10 years later;
Ten summers and winters had passed since Gaia handed King Damonis his little miracle. And on this bright morning, under the cloudless skies of Achaea, that little miracle, grown up into a little warrior, was drawing a weapon.
Icarus stood barefoot in the center of the palace training ground, a wooden practice sword gripped in both hands. His tunic clung to his back with sweat, his black curls damp and wild, his eyes locked onto his opponent—a grown warrior twice his size, a veteran of real wars, and still panting from the boy's last strike.
Around the courtyard, nobles, guards, and servants had gathered in a loose circle. Even the Queen watched from the shade, fanning herself slowly.
The captain of the guard barked, "Again!"
The adult warrior lunged.
Icarus pivoted, ducked under the man's swing, and struck the back of his knee.
The warrior stumbled.
Not giving him any chance to regain his footing, Icarus then spun, his practice sword cracking against the man's ribs, then jabbed forward with the hilt. It thudded into the warrior's chest and knocked him flat onto the dusty ground.
A voice called out from the crowd, "By the gods! Bless the Prince!"
"By the Gods! Bless the Prince!"
"By the Gods! Bless the Prince!"
The crowd chanted nonstop as the guards, stoic by training, exchanged impressed glances.
The defeated warrior grunted, propping himself up. "I yield, Your Highness. I have never seen a ten-year-old with skills such as yours. You are a natural-born fighter, My Lord."
Icarus smiled, panting. He stepped forward and helped the man to his feet. "Ariad, don't be so flattering. I saw that you were holding back."
"Not a lot, Your Highness." The warrior rubbed the back of his head in embarrassment. "I merely didn't go for the vital spots. But even if I do, now I realize that you will still triumph over me."
From the royal box, King Damonis stood and clapped slowly. "Well done, Icarus."
Icarus looked up. His father's eyes were sharp with pride but measured, always watching, always weighing.
Commander Tychon walked up and placed a hand on Icarus's shoulder. "This boy… no, this young prince—he moves like fire. Too fast for the eye, too clever for brute strength. If I didn't know better, I would think Ares trained him in secret."
"Oh please, Tychon," Damonis burst into laughter, walking down the steps toward them. "My son will one day beat even Ares."
The crowd hushed. Icarus looked at him, puzzled, by such a strange declaration which almost sounded like defaming the God of war.
Meanwhile, Damonis approached his son and placed a hand on his son's back. "The Oracles told me, son. You were destined to become a great warrior, compared to Alcaeus."
Icarus tilted his head. "Alcaeus?"
"Alcaeus is Heracles, my son," Damonis said, smiling in pride. "Alcaeus is his real name."
Meanwhile, the training ground buzzed with laughter and praise. Servants rushed to bring water. Guards clapped each other on the back, and young squires looked at Icarus like he was already a legend carved in stone.
But not everyone smiled.
From the edge of the gallery, cloaked in silk and silence, Chief Minister Thalos watched with narrowed eyes. His arms remained crossed, fingers twitching at the hem of his robe as if itching to tear something apart.
"A fine show," he muttered under his breath. "But no matter how strong you become, Icarus, you will never be the King. You are no royal blood."
—
A couple of months later;
The full moon hung heavy and full in the sky, casting a cold silver light over the palace grounds.
Those who were patrolling looked quite lazy, as if they weren't anticipating any trouble. The city around the palace was also deep in a peaceful sleep. The winds are gentle and slightly on the chilling side. Even the animals were sleeping without any issue.
But inside Icarus's room, sleep brought no peace.
His body was drenched in heavy sweat, and a deep frown was seen on his face, but motionless. His conscious was in the middle of a dream.
He was just there in the middle of nowhere, in a void where no ground, no sky, no stars, or anything could be seen. Everything is just dark—pitch dark.
There was only silence… until it came.
A voice. Not loud. Not near. But everywhere around him.
"It is time for the Wake..."
"Time for the Wake..."
Icarus spun, but there was no direction. No source. His body felt stretched, like cloth being pulled too tight. Arms tugged north, legs pulled south, head wrenched back. The world twisted, and so did he. It was like he was pulled in all directions, and his body was experiencing unimaginable pain.
He screamed, but no sound came out. However, the whisperings continued.
"Time for the Wake…"
The words echoed, growing louder every time.
Then, like a rope snapping from being pulled too much in opposite directions, his entire self was ripped away—
—and he woke with a gasp, soaked in sweat, heart hammering like a war drum. "Ha!"
For a moment, he just sat there, chest rising and falling, eyes wide in the darkness. "Again? The same nightmare…"
He glanced around, his eyes adjusting to the darkness, before his gaze fell upon the beautiful moon hanging in the sky, through an open window.
Icarus climbed down from the bed and walked to the balcony, pushing open the carved wooden doors. Cool air met him, sharp and refreshing. He leaned on the stone railing and looked up. "Yeah, I forgot that today is the full moon day."
Taking a brief pause, He hung down his head, letting out a sigh, "What is this Time to Wake? Is it just waking from sleep? And why does this nightmare always come on full moon days or new moon days only?"
Elsewhere in the palace, King Damonis sat alone in his chamber, half-dressed, pacing.
A goblet of wine stood untouched on the table. The fire burned low, barely keeping the chill from the corners of the room. He ran a hand through his graying hair.
"He's almost eleven," Laerti muttered. "Eleven..."
From behind the walls of his mind, a memory rose like smoke.
More than a decade ago. In the Temple of Apollo, somewhere in Damaris, a city of the Aetherian kingdom.
In the sacred grove of olive trees, under moonlight and starlight, the Oracle of Delphi, the priestess known as Pythia, had stood there in a trance for a while before delivering a prophecy.
"Born of earth, but the sky beckons, A child of limitless fate, yet bound by choice. At eleven, the first fork appears—one leads beyond the walls of Achaea, and the other keeps him within, draped in gold and bound to the throne that is not his. At twenty-two, the heavens call—he rises as a god, or walks the mortal path. At thirty-three, love sweet as nectar or thorns sharp as deceit, At forty-four, peace like a gentle tide, or war that roars like thunder. At fifty-five, the throne stands tall, yet shadows linger—one path grants power, the other claims life. Should he pass beyond the final gate, fortune shall bow before him, and the world shall whisper his name in reverence and awe, forever."
King Damonis is wise enough to decode every bit of those words in a matter of seconds. The prophecy was speaking about the choices Icarus must make every 11 years—each will give him a different fate.
And he doesn't like it.
He stepped forward, angry and afraid. "What does that mean? Leave for where?"
The Priestess comes out of her trance state and looks at him in confusion, tilting her head slightly. "What?"
Damonis doesn't hesitate to recite the very prophecy she just uttered to him. In response, the Priestess could only say to him that he must wait for the time to come. To know what happens to Icarus, he must wait until Icarus turns 11 years old.
Back in the present, Damonis sat down hard on the edge of his bed. He stared at the dying flames and whispered under his breath. "Mother Goddess Gaia, I don't know what you have planned for Icarus, and neither could I ever defy your orders. I just hope that the boon you gave to me will not be taken away."