Rain streaked down the glass dome of the New Alexandria Public Library, one of the last true sanctuaries of forgotten literature. Liam Routh, a lean, sharp-eyed linguist in his late twenties, was combing the restricted stacks for pre-Sumerian texts when his fingers grazed something...odd.
It was a thick tome, leather-bound and heavy with the scent of age. No title graced the spine, but the cover bore a strange emblem: a sun pierced by three arrows. Beneath it, the words etched in faded gold read: He Who Leaves His Blood Shall Find His Throne.
Curious, Liam carried it to a reading table beneath an amber lamp. He opened the first page. The ink was deep red, almost as if it were blood. It read:
This is the story of Kael of No-Name. Son of silence. Father of kings.
Liam blinked. The temperature in the room seemed to dip. As he turned the page, something stirred—like the air itself had begun to breathe.