PROLOGUE
In the forest, a small group fled through the shadows — a desperate escape. Among them, a boy, forced to keep moving though his legs trembled with fear.
He stumbled, crashing to the ground. Twigs and old branches scraped his arms as he pushed forward, his breath ragged, and his heart pounding.
Then — he saw it.
The battlefield opened before him, veiled in drifting smoke and the cold scent of blood. The banners of Thallerion lay torn and trampled. And there, in the heart of the carnage —his father and mother was fallen, their crowns cast down and their royal robes soaked in crimson.
The breath caught in his chest.
A small sound escaped through him — first a whimper, then a scream — until grief broke free in a cry so raw it shook the forest itself.
"Noooooooooooooooooooo!"
The cry echoed through the trees, across shattered shields and smoldering earth.
"Father! Mother!"
He stumbled forward, tears blurring his sight —but strong arms seized him, pulling him back.
"Stop!" a voice shouted, trembling but firm. "Don't go back, young prince!"
He fought wildly, thrashing in blind sorrow.
"Let me go! Let me go!"
"Xerxez!" the man cried — Alexunther Esqaniel, kinsman to the fallen queen, his face marked with soot and tears. "Listen to me! I know your pain… but we must move forward! To return now is to die in vain!"
The boy's sobs broke into gasps. Through his tears, the battlefield blurred — shapes of soldiers lying still, flames devouring banners, and above it all… a monstrous figure.
A hot, fierce rage flared in Xerxez's chest, strong enough to swallow his fear.
if only I could fight him…
In that moment, grief became resolve.The pain in his heart turned into the first spark of destiny.
His tears burned his cheeks, but behind them, something ancient awoke.
As the beast's shadow vanished into smoke, the boy made a silent vow — deep in his heart, deeper than words could reach:
One day, I will stand before Hedromus.One day, he will choke on his triumph.By blade, by flame, or by curse — I will see him fall.
And beneath the blood-red sky of Thallerion's ruin, a vow was born.
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Imagine a world where mankind bore unique bloodlines, each one blessed by the souls of celestial entities. Among them was Orion, the Hunter—an eternal guardian who gifted the Thallerion bloodline with mastery over weapons, a mind sharpened beyond mortal measure, and an instinct for battle that rivaled beasts themselves. From his name, they took their own: Thallerion, born of Tele'rion—the Mind of Orion. Yet the people believed themselves more than his children; they called themselves his foreseers, the chosen who would carry Orion's vision into the ages.
If the world was blessed by these entities, then surely there must also be a curse, one that cloaks the world in chaos.
The portal of the Abyssal World lay in ruin, shattered and unsealed. From its black maw, monsters, beasts, and demons crawled forth, spreading terror across the surface of the mortal realm.
In those dark days, every civilization clung to survival by the strength of their bloodlines—each one bearing gifts bestowed by the Constellar entities. Magic, power, and sacred abilities became the bulwark of mankind, their only defense against the horrors loosed upon creation.
Some bloodlines carried the gift of transformation, taking the form of soaring birds or swift-swimming fish to outmatch their foes. But the Thallerion bloodline was set apart: theirs was the rare power to weave raw spirit into living weapons—blades of light, bows of fire, shields forged of thought. To others it seemed sorcery; to them, it was the inheritance of Orion. Some even bore supernal suits of power, armor wrought of their own spirit energy, amplifying their combat might to face the endless tide.
The bloodline of Thallerion lived with honor, sworn to shield the innocent from the ravening spawn of the Abyss. With the gift of Orion flowing in their veins, they stood unshaken, daring even to face the abyssal creatures that crawled from the deepest pits of night.
Yet while Thallerion held fast to their sacred charge, the world beyond fell to strife. Other bloodlines, blinded by pride, turned their powers not upon the monsters of the Abyss but upon one another. Kingdoms rose and fell as the strong colonized the weak, seeking to dominate rival bloodlines. Among them were the Draconian nation—descendants of the Dragon Constellar—who bore the dread gift of transformation, taking the form of scaled dragon-hybrids or soaring wyrms of fire and fang. Their ambition rivaled even their power, and in their shadow, countless realms trembled.
After countless centuries, Orion vanished without a trace. Some claimed he had forsaken his sacred vow to guard the people of Thallerion, while others whispered that he had been swallowed in a battle against the Draco Entity—a foe whose darkness could eclipse even his radiant might.
In his absence, Orion's bloodline faltered. His heirs strayed from the path, their gifts dimmed, their once-pure legacy fractured. Yet within them, the ember of Orion's blessing endured, faint but unbroken, waiting to awaken.
Then came the Cyprioxians. A people draped in faith and fanaticism, they were not merely rulers—they were zealots who bound the unseen forces of the world to their will. Through their rituals, they bent magic, suppressed natural talent, and shackled the very essence of ability itself. Their doctrine was law, their prayers was weapons, their temples fortresses of power.
Where Orion's blessing sought to uplift, the Cyprioxian creed sought to chain. They declared themselves chosen, proclaiming that no gift, no spark, no light could flourish unless sanctified by their faith. And so, under their rule, the descendants of Thallerion were silenced, their inherited strength suppressed, their souls caged in a lattice of divine tyranny.
Even the last traces of Orion's promise lay dormant, smothered beneath the weight of Cyprioxian dominion—a people whose religion made them masters not only of flesh, but of spirit itself.
The blood of Orion still ran in the veins of Thallerion, yet the people had forgotten how to awaken it. Once hunters, fearless and unyielding, they had grown complacent. Behind their towering walls they cowered, convincing themselves that safety was strength, and that silence was peace. It was, in truth, a coward's life.
But Xerxez Herzthroven, young prince of Thallerion, would not accept such chains. The dream of the hunt still burned bright within him, as though the voice of Orion himself whispered in his marrow.
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Three days ago— the bitter escape.
At the age of twelve, his story began. That day he slipped beyond the palace gates, marching alone beneath the verdant canopy of ancient oaks. Their colossal trunks rose like watchful knights, and the emerald leaves whispered in a tongue older than kingdoms. Shadows twisted into beasts, yet even the vivid tales of abyssal horrors told by his grandfather could not quench the fire of his adventurous spirit.
His mother, Queen Xurien Wrez Herzthroven, often caught him sneaking away. She would scold him with furrowed brows and stern words, yet her reprimands always softened into song. Music bound them—mother and son—voices weaving together in secret chambers, their melodies carrying both laughter and lament.
His father, King Cerceux, looked upon Xerxez with a different eye. Where the Queen sought to guard, the King sought to sharpen. In the quiet of the palace yard, amidst the statues of their ancestors, he trained the boy's hands to steady and his breath to still. Apples balanced atop stone heads became their quarry, a glowing blue arrows loosed with steady aim. Each strike was a promise—the promise that Thallerion's blood had not run dry.
His steps fell soft against the moss-clad earth, muted as though the forest itself wished to keep his presence a secret. Overhead, robins trilled their bright songs, their voices echoing like a choir woven into the canopy of ancient oaks. Every crunch of fallen leaves beneath his leather shoes marked his passage deeper into the green cathedral, where the air was damp with bark, soil, and the faint sweetness of blooming ivy.
At the age of ten, he stumbled upon a secret long buried in his blood. In the quiet of play, without rite or ritual, his hands shaped light into form—a bow, glowing faintly blue, simple yet alive. To him it felt natural, as though the air itself longed to be drawn into string and wood. Yet to the people of Thallerion, dulled by centuries under Cyprioxian shadow, it was nothing remarkable. They dismissed it as a trick of youth, for once every child was told that shaping weapons from the self was the common birthright of Orion's line—though few still believed it, and fewer still could awaken it.
Across his back lay that same bow, its polished curve faintly aglow with a halo of soft azure, as if it carried the breath of the sky itself. At his hip rested a quiver of arrows, their fletching like feathers dipped in waterlight, whispering of flight and purpose. Yet the true weight he bore was not of weapon or quiver, but of destiny hidden beneath his royal-blue jacket and the simple white tunic of a boy still caught between dreams and the burden of a forgotten crown.
He traced the knotted branches above with eager eyes, as if the forest had laid out a map just for him. Then he saw it: a faint shimmer, soft as dawnlight. Perched high in the crook of an ancient oak rested a robin's nest, its threads glinting blue in the dappled sun. His pulse quickened, a thrill coursing through him—this was the treasure he had come for.
But beneath the stillness, the forest watched him back. From a stagnant pool at the tree's roots, something stirred. Murky water rippled as unseen eyes blinked open, glinting faintly gold in the shadow. The creature slid forward, soundless, then sank back into the mud whenever the boy glanced its way. Patient. Watching. Waiting.
"Hmm?" he mumbled to himself, trying to shake a strange feeling of being watched. Just a tiny creature, toying with me?
With nimble determination, he seized the trunk, his fingers finding purchase in the ridges of bark. His feet pressed against the rough surface, clinging as brittle twigs snapped away under his weight and fell like frail bones to the earth below. Higher and higher he climbed, the air growing cooler, the light breaking into shards of gold between the leaves.
Soon the forest stretched far beneath him, a vast and heaving sea of green. The trees swayed with the wind like rolling waves, and for a fleeting moment he felt as though he were sailing atop a living ocean, captain of his own daring voyage.
At last, his hand found the branch where the faint shimmer glowed. Carefully, he pulled himself up, his chest pressing against the wood, and he leaned forward. Slowly, his head rose above the rim of the nest like a dawning sun cresting the horizon.
Inside lay three tiny eggs, glowing faintly with a bluish sheen, as though each carried a secret spark of the sky within its fragile shell.
"Hehe," a wide smile stretched across his face as he saw the three shiny blue eggs. "Got it!" He whispered a sound of triumph, a feeling of pure happiness that was better than any royal decree. He stood in the tree, sightseeing the paradise below, taking a deep breath of the fresh forest air.
"Grahh-grahh-grahh!"
"Hehe," he laughed, spotting more black blue feathers nearby. That's a piece of cake! Nothing to fear here.
The joyful squawks of Cassowary[1] parents filled the air as Xerxez crept through the thick bushes, waiting for his opportunity.
I'm sure I can snatch their eggs. I am a child of Thallerion! He thought to himself, a swell of pride filling his chest.
With a final, joyful cry, the Cassowary seemed to celebrate something, but Xerxez was already moving. He snatched several of the green eggs from their nests as if they were the most valuable treasure in his young life. The male Cassowary, caught off guard, turned aggressive. Oh no!
"Hrrrnkkk, hrrrnnkkk!!!"
This—this was what Xerxez proudly called hunting. Not demons, not abyssal beasts, not the nightmares that haunted old legends… no, he was a hunter of eggs. A title no less daring in his own mind.
The children of Thallerion often laughed at him for it. They mocked his strange passion, refusing to join him in his escapades. Bah, they don't know the thrill. They don't understand the rush, the taste of victory when you've outwitted the skies themselves.
But today, victory almost had teeth.
He bolted through the thicket, a storm of furious wings on his heels. The male birds shrieked and lunged, their sharp beaks snapping dangerously close—one nearly caught him square on
Xerxez stifled a laugh and peeked through the branches. His heart was hammering, but his grin stretched wide, wild and proud. In his hands gleamed the prize—eggs tinted green, smooth as river stones.
"Mother once told me she tasted a green egg," he whispered to himself, holding one up to the fading light. "Said it was the most delicious thing she'd ever eaten. Maybe… this is what she meant."
Then his gaze shifted. Beyond the underbrush, prowling with deliberate steps, the cassowaries themselves lurked—towering, watchful, their ember eyes glinting like guardians of some ancient treasure.
I know, I know… he thought, smirking. The males guard their nests for nearly fifty days, never leaving. Everyone says stealing from them is dangerous.
His fingers tightened around the eggs. The thrill sparked in his chest. But to snatch them, to outwit a beast twice my size… that's the moment I feel alive. That's when I'm no mere boy—I am a real hunter.
He slipped the green eggs into his pouch basket with care, the shells knocking softly against one another like hidden jewels. His eyes darted back to the cassowaries, still pacing and agitated, their long talons carving shallow furrows into the mud.
Then—ripples.
Something stirred beneath the swamp's murky veil. A shadow, massive and fish-like, glided just beneath the surface. It moved with a strange, deliberate grace, then vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
Xerxez leaned forward, squinting. What was that? Some beast? Some spirit of the marsh? The thought thrilled him. Fear never struck—only fascination. His young heart burned with curiosity, the same spark that made him climb trees and steal eggs no other dared touch.
He lingered there, watching the water vigilantly, as though the surface itself might confess its secret.
Then, from not far away—where the cassowaries often bathed—came another sound. Not the guttural croak of swamp birds, nor the shrill cry of beasts. This sound rose like a note of glass, a clear and haunting pitch that shimmered in the air as though the wind itself had sung.
Xerxez's ears twitched, his whole body still.
"SQUAWK! … SWAAAWK!"
His chest leapt, a grin breaking across his face. That sound… no mistake about it… His breath caught with boyish excitement. The Crane. The mysterious Crane of the swamps…
The tales spoke of it—an otherworldly bird with feathers like moonlight, a creature said to appear only to chosen eyes. Children whispered about it in bedtime stories; elders dismissed it as myth. But here it was, its cry echoing through the trees, calling to him like destiny itself.
Xerxez pushed deeper toward the towering trees, his ears straining for the echo of that haunting cry. His heart thudded with a reckless wish: If I could snatch even one of their eggs, it would be the greatest hunt of my life. A treasure no other child could boast.
He longed to find their nest—he had waited for this moment for so long. His grandfather had told him stories of the mysterious cranes, their silver feathers gleaming like fallen stars. Xerxez had promised that one day he would bring him an egg. But that promise was now a whisper to the dead; his grandfather had passed away a year ago.
"Don't worry, Grandpa," he murmured softly, his breath dissolving into the humid air. "Wherever you are, I'll bring you the egg of that mysterious bird… and leave it at your tomb."
The vow steeled him, even as the swamp grew eerily alive around him. Every step carried new risks. Cassowaries prowled the underbrush, their claws ready to strike should he trespass too near their nests again. And in the mangroves… something stirred. A shape, half-seen, shifting in the shadowed water—its presence heavy, as though it were watching him.
Xerxez paused, his pulse quickening. Just a fish, he told himself, brushing off the unease with a grin. His thoughts returned stubbornly to the sound that had started it all: the mysterious cranes. The real challenge of this hunt had only just begun.
"Pssst!"
Xerxez froze. That wasn't a birdcall, nor the cry of a crane. It was sharp, deliberate—like a whistle meant only for him.
Curiosity tugged him forward. He waded into the knee-deep swamp, the murky water rippling around his legs. Something glimmered at his feet, half-buried in silt, its surface winking faintly in the dim light.
"Whoa… what's this? A shell?" He crouched, brushing away the muck.
[1] These large, powerful birds have incredibly strong legs and sharp, dagger-like claws on their feet that can inflict serious injury.