The morning breeze swept through the secluded courtyard behind the palace, shielded from public view. There, two figures faced one another. One bore a faded imperial robe, his expression steady but weighed by history. Opposite him stood a black‑haired youth, eyes sharp with uncertainty—Prince Damma Lorexius.
"Step your left foot back, firmer. If you don't, you'll fall too easily," Minister Hiremon said, planting his wooden staff on the ground as he corrected Damma's stance.
Damma inhaled deeply and adjusted. "I guess… I'm not cut out for combat."
Hiremon approached. "Damma… a crown‑heir needn't master the blade, but he must understand the difference between surrender and endurance."
Damma looked at him, bitterness creeping into his voice. "Then who am I in your eyes, Minister? A crown‑less heir? A palace slave hidden from history?"
Hiremon met his gaze steadily. "You are both—and that's precisely what makes you dangerous to them."
They sat at the stone pool's edge, its still surface reflecting the pale sky.
"Hear this, Damma," Hiremon began gently. "Whiteheaven was built on blood and belief. Your Illeum ancestors and the Larfex sailed to Neverus to mine Lovarian. Thousands died for a single goal: a stronger future."
Damma turned toward him. "I know. My grandfather… Emperor Rogius Robelix forged legendary weapons from that metal, right?"
Hiremon nodded. "Yes—and one went to your father, Brovon. But weapons don't make a leader. What makes an Emperor is his courage facing the rot infecting the palace from within."
Silence followed. Then Damma whispered, "Mother was nearly killed by Empress Xienna. If you hadn't saved us… I'd be forgotten."
"I didn't save you to make you a hero," Hiremon said quietly. "I saved you because you're the only hope they can't manipulate."
Damma clenched his fist. "Everyone says I'm weak. That this fate is too much for me."
"Destiny is never light," Hiremon said, eyes intense. "History will not remember those who hide."
"What should I do, then?" Damma asked, this time steady.
Hiremon stood and gazed eastward, toward the Lakhsa Mountains. "You must learn the legends of Lagosh, of the Dragon, and especially the Sea‑Monster Negodu."
Damma furrowed his brow. "The monster from the east?"
"Much more." Hiremon paced slowly. "These creatures represent the untamable. One as large as a dozen war chariots. Lagosh dwells in the Sargon Forest and for centuries has haunted raiders from the east."
"And?"
"Megido's Buhit Plains," Hiremon went on, "were once called the Plains of Heaven. Your grandfather replenished his expedition there and prepared to head for Neverus with a great mining force. But Lagosh struck at night and destroyed their encampment. They had to push on, unprepared."
Damma was silent—this was unfamiliar truth to him.
"That's not all," continued Hiremon. "In Neverus, a dragon, Severus, shattered their ranks. Then, out at sea, the Negodu… your grandfather vanished. Only a few returned—led by Prime Minister Vortharian."
"Our world," Hiremon said softly, "is woven from legends. But legends forgotten bury truths. You, Damma Lorexius, inherit two worlds: imperial blood and wounds from forgotten lands."
"Will they accept me as Emperor?" he asked quietly.
"No." Hiremon offered a faint smile. "But if you walk far enough, bold enough… the people will find you. They won't see a prince—they will see a leader chosen by history."
Damma stood. "Then teach me everything: our empire, our enemies, our history."
"But on one condition," Hiremon said, locking eyes with his pupil. "You must promise: no revenge. Fight with wisdom. And patience."
The twelve‑year‑old prince managed a small smile. "Then we begin today, Master."
Hiremon patted his shoulder. "From this moment, you are more than a student… you are the Empire's final hope."
Damma Lorexius was only twelve when a plot was uncovered to kill him. Empress Xienna, a cold‑blooded Larfex who longed to control the throne, conspired with Larfex nobles and palace agents. Her target: the son of the third concubine, the dismissed heir whom Emperor Brovon had named successor two years before vanishing from Whiteheaven.
The child seemed too young, too gentle—and that made him a perfect target.
But fate had other plans.
Minister Hiremon, one of the five trusted by Brovon, sensed the threat early. Late that night, he met Damma and his mother Selir Triana in a dark palace corridor.
"Damma, listen carefully," he said firmly. "Tonight you leave the palace. There is no time."
"Why, Minister?" the prince asked innocently. "I wasn't finished training for tomorrow…"
Hiremon knelt, eyes soft as a father's. "Someone wants your blood before you sit the throne."
Damma froze. His face drained of color.
"But why? I've done nothing against them."
"Because you do nothing against them," Hiremon replied flatly. "You threaten the throne she seeks. And she will eliminate any threat."
Without hesitation, Hiremon that night arranged for Damma and Triana to switch places with a stranger and his mother—commoners aspiring to nobility. The man was lured with promises of luxury, unaware his body would be burned to mimic Prince Damma's corpse at the Eastern Castle the next morning.
Three days later, the empire's banners flew at half‑staff. Empress Xienna wept publicly, mourning a stepson she claimed to have cherished.
Meanwhile, Damma and his mother fled, hiding in the underbelly of Whiteheaven. They moved like ghosts, surviving on scraps, staying hidden—until the fire consumed their last refuge.
Even Minister Hiremon lost all trace of them after that night.
Blacksand.
That slum, nestled beyond the empire's borders, became their new home after escaping the fire that had destroyed their last refuge. Every day, they were greeted by filth, crying infants, the shouts of thugs, and the stench of the black market. His mother, growing weaker by the day, ended up working as a cleaner in a corner of the market, while Damma became a porter for Lord Kohali—a powerful merchant who controlled the port and the underground market.
Though his life had fallen into ruin, Damma Lorexius kept his true identity hidden. He never admitted that imperial blood ran through his veins. He even changed his name to Damerius.
Amid the chaos, he met Lathire—a girl abandoned by her family when she was just a child. Together, they stole bread, shared a ragged blanket when it rained, and clung to each other amid the wreckage of a world that had stopped caring.
"Your mom's getting worse," Lathire murmured one night as they sat beside a small fire.
"I know," Damerius replied softly.
"Are you really going to keep working for Kohali?"
"I'm going to sign a slave contract."
"What?!" Lathire turned sharply, nearly dropping the clay pot in her hands. "No, Damerius! Don't do that. I'll do it. I'm stronger."
Damerius shook his head. "No. You're not a slave, Lathi. You're my sister."
"And you're not a slave either!"
He stared into the flames. "If I can save my mother, I'll do anything. I don't want to lose her. She's all I have left. My family…"
Lathire looked down, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. She knew she couldn't win against Damerius's resolve.
In the years that followed, Damerius became Kohali's most valuable worker. He mastered trade, combat, tactics—even took charge of logistics between cities and ports.
To Kohali, he was a golden asset—though he never stopped calling him slave.
"I still can't believe a street rat like you can calculate ship flows and port profits so precisely," Kohali sneered, clearly impressed.
Damerius simply bowed. "I'm just doing my job, sir."
His mother's condition slowly improved. But time and old wounds had stolen much from her—especially her memory.
As for Lathire, she began working for a ship merchant. But over time, she drifted further away, and her visits to Damerius became