Their journey began at dawn—Lucy, Braten, Caelen, and Duke Alaric Vaelstrome, escorted by a small unit of elite knights from Polaris, heading northward toward the Duke's homeland: Polaris City. A fortress city carved into the bones of winter itself, Polaris sat cradled between jagged snow-capped mountains and forgotten ancient ice. A place of silence, steel, and secrets.
The quickest way there would have been a mana gate, a magical portal linked to the Polaris Citadel. But as they stood before the glowing arch etched with runes, Alaric shook his head.
"No," he said. "Not with the boy."
Braten raised an eyebrow. "The portal could cut the journey in hours."
Alaric's gaze turned to Caelen, bundled in Lucy's arms, golden eyes calm but unnaturally aware. "The mana around him is... unstable. He's drawing in arcane energy without realizing it. If we take him through a portal and his aura reacts, we might end up in a different plane—or scattered across the void."
Lucy tightened her grip on Caelen. "Then we ride."
And so they did—by carriage and horseback—through winding roads, snow-thick paths, and untamed forests. After a day's ride, they entered the depths of the Dark Nebulark Forest, a place feared even by seasoned soldiers. Its trees loomed tall and gnarled, their blackened bark drinking the light. Fog weaved through the underbrush like silent serpents. Magic hung heavy in the air—old, watching.
By twilight, the party came upon a serene lake at the forest's heart. The water shimmered with a bluish hue, too still, too perfect. Despite its eerie beauty, the spot was ideal for rest. They made camp beneath the trees, near the lakeshore.
Alaric, Braten, and a few soldiers ventured deeper into the woods to hunt.
Lucy remained in the camp, tending to Caelen as he gurgled softly in her arms. They were protected by Commander Roman, one of Alaric's most trusted knights—broad-shouldered, silent-eyed, and born of Polaris steel.
But peace is never long in the presence of prophecy.
Far beyond the lake, unseen by human eyes, a band of Orcas—massive, humanoid beasts with mottled skin, twisted tusks, and war-painted hides—caught scent of something unnatural. They had not come for food or conquest. They had come because they felt it.
They felt him.
The one born beneath the fallen star.
Their blood sang with ancient warnings. Their minds clouded with rage. And so they marched—snarling, snarling, maddened by instinct and ancient fear—toward the camp beneath the moonlight.
Roman was the first to hear it. The snapping branches. The snarls. The unnatural stillness of birds fleeing the trees.
He rose to his feet.
"…Draw blades," he growled. Then, louder: "We're under attack!"
Soldiers sprang from their tents, weapons drawn, armor clattering. Shields were raised. Arrows nocked.
Lucy shielded Caelen with her body as Roman and the knights formed a protective circle around them. The baby's golden eyes began to glow faintly, sensing the chaos.
From the trees, they came—seven Orcas, their eyes bloodshot, their breath steaming in the cold. They howled and charged.
The clash was immediate.
Steel met bone. Screams tore through the night. Roman led the charge, his glaive spinning like a whirlwind, felling one beast with a blow that cleaved through shoulder and chest.
One beast broke through the line.
"Protect the child!" he roared.
Lucy turned, shielding her child, ready to meet death—
But death never came.
The lake moved.
Water rose like a serpent, twisting into a wall of glowing liquid. With a sound like thunder in reverse, it slammed outward—drenching the camp in freezing spray, flinging Orcas like leaves in a storm.
The last of them fell, neck twisted, tusks shattered.
Silence returned.
Lucy, breathless, still held Caelen. He blinked, unharmed.
Roman stared at the lake, then at the boy. "...The water obeyed him."
Braten and Alaric returned moments later, blades drawn, expecting battle. But the fight had ended.
At that moment something darker than Orcas watched... and smiled.