Three thousand years ago, the scattered villages of the Eldros River Valley united to form the Kingdom of Eldros. The chieftain of the largest settlement was crowned the kingdom’s first ruler, King Theodore Theran I. The capital was established beside the Eldros River, at the foot of a structure already standing there. The Black Tower.

  It rose from the earth like a scar carved into the sky, its surface so dark it swallowed light. Monsters avoided the land around it, keeping their distance for reasons no one could explain. Some claimed the tower’s inhabitants hunted them. Others insisted the tower was cursed. These were the stories whispered around campfires, passed down from one generation to the next. In all the years since Eldros’s founding, no one ever saw the tower’s residents. Still, the village prospered in its shadow.

  One year, construction began on a new structure near the tower. Slowly, stone by stone, it rose from the ground. The villagers watched in silence as walls climbed higher and towers took shape, though no workers were ever seen. Months passed, and the castle stood complete.

  It was given to the people of Eldros without ceremony or explanation. No one, not even King Theran himself, understood why such a gift had been bestowed. Within the castle lay the throne room, the grandest chamber of all, vast enough to dwarf any hall the valley had known before. It would become the heart of the kingdom, though its origins remained as much a mystery as the tower that loomed beside it.

  The massive doors of the throne room groaned open with a deep, metallic clang, the sound rolling through the vaulted chamber like a war drum. Carved into the dark metal were towering reliefs of the first king, Theodore Theran I, standing in silent command. He was shown crowned and armored, one hand resting on a sword driven point-first into the stone, the other raised as if addressing an unseen host.

  Behind him, etched into the doors themselves, loomed the Black Tower, jagged, lightless, and unmistakable. It rose at his back like a shadow he neither fled nor confronted, only endured. As the doors parted, warm torchlight spilled across polished stone, casting long shadows over ancient mosaics of war and victory that lined the hall beyond.

  The doors completed their slow passage and settled into place with a final, resonant echo. For a heartbeat, the throne room stood in solemn silence, its torchlight flickering across stone and history alike. Then the silence broke.

  A solitary soldier staggered through the chamber doors, his gait unsteady, his boots coated in road dust, his armor streaked with dried sweat and the dull grime of a long march. His face was pale beneath the dirt, his eyes wide with more than exhaustion. He dropped to one knee on the polished marble floor, his chest rising and falling in frantic, shallow breaths.

  “The stars,” he gasped, voice ragged. “The stars have shifted.”

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  Across the war room, General Kitch spun around. His hand moved instinctively toward the hilt of his sword, the blade’s edge catching the candlelight. He didn’t look at the war table or the maps; it was the soldier who held his attention now. The young man was trembling, a sheen of cold sweat on his brow despite the warmth of the room, and something in his eyes made the general’s jaw tighten.

  Kitch stepped forward, boots echoing heavily on the stone, eyes fixed on the soldier. “Speak, soldier,” he asked, voice low and firm. “Say it again.”

  The man swallowed hard and straightened himself slightly, the tension visibly trembling through his limbs. “Apologies, sir. Over the rotunda, just past high sun, the constellations changed. The clerics, the mages, they’re in uproar. They say it hasn’t happened since the Long War.”

  The words hung in the air like a hammer ready to fall.

  A hush swept the chamber.

  At the far end of the throne room, King Thalen of Eldros set his silver goblet down with a quiet clink that somehow sounded louder than the soldier’s footsteps. He wiped the wine from his mouth with the back of his gloved hand, then turned slowly and deliberately, like a wolf watching its prey.

  His gaze locked on the soldier.

  “You are certain?” His voice was low and steady, but the weight behind it could crack stone.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” the soldier said quickly, still kneeling with his eyes downcast. “They say the sky above the Sword of Everticatt has changed. A new star burns above the blade’s resting place, and it points west.”

  A ripple of unease swept through the gathered nobles and guards. Whispered voices rose, like wind blowing through a crypt. Even the stained-glass windows, depicting long-dead kings and the fires of war, seemed to darken.

  Then the tall oak doors creaked again.

  Another figure entered, his stride steady yet unhurried. Arch Mage Veralt of Eldros crossed the threshold. His indigo robes shimmered softly in the torchlight, trailing behind him like flowing ink. A silver staff topped with a glowing crystal tapped gently against the stone with each measured step, precise, deliberate, inevitable.

  He bowed deeply before the king, his voice carrying the gravity of centuries.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, “I have returned from the rotunda. The soldier speaks the truth. The stars above the Sword have shifted. One of the forbidden stars now burns above it. Its light falls westward.”

  The king’s hand clenched the carved armrest of his throne. The crack of leather under pressure shattered the silence.

  “You know what this means,” Thalen said, though it wasn’t a question.

  Veralt nodded. “It is exactly as the old texts foretold. The signs are clear. The engineers have returned.”

  The words struck the room like a spell. Gasps. Murmurs. Even the guards stirred uneasily. One clutched the hilt of his sword without realizing it.

  General Kitch stepped forward, eyes narrowing. “Where? How many?”

  Veralt’s face was grim, carved from old stone. “The ancient records were vague. They speak of ‘minds scattered across the lands, their number like seeds upon the wind.’ It could be one. Or hundreds. But the first has emerged. Somewhere to the west.”

  King Thalen rose slowly, the thick fur lining his cloak catching the firelight. He stepped down from the dais, each footfall sounding like a drumbeat of inevitability. His gaze settled on the stained-glass mural above the hall, a portrayal of the Long War in vivid reds and golds. Fire. Metal. Death. The rise and fall of empires.

  He spoke barely above a whisper, but the whole room heard it.

  “The prophecy is coming true. The ancient war stirs once more.”

  The silence that followed was total. Even the torches seemed to flicker.

  King Thalen gazed across the chamber, eyes shadowed by something more profound than fear, memory.

  “May the gods protect us,” he said at last.

  No one dared to respond.