Valerus's eyes fluttered open, struggling against a persistent magical haze. He forced himself up onto his feet, the air feeling strangely thin and cold, and scanned his surroundings. To his astonishment, he was standing once again before the very same Golden Sword he had attempted to retrieve moments before he was captured.
The sword, just as the villagers had described and just as he had seen in his dream, was piercing a massive, unyielding stone. He reached out his hand, compelled by an instinct he couldn't name, in an attempt to draw the blade.
At that moment, the strange, familiar voice that had rung in his head earlier pierced the stillness of the air, this time emanating from behind him. He spun around to find the figure who haunted his dreams: the very same Old Man he had seen standing before the sword.
If he's here, Valerus mused, shivering slightly, does that mean this is another dream? A consequence of the Queen's mist?
"Are you her next master?" the old man questioned, his eyes ancient and searching.
"Her" again? Valerus thought, deeply perplexed. "Old man," he called out, his voice echoing oddly, "when you say 'her,' do you mean this golden sword?" He questioned, looking first at the luminous blade, then swinging his gaze back to the old man.
But instead of the weathered sage, he saw a starkly different figure. Standing where the old man had been was a young, stunningly beautiful lady with long, flowing white hair. She was clad in ornate golden war armor and a gleaming breastplate, looking every inch the warrior queen.
"Hey, who are you?" Valerus stammered, his mind racing to make sense of the sudden, impossible substitution. He scanned the empty space around the rock. "Where is the old man?"
The lady looked at him, a beatific, knowing smile gracing her lips. "Are you my next master?" she questioned, her voice soft but resonant.
"What are you talking about? Who are you anyway?" Valerus demanded, irritation mixing with profound confusion.
"What are you talking about?" the lady countered. "It is I."
"I'm sorry, I don't know what you are talking about," Valerus insisted, backing away slightly.
"It seems you still can't hear my name. Well, Valerus El Joranda," she said, pronouncing his full name with an intimacy that sent a shockwave through him.
At that moment, recognition flared. It was the same strange, resonant voice he had heard ringing in his consciousness when he first approached the blade, and the same voice the old man had spoken to him with moments earlier. He didn't understand. His eyes widened in disbelief as he stood before the lady, the implications terrifying. "You?" he whispered.
Valerus's eyes fluttered open in the harsh, jarring return to his waking world. His head pounded, and his vision was blurry, but the air was humid, not cold, and smelled faintly of earth and minerals—a world away from Cinder's ash.
His eyes met those of a man standing over him. The man's gaze was unsettling: his eyeballs were reddish, almost crimson, and startlingly, they were decorated with ten small white dots, perfectly arranged around the iris.
"He finally gained consciousness," the man said, his voice quiet, as if reporting to someone else in the room.
"That's good," a second, distinct voice replied.
Valerus forced himself to sit up, his muscles protesting. He looked around the small, low-ceilinged chamber. The room was populated by many men and women, and they all shared the same unnerving, distinct eye color: reddish eyeballs decorated with ten white dots.
"Who are you guys?" Valerus questioned, his hand instinctively searching for a weapon that wasn't there.
"You might not know us, but we know who you are, Valerus El Joranda," a calm, female voice said from the group.
Valerus's eyes widened in alarm. Only a few people in the world knew his full, ancient name. "How did you know my name?"
"No, why don't you tell us," a deep, measured voice cut in. The sound belonged to a robust man sitting opposite Valerus, whose ten white dots seemed to glow faintly in the dim light. "How are the El Joranda clan doing?" he asked.
"My clan?" Valerus questioned, his mind racing, trying to piece together the identity of these people. "Who are you guys anyway?"
The man opposite him leaned forward, a genuine smile warming his otherwise severe expression. "My name is Zeddicus El Max, and I'm the elder of the El Max clan," he announced. "Everyone here is a member of the El Max clan. Everyone except you, Valerus."
Valerus's shock reached a breaking point. The El Max clan was a name whispered in the deepest archives of Thorenzian history—a name believed to be extinct for centuries.
"The El Max clan? That means...." Valerus stammered.
"That's right," Zeddicus finished, his red eyes crinkling with pride and relief. "Just like you, we are Thorenzians."
Miles away from the ash-laden capital, the vast transportation hub known as Nexus bustled even under the cover of night. Nexus was the largest, busiest transport and trade hub in Aethelgard, the point where all major rail lines, sea routes, and magical portals converged.
Luisa and her daughter, Athena, walked briskly through the steam-shrouded thoroughfares.
"Mother, what do you think?" Athena asked, pulling her cloak tight against the damp air.
"Well, everyone seems to be focused on this tournament taking place tomorrow in Cinder," Luisa observed, gesturing toward the various conversations happening near the ticketing booths. "What do you say? Should we go and watch?"
Athena's face flushed faintly beneath her hood. "Cinder, huh? Isn't that where Valerus went?"
"Yes, and with all this commotion, that's where the action will be," Luisa said, a sharp glint of strategic thinking in her eyes. "We could run right into him tomorrow. Let's board a train to Cinder."
"Alright, Mother," Athena agreed readily, the thought of seeing Valerus eclipsing any concerns about abandoning their current route.
In the deep, humid bowels of a secluded Aethelgardian dungeon in Cinder, Valerus was now fully alert. He sat with the gathered members of the El Max clan.
"So that's what happened, huh?" Zeddicus El Max sighed, shaking his head. "To think a clan as powerful as the El Joranda clan was wiped out like that. On the bright side, I'm glad our people are fine. We are ready to fight whenever you are, Valerus."
"I appreciate that, Elder," Valerus said, standing and surveying their prison. The only way out was a massive, seamless gate set deep in the stone. "The issue here is how do we leave this place?"
"Well, yes, we have no way of escaping," a female voice confirmed grimly. "That gate was made with magic, reinforced with the deepest Tungsten. No matter what we do, we could never scratch it."
"Alright, maybe you can't," Valerus said, his eyes blazing with determination. "But I can."
"How?" Zeddicus asked, leaning forward, his ten white dots fixed on the young Thorenzian.
"Watch."
Valerus took a deep breath, channeling the elemental energies of the Hera technique. He began to unleash a barrage of attacks: a focused jet of Wind Hera ripped through the air, followed by a searing blast of Flame Hera, and finally, a concussive shockwave of Earth Hera. He hammered the gate with individual attacks, but the magically reinforced Tungsten remained completely unscathed.
Frustrated, Valerus unleashed a combo—a synchronized torrent of wind, flame, and earth energy—at the gate. It did not bulge. He continued this relentless assault for what felt like hours, his elemental attacks failing again and again. Exhaustion finally overtook him. He stopped, stumbling to the cold, damp floor, gasping for air.
A young woman with a kind face approached him. She sat down next to him, watching him with those strange, crimson and dotted eyes.
"You do know how to manipulate the elements, I see," she said softly.
"Oh, it's called Hera," Valerus explained, catching his breath. "The ancient Vylonians used it to defeat the ancient Thorenzians. It's a powerful weapon."
"I see," she said, tilting her head. "By the way, I'm Rhea El Max. Nice to meet you."
"Alright, Rhea. How did you guys end up here? And what happened to the others?" Valerus asked, trying to steer the conversation back to the mission.
"The others?" Rhea asked, confused.
"You know, the El Zaa clan and the El Necro clan. Where are they?" Valerus named two other legendary Thorenzian bloodlines.
"We don't know," Rhea replied, her expression clouding with worry. "We thought they were safe in Vylonia with your clan and the other Thorenzians."
"I see," Valerus muttered, realizing how truly scattered his people were. He pushed himself up, his eyes now sweeping over the faces of the El Max clan members. "Alright, guys. To get out of here, we will need to work together."
"What do you mean?" Zeddicus asked. "What can we do?"
"We could learn Hera," Valerus said, the idea seizing him with desperate clarity.
"Huh?" Rhea snapped, startled.
"Tomorrow, a tournament will take place here in Cinder. That's only a few hours away. The prize for that tournament is a Golden Sword. For some reason, I feel that sword is the legendary Aureblade which belonged to Thorenz four thousand years ago." Valerus spoke quickly, his words regaining the authority of a leader. "That said, just like the Oathkeeper's Shadows, the Aureblade belongs to us, the Thorenzians. Thus, we need you guys to master Hera before the tournament begins."
"Is that even possible? The tournament is tomorrow," Rhea protested, glancing at the impossible steel gate.
Valerus fixed her with a fierce, unshakable look. "We will make it work. Impossible is nothing. Alright, everyone, stand up. We won't be sleeping tonight until you've all mastered Hera."
Meanwhile, in the highest, most heavily guarded tower of the castle, in Queen Lysandra's lavish quarters, the room was dimly lit by a single magical lantern. The Queen lay on her vast, silken bed, still savoring the taste of her victory over Valerus.
Suddenly, the door to her private chamber fluttered open with a silent snick.
"Who's there?" she questioned, her voice sharp with instant alarm. No answer came.
"Honey, is that you?" Lysandra asked, hoping for the familiar voice of her husband, Emperor Arthur.
Again, there was no reply. Instead, a figure stepped fully into the light. It was a young man, handsome but with an expression of cold, dangerous arrogance. It was Monday, the Prince of the now homeless Vylonians.
Lysandra's eyes widened in genuine, shocking disbelief at the sight of the young Prince standing in her private room.
"Monday? What are you doing here?" she questioned, her regal composure completely shattered.
Monday offered a chilling, smug smile. "I guess you're shocked to see me here, aren't you? Sariel." He paused, letting the ancient, true name hang in the air. "Or should I rather say Lysandra Delacronix?"