As Aren leaned back into his chair and closed his eyes, his mind began to whirl with a flood of thoughts. The coming week would mark a significant milestone—the grand inauguration of the new high-speed transport line he had spent years developing. Powered entirely by clean and reusable energy drawn from emblems, these state-of-the-art vehicles would revolutionize travel, bridging continents and enabling millions to move freely across the globe for the first time in history.
He mentally recited his ceremonial speech a few more times before deciding to pause. It was a Voiday morning—the thirty-first day of Zephiris—and the cold season would officially draw to a close tomorrow. Before stepping out for a walk, Aren knew he had a duty to check in on the throne room, just in case his presence was needed.
⁂
Leaving his studio, Aren strolled through the expansive palace hallway, where portraits of his ancestors lined the walls in perfect chronological order—from the ancient founders of his bloodline to the most recent, which depicted his parents. One thing that hadn't changed over the centuries was the unmistakable signature of the Valoria clan: striking silver hair and brilliant grey eyes, nearly luminous and impossible to overlook. As Aren walked, he often found himself studying those faces—reflections of his own, not only in appearance but in expression and bearing.
The people referred to them as "The House of Natural Born Leaders," but Aren always attributed their influence to a fortunate mix of genetics, grit, and relentless hard work. Now, Aren found himself roughly the same age as his father had been in the portrait—two centuries old, more or less. Yet physically, he resembled a man in his early forties. Without his beard, he might have passed for even younger, which was one reason he'd allowed it to grow in recent years.
Such longevity was one of the many gifts of his lineage. The Valoria bloodline—the most dominant ruling clan in recorded history—was blessed with extraordinary strength, enduring health, and exceptional aptitude across nearly every discipline: combat, politics, art, science, and more. Whatever the pursuit, the Valorias excelled.
On the opposite wall of the corridor, across from the kings, hung the portraits of the queens—each one facing her partner, as dictated by tradition. Queens were never considered secondary; their power and influence matched the kings' in full, and their portraits reflected that equality.
Aren's own portrait was notably absent, although space had already been reserved for it. He had ruled for ten years now, but still hadn't commissioned the painting. He wanted something modest, yet personal. As was customary, every king and queen included in their portrait a visual detail symbolizing their unique passion.
As a child, Aren loved to study those small details and imagine the stories behind them. His favorites had always been Queen Cleo, surrounded by a pack of her loyal dogs; King Lyre, displaying his collection of dueling swords; his own father, King Drake, posed with maps and globes to mark his obsession with exploration; and his mother, painted mid-performance on a grand theater stage, reflecting both her prowess as a warrior and her fame as a gifted singer.
Ironically, Aren's own greatest passion was painting itself. He had been sketching since he was a boy and had even entertained the idea of painting his own portrait. But with no pressing need, he had simply postponed it.
His parents were still alive. The peace of the era had allowed them to hand over the throne to Aren at a time of stability, when he was deemed ready to lead. He had not yet found a life partner, despite his long lifespan. There had been fleeting romances, passionate interludes, but nothing that truly endured.
⁂
Upon reaching the throne room, Aren was greeted by a formation of elite guards—ten warriors of Champion rank, with their captain, an Ascendant, standing near the throne.
Of course, the need for protection was mostly symbolic. For centuries, the Valoria dynasty had presided over peace, earning the respect—and fear—of the world. Few dared to hold a grudge. And in the extremely unlikely event that someone did manage to bypass the palace's formidable defenses, infiltrate the throne room, and overcome its elite guards, they would still face the most daunting obstacle of all: the royal family itself.
Every king and queen trained from childhood in a rigorous, often brutal regimen of combat, strategy, and physical mastery. This process elevated them to the rank of Archon—beings of near-legendary status, revered and unrivaled.
There had been times, long past, when the royal family's strength had been required—to end wars, repel catastrophes, and lead armies. Those violent days were gone, but the training continued, unwavering. Peace, Aren believed, was worth guarding with vigilance.
He walked past the throne but stopped short of sitting. Instead, he turned to one of the massive arched windows and opened it. The view took his breath away, even now. The throne room, perched at the summit of a high tower, overlooked the entirety of the city.
The seasons were shifting. Spring was on the horizon, and the timing, Aren thought, couldn't have been more poetic.
Below him, the city pulsed with life. People of every race and nation had gathered in this place to build, dream, and collaborate. From this height, the vibrant chaos of city sounds blended into a kind of tranquil symphony—loud and soft at once. The month of Verdahn was nearly here, ushering in a wave of verdant growth as nature stirred from its slumber.
"Your Majesty," came a voice behind him.
Aren turned to see Valerie, the royal advisor, approaching with a digital tablet in hand.
"Val! Isn't it a stunning day?" he said, smiling.
Valerie—ageless, wise, and mysterious—had served under three generations of monarchs. Though she appeared to be in her early sixties, whispers suggested she was closer to a thousand years old. No one had ever dared ask, not even a king or queen.
Her rank remained a well-kept secret, and rumors swirled that she might be distantly related to the Valoria line, perhaps explaining why her name echoed their own. But, again, no one ever asked.
"The city is alive with excitement," Valerie reported. "Preparations for the inauguration are proceeding precisely as you predicted. The transport lines await your command."
"And what of our overseas guests?" Aren asked, turning from the window.
"We've just received confirmation—every one of the five remaining royal families will be attending."
Aren exhaled with satisfaction. "They certainly made us wait... but it was worth it."
He smiled beneath his beard. Six reigns—six sovereign houses—each once known as the Dragons of their domain. It had taken generations of diplomacy and patience for the Valoria line to reunite them. Past rulers had tried and failed. But Aren, with his progressive vision and collaborative spirit, had succeeded in drawing them together to create something truly extraordinary.
"This must be flawless," he said softly. "For the first time in centuries, our reigns will stand united."
"And they will, Your Majesty," Valerie assured him. "Everything is unfolding exactly as planned. But how are you feeling? You've been working non-stop."
"I'm fine. Just... excited, I suppose."
But as he spoke, a brief wave of dizziness overtook him. It passed in seconds—but it wasn't the first time.
"Your Majesty?" Valerie asked with concern. "Shall I summon the physician?"
"No need, Val," he replied, shaking it off. "Just a passing moment. I probably need to rest my eyes."
Valerie didn't press. She knew her king too well—he would push himself no matter what.
With a nod to his guards and a quiet word of farewell to Valerie, Aren made his way to the palace's underground training complex—a vast, secure facility buried deep beneath the structure. Few knew its true size or scope.
⁂
His royal garments were neatly folded on the bench. In the mirror's reflection, scars came into view—ones usually hidden beneath layers of cloth and duty. Jagged lines slashed across his back, trophies from wild beasts roaming lands far beyond the capital. His arms bore more marks: thin, deep cuts, some likely from enemy blades, others from talons or claws. At this point, Aren had long stopped keeping count. As long as he still stood, that was all that mattered.
Now in his training attire—a compression shirt of breathable fabric and loose sweatpants—his form was a masterpiece of function and strength. Every muscle had been sculpted with precision, optimized over decades for balance, speed, endurance, and control. His body could handle the raw energy his emblem demanded.
From youth, he had been disciplined to follow a strict training regimen. Now, it was second nature, the sacred heartbeat of his day. He began with laps around the facility, wearing a weighted vest and a high-altitude training mask to simulate extreme conditions. Then came the free climbing—no legs, just arms—scaling vertical walls as a test of core and upper body strength. His bloodline ensured his body would remain at its peak for at least another century, a blessing of the Valoria lineage.
Warmed up, he approached a control panel embedded in the wall. A quiet touch activated the mechanism. Mechanical dummies emerged from storage compartments, marching into formation like a silent platoon.
He took a sword from the rack lining the wall. As the dummies locked into place, a synthesized voice rang out overhead.
[TRAINING SYSTEM ENGAGED: LEVEL CHAMPIONS]
The dummies, faceless and towering, moved with uncanny fluidity, each programmed with distinct combat protocols. Though humanoid in shape, they moved in unpredictable patterns, with calculated aggression.
Aren made the first move. His footwork was elusive, an intricate dance of agility and strategy. No attack landed on him, and whenever one of the dummies left an opening, his sword struck—elegant, efficient, and devastating.
[EMBLEMS ACTIVATION]
The fallen dummies reactivated, this time with luminous runes on their chests. One glowed with a watery blue serpent emblem. The creature it summoned—a water snake—lashed out with a whip-like appendage. Aren's expression lit up with anticipation.
"Finally, some resistance," he muttered.
He dodged and deflected each attack with a grace born of endless repetition, gauging the whip's angles by the arc of its strikes. Then a dummy caught him off-guard with a leaping kick from behind. The blow disarmed him.
Without hesitation, Aren jumped back and began channeling his energy.
"Celestial Cry!"
A rune—shaped like a dragon's head—flared to life on his chest, and a bow of radiant light materialized in his hands. As he drew the string, a glowing arrow formed. Upon release, the arrow pierced through a dummy's chest with such speed it left a gaping hole before vanishing.
Two more dummies stepped forward, their emblems glowing. One summoned an earth golem, the other an iron wolf.
"Different elements… both physical," Aren said aloud, analyzing.
He dismissed the bow and summoned anew: "Blinding Requiem, plus Dawnpiercer!"
A massive shield of light took form on his left arm, just in time to block a barrage of boulder-fists hurled by the golem. The wolf, fast and brutal, lunged at his exposed flank with metal-formed claws.
With practiced calm, he invoked a spear of light and deflected the wolf's assault. As both opponents closed in, he raised the shield overhead. A glowing dome enveloped him, deflecting every attack.
He watched them carefully, memorizing their movement cycles. When they paused, coiling up to charge once more, he dropped the barrier and spun with his elongated spear, striking all enemies in one sweeping arc.
The remaining dummies tried to activate their emblems, but they were already too late.
"Not bad…" he said with a grin, wiping sweat from his brow. "Note to self: increase difficulty next time."
While a group of Champions might pose a threat to most, Aren was no ordinary warrior. What elevated the royal family above all others was their inheritance of the Prime Emblem—the Bright Dragon.
Passed down from ruler to ruler, the emblem granted control over the element of light. Each generation had refined its use. His father taught him energy mastery, his mother—how to weaponize light itself into precise tools of battle.
After completing his training, Aren entered a meditative state, calming his mind and body. Once centered, he headed to the showers, satisfaction coursing through him.
⁂
Night had fallen. Unable to sleep, Aren returned to his studio, where an unfinished canvas awaited. He'd begun it days earlier—a panorama of the cityscape, radiant with the glow of distant lanterns and glass towers. He wanted to immortalize the view before time reshaped it.
As he painted the sky, a falling star streaked across it. He had seen many, but this one felt different—too timely, too poetic to ignore. He caught it on canvas with a single stroke.
Finally, fatigue won.
⁂
"Wake up…"
The voice was gentle, but unfamiliar.
"Wake up, Aren…"
"Wake up!"
He opened his eyes, startled. He didn't recognize the voice. He rarely dreamt, and never like that.
"My mind must be playing tricks on me," he muttered, rubbing his temples.
He examined his reflection in the mirror. No fever. No visible signs of stress or strain. Yet the dizziness returned—sharper this time.
Then it happened.
The Bright Dragon emblem on his chest pulsed. For a few seconds, its glow radiated from his skin before dimming again.
"What... is happening to me?" he whispered.
He searched his memory, but no answer came.
He dressed quickly and stepped outside for fresh air, hoping a walk might help. If not, he'd see the doctor.
The palace gardens greeted him with a crisp breeze. Guards stood at attention. All seemed normal.
Unbeknownst to him, cold eyes tracked his every step. A lone figure in the shadows watched the brief glow of his emblem—something even the king hadn't noticed.
Once he was out of view, the observer stepped into the moonlight.
It was Val.
"There isn't much time left," she whispered.
She tapped a hidden device on her wrist.
[SYSTEM ACTIVATED – KING'S RETURN LOADING…]
[WARNING – PROCEDURE IRREVERSIBLE – DO NOT TURN OFF]
"I hope it's not too late, Your Majesty."