard, stone bed, as if he hadn't moved in hours-heavy, sore, and at times, disconnected from reality. His once-dark hair had turned completely white, falling in untamed locks over his shoulders. A coarse beard of the same color covered a tense jaw, making him appear older than he was. Faint scars, old marks from prison brawls, intertwined with more recent scratches on his face. Even under the tattered prisoner's uniform, his build remained muscular, a stubborn affirmation of life forged from the necessity of not being easy prey.
But the real weight was not physical. It was the forced disconnection from Terum, the world's life energy, that had left him with an emptiness that not only oppressed his spirit but also gnawed at his body from within. It left him with a bone-deep weariness and a persistent sense of unreality, as if he were observing the world through an opaque veil.
He slowly opened his eyes, revealing a sharp, indecipherable gaze, though clouded by a haze of chronic exhaustion.
His name was Aiden Svalthren. And that name had been his true condemnation, far more so than the murder of a fellow student at the Eilhart Academy. His clan was already looked upon with disdain; the accusation was merely the final nail in his coffin.
Aiden's prison was not one of those hidden, subterranean dungeons in the noble cities, nor a fortress surrounded by bustling streets. It was a desolation of obsidian erected in the southeast of Xhandor's domain, in the unforgiving wasteland of the King's Moor. Its foundations were sunk into veins of null-stone, creating a dead zone that choked the natural flow of Terum, causing his constant malaise. Only the guards, carriers of Terum crystals, were able to avoid this debilitating effect.
Those who crossed the gates of the Hollow Bastion were considered the most dangerous scum of the kingdom-outlaws, traitors, prisoners of war, and men like Aiden, whose very existence was a mistake in the eyes of the realm. They were beasts denied any hope of seeing the sunlight again, sentenced to rot in the darkness until the world forgot their names. The air there was dry, the wind a constant howl, and at night, the stars pierced the vast emptiness like the cold, distant eyes of the forgotten gods of Zaerhast, watching over the damned.
But now, for the first time in fifteen years, Aiden was leaving this tomb of stone and shadow.
A guard in simple armor, his face hardened, stood with his arms crossed at the cell entrance. "Get up." His voice was as cold as the iron bars.
But Aiden didn't move immediately. He ran his fingers over the deep marks the shackles had left on his wrists. Only one question circled his mind: What now?
The guard kicked him roughly. "I'm not going to repeat myself."
With a heavy exhale, Aiden rose to his feet, his muscles protesting the sudden movement. "What's going on?"
"Your release has been ordered," the guard declared dryly. "Now walk."
Aiden froze. No one left the Hollow Bastion. No one.
Suspicion knotted in his stomach as he followed the guard through the narrow corridors, his steps weak and dragging, under the silent, envious, or angry gazes of the other inmates. Upon reaching a small antechamber near the main exit, another guard was waiting for him by a rough stone table. On it lay a bundle wrapped in dark cloth.
"Your things," said the second guard, as curt as the first. "Get changed. Quickly."
Aiden took the bundle with slightly trembling hands. Inside, he found the worn black jacket he had worn years ago, a leather jerkin, a pair of worn travel trousers, an empty leather pouch, and his family's silver necklace-the only tangible remnant of a blurred past. With the indifferent eyes of the guards on him, he shed the coarse prison uniform, feeling a brief sense of relief at being free of the fabric that had imprisoned him for so long. The old clothes felt strange against his skin, a reminder of who he had been before the Hollow Bastion had consumed him. He tucked the necklace into the pouch and put on the jacket.
"Keep moving," the first guard growled when he finished.
The main door swung open, and the fresh air of the King's Moor hit him, laden with the scent of damp earth after a recent drizzle. Along with the air, a light wave of ambient Terum brushed his skin-the first real sensation of the world's energy in fifteen years. At first, it was a spark, but then came the side effect. It was like a jolt, painful and strangely invigorating. His senses, dulled by the long drought, were assaulted by a chaotic torrent that his body barely knew how to process. He felt a tingling, a spark of vitality spreading through his limbs, but it was far from a recovery; rather, it was a reminder of all that had been taken from him.
"I hope I don't see you again," the guard said, and closed the door behind him.
The sky was painted in shades of gold and violet as the sun slowly descended over the horizon, casting its light upon the hills. For the first time in three lustrums, no one was watching him.
He was free.
The sound of hooves striking the damp ground brought him back to reality. A cart passed slowly down the road, its wheels leaving tracks in the mud, while a pair of men chatted in low voices. One of them paused the conversation for a moment to look at Aiden before returning to his business. In the distance, the towers of the palace-formerly Zephandor, now the seat of the northern king, Veilon Thalmyr-rose imposingly. With their marble towers, obsidian and gold domes, and flags fluttering in the wind, they caught the last glimmers of the sun, as did the kingdom's walls. Everything seemed calm until Aiden looked to his right.
Leaning against the prison wall, a woman stood with her arms crossed. She was about five feet seven inches tall, with a slender yet well-defined build and subtle curves that highlighted her figure. Her attire was a work of meticulous craftsmanship: a fitted suit of thick, dark obsidian-colored fabric that clung to her torso. Closing at the neck, the garment descended to create a triangular cut over her shoulders. From there, the clothing fell with an impeccable fit to her waist, cinched by a crimson belt with a gold medal at its center. Her sleeves, in a deep garnet, fit her arms precisely, providing both comfort and an imposing presence. Her trousers matched the obsidian tone of her top, blending with the rest of the ensemble. Finally, high leather boots in a dark garnet rose just below her knees, each piece adorned with fine golden lines that screamed royalty.
Her hair fell in a cascade of dark waves with violet highlights, stopping at the top of her back. But what drew the most attention were her eyes. They were a deep, dark, brilliant purple, as if they held something within them. Aiden grew uneasy as the woman looked him up and down, as if she were trying to dissect him. After a moment, she stood up straight and finally spoke.
"You're Aiden, right?" was the first thing she asked, her voice low but firm.
Aiden gritted his teeth. "Who are you?" he asked, holding her gaze.
The woman didn't answer immediately. Instead, she let the silence stretch on, her expression unreadable. After a moment, she smiled, though there was no warmth in the gesture. "I was told to come for someone. A young, energetic, and athletic man, well-groomed and with a noble bearing." She arched an eyebrow, as if comparing him to the description.
At her response, Aiden let out a low laugh. "You're going to be disappointed."
"You don't say," she replied, unfazed. Her smile slowly faded, replaced by a thoughtful expression. Finally, her eyes locked onto his, and she narrowed them with interest. "You have a peculiar gaze."
Aiden was already losing his patience. "Tell me what you want, once and for all."
The woman clenched her jaw, but her posture remained firm. In her mind, she reviewed the report Veilon had given her. Aiden had been transferred to Xhandor with his people after the fall of the Frozen Fort, on the orders of Thareon Zephandor, the former king. He had been trained at the Eilhart Academy, with an exceptional performance. The records spoke of a brilliant young man, a genius, disciplined and with good manners. But when she received the new image and the prison report, the story was different. That boy no longer existed.
The Aiden in front of her was a man hardened by years of confinement, with long, white, matted hair falling to his shoulders, a neglected beard of the same color, and the look of a beast. His posture was arrogant, his tone, defiant.
"You speak with too much insolence for someone who has just been freed." The woman's words were tinged with a slight irritation. "Let's not play dumb. By now, you must know where I come from."
Aiden crossed his arms; he already knew what this was about. To free someone from the Hollow Bastion, one had to belong to the political elite of the kingdom of Zhailon or have a great deal of influence within it. And the last thing he wanted was to get involved with them again. "What does it matter? We both know my release isn't an act of kindness. If I'm out, it's because you need something from me. What is it?"
The woman exhaled with impatience, reached into her uniform pocket, and pulled out a scroll with a seal. "I don't think I need to explain what this is."
The royal seal, Aiden thought. The only one with the power to grant such scrolls was none other than the king of these lands himself. "So King Veilon Thalmyr sent you," he said, taking the scroll.
"The king gave me two orders: to arrange your release... and to make you join the army."
Aiden began to boil with rage. They weren't satisfied with having unjustly imprisoned him, and now they expected him to work for them? It had to be a damn joke.
He opened the scroll and scrutinized its contents, not only to confirm that what she had said was true but also to find out who he was dealing with. Angellon Norvel.
The surname took him by surprise. Norvel was a name that came from another continent to the south, across the dark sea-a name that belonged to the regent of the Asnar region. Her lineage granted her a privileged position, but... something didn't quite add up. He had never heard of an Angellon belonging to that family, not even in his years of study at the academy. But... what did it matter? None of that really mattered.
Aiden felt a growing irritation with himself for trying to understand the situation when all he wanted was to stay away from it all. He had no interest in the Moor, in Asnar, and certainly not in Angellon Norvel. He held the scroll a moment longer before looking up and uttering a simple phrase:
"And if I refuse?"
Angellon didn't even hesitate. "We're not negotiating."
Aiden calmly rolled up the scroll and put it in his leather pouch before inhaling the outside air deeply. Though strange and slightly painful, it sent a charge of energy coursing through him. He had already made his decision.
When he opened his eyes again, his posture became more rigid. "Then you'll have to force me."
Without waiting for a response, he took the first step north. But as soon as he did, an overwhelming force stopped him. A fierce grip clamped around his arm, like an iron shackle. Aiden turned his head, his gaze meeting Angellon's. She was holding him with an inhuman firmness. "Think carefully about what you're doing." Her voice was lower now, but laden with a palpable threat.
But that wasn't going to stop Aiden. The king needed him for some reason; he had nothing to fear. "Do you think I'll cooperate if you take me by force?"
With a sudden movement, he released a fraction of his scarce Terum energy-an attempt that cost him a spasm of pain and left him trembling with residual weakness. He broke free from her grasp, momentarily surprising Angellon. "If the king wants something from me, he's free to tell me in person. I have no intention of answering to a mere soldier, let alone a stranger from Asnar," he said between gasps. Without waiting for a reply, Aiden resumed his march.
Although Angellon's anger rose to a critical point, she made no move. Aiden tensed his jaw. His wrist began to throb, not from the Terum, but from the woman's overwhelming strength-a sign that she was no ordinary person. The air felt heavier as Aiden put a good distance between himself and Angellon. He could still feel her furious glare on his back. She was surely considering her options; it was only a matter of time until Veilon Thalmyr got what he wanted. He had to act fast and find a way out of the kingdom.
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