The chamber echoed with the soft rustle of parchment and shifting robes.

At the head of the marble room sat King Draxon of Draconia, his golden eyes sharp beneath the glittering chandelier. His crimson cape swept over one shoulder like a curtain of fire, the dragon crest on his armor catching the light.

To his right, Queen Lysara of Alinthor sat with practiced grace, her silvery gown gleaming faintly, almost like ice under moonlight. Her aquamarine eyes scanned the council table, unreadable but alert.

And on Draxon's left, King Leonard of Sintaria, his phoenix-emblazoned armor glowing with faint ember hues, leaned slightly forward, hands folded on the polished stone. Though age lined his face, his presence filled the room.

The monthly council was underway.

But it had become a ritual more than a meeting.

"They're still putting up those posters," Leonard said, breaking the silence, voice like distant thunder. "For the one who killed the bandits at Tindara."

Lysara's fingers grazed the edge of her goblet. "Even though no one's come forward. No witnesses. No evidence." She gave a delicate pause. "Only ash."

"And a message," Draxon added, his tone low. "One written in blood."

A moment passed.

"Do we believe it was a hunter?" Leonard asked.

"No hunter I've trained leaves nothing behind," Draxon muttered.

"It doesn't matter who did it," Lysara said quietly. "The kingdom remembers the act. Not the name."

The topic shifted.

It always did.

Dungeons.

Lysara gestured, and a scroll was passed across the table. "Three more in the last two weeks. All unmarked terrain. No leyline interference. No magical build-up."

"They're not old," Draxon said. "They're being made. Planted like seeds."

"By who?" Leonard asked, voice dry. "The gods? A cult? The damned wind?"

"No answer has made sense so far," Lysara murmured.

"And the hunters?" Leonard pressed.

"Too many are dying," Draxon replied flatly. "Even the trained ones. The deeper they go, the worse it gets."

Lysara leaned back, fingers steepled. "Then we change how we train them."

That caught their attention.

Leonard raised a brow. "You're suggesting reform?"

"I'm suggesting survival," she answered. "We can't send untested fighters into something this volatile."

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Draxon nodded once. "Then no more soft trials. No more passing recruits out of pity."

Leonard studied them both. Then slowly, he nodded.

"The training becomes brutal. And only the strongest pass."

"Only those who can withstand the worst," Draxon said.

"We'll lose more in training," Lysara added calmly. "But less in the field."

"And the ones who survive," Leonard finished, "will be the ones we can count on."

There was no argument.

Because there wasn't time for one.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It started as a whisper in the training halls of Draconia.

Just another rumor at first—half-believed, half-dismissed. A tale passed between recruits during water breaks and armor drills.

The First Prince unlocked a new skill.

At first, no one knew what it meant.

A title? A technique? Some rare blessing?

But the weight of the rumor grew.

It didn't fade.

Soon it reached the colosseum barracks.

Then the guard towers.

Then the market squares, where sellers pretended not to listen but always did.

By the time it slipped past the borders of Draconia, it was no longer a rumor.

It was a wildfire.

In Alinthor, the court mages exchanged sharp glances over tea they no longer sipped. Some said it was divine. Others said it was dangerous.

In Sintaria, battle instructors paused mid-lecture. A few mocked it. Most didn't. One veteran simply muttered, "If it's true, the world just shifted."

And in every tavern, every outpost, every trade hub between the kingdoms—people leaned in just a little closer when someone mentioned his name.

The First Prince.

A new skill.

Unheard of.

"Is it real?"

"How could it be?"

"The gods haven't blessed skills like that in centuries."

"Maybe it's a sign."

"Or a warning."

"What if he's the test?"

"What if he's the weapon?"

No one knew.

But everyone wanted to see it.

Theories twisted through the streets.

Maybe the gods were returning.

Maybe they were watching again.

Maybe the dungeons and the prince were connected.

Maybe the world was tipping toward something bigger than them all.

But beneath every question, every theory—was the same quiet thought:

They wanted to see it.

His strength.

His power.

His new skill.

And most of all—

They wanted to see what it would look like against something even more powerful than him.

It didn't take long for the news to outpace itself.

By the end of the week, the rumor had evolved from a quiet revelation into something bordering on legend.

The story changed depending on who told it.

In a tavern near the southern Draconian border, someone swore they'd seen the prince summon a creature made of lightning and flame—eyes blazing like suns, wings wide enough to blot out the sky.

In Alinthor, nobles whispered that he had stopped a battlefield with a single word—that enemies had fallen to their knees, not from fear, but from awe.

And in the wind-bitten cliffs of Sintaria, one commander claimed the prince had walked into a collapsing dungeon and walked out alone, untouched, not even winded.

No one could prove any of it.

But no one could disprove it either.

Even those who'd never met the prince spoke of him with careful voices now.

Not with reverence.

Not with fear.

Something in between.

Because the truth was… no one knew what the skill was.

What it looked like.

How it worked.

Just that it was new. And that it wasn't supposed to be possible.

The royal courts tightened their schedules.

Messengers moved faster.

Scout reports were suddenly requested more often.

No one said it aloud, but something had shifted in the air.

This wasn't just about magic.

This was about balance.

The people speculated. The scholars argued.

The gods hadn't been active in generations—aside from the Wills, which were more myth than certainty in most eyes.

Skills didn't just appear.

They were trained. Earned. Fought for.

So for one to be given… or revealed… meant something else was at work.

Something old.

Something watching.

The common folk wondered what it meant for them.

The warriors wondered what it meant for the battlefield.

And the leaders—those who had fought and bled and ruled for decades—wondered if they were still in control at all.

But even through the doubt and the worry and the disbelief—one truth pulsed louder than the rest:

They wanted to see it.

Whatever it was.

Whatever it meant.

They needed to see it in action.

Not against training dummies or illusion beasts—

But against something real.

Something deadly.

Something that wouldn't kneel.

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