Prince Vele Euranis was born the sixth child of King Lucial von Euranis and a palace concubine.
Though his blood was royal, the mark of illegitimacy followed him from the cradle throughout his childhood.
King Lucial had seven children in total.
The eldest, also concubine-born, and the second prince, son of the queen, created a natural fault line in the family. For years that tension simmered quietly, but when King Lucial fell gravely ill and refused to name an heir, the palace became a nest of daggers.
The second prince, terrified the illegitimate firstborn might press a claim, gathered allies in the court and High Council.
Poisoned cups, hired blades, and late-night whispers turned the royal residence into a silent battlefield. Vele, sixth in line and largely dismissed as unimportant, moved through this dangerous game as a quiet observer.
He remained close to his youngest brother, a boy still naïve enough to believe family bonds could survive ambition, and he admired the calm brilliance of his fourth-born brother, whose tactical mind inspired him.
From those relationships Vele learned two lessons that would shape his life:
That affection could endure even in a house of knives
And that to endure, one must sometimes become the knife.
These were the seeds of the man who would one day rename himself Belarion Von Euranis, the king who turned quiet observation into calculated power.
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The sun filtered softly through the garden's high lattice, dappling the marble table in shifting gold as three young men sat together and discuss topics a commoner could not relate with.
Dorathan leaned back in his chair, the picture of an older brother trying to appear carefree while the weight of the palace pressed on his shoulders. His blond hair caught the light like a crown.
"Royal duties are nothing but endless scrolls and even duller voices," he sighed, rolling his cup between his palms. "If you're wise, you two will stay as far from the throne as you can. Let me suffer the meetings while you enjoy your youth."
Vele rested his chin on one hand, dark-brown hair falling over pale eyes that glinted with quiet thought. "You make it sound worse than the tutors claim," he said, a hint of mischief in his voice. "Maybe they should pay me to endure it."
Dracian, small and blonde-haired beside him, giggled softly, the sound like a wind chime. "You'd fall asleep halfway through the first council," he teased, though his voice stayed gentle.
His silver eyes shone with the easy trust of a younger brother who believed his family's world was unshakable.
Dorathan smiled at that wearing a warm, protective look. "Good. Keep it that way. I'd rather you two be bored by garden walks than poisoned by politics."
They lingered like that: the three of them sharing bread, trading light jests, the scent of late-summer roses folding around them. For a moment it felt as though the entire palace, with all its scheming ministers and whispered plots, had no claim on them.
Vele watched the way Dorathan's tired eyes softened whenever Dracian spoke.
He wondered if his elder brother ever let anyone else see that tenderness, or if it was a secret meant only for quiet afternoons like this.
Somewhere beyond the garden walls a bell tolled distant, dull, almost hollow. Dorathan paused mid-sentence, gaze tilting skyward for a heartbeat before the warm smile returned.
Dorathan's gaze lingered on them, steady and calm. "I know the palace feels…dreadful these days," he said quietly. "With Father's illness, the whispers and all that. But you still have me. That won't change."
Vele and Dracian exchanged a glance, their smiles small and uncertain. Dorathan's words wrapped around them like a blanket, yet the nervousness beneath their expressions betrayed the unease they were too young to name.
"I'll protect you both from anything," Dorathan added, voice firm, almost like an oath. The kind of promise only an older brother could make and believe.
Dracian's silver eyes searched his face. "Do you think Father will be all right?"
Dorathan exhaled, the corners of his mouth tightening. "I don't know," he admitted. "He grows weaker each day. The best mages, alchemists, priests even the doctors can't name what's afflicting him. But he's the king. He still has a kingdom to look after. That kind of will…" He tried for a reassuring smile. "…it keeps a man alive."
Vele lowered his gaze to the patterned table, the words settling like stones in his chest. He'd seen his father many times across vast council halls, in fleeting audiences, but true conversations were rare small moments in a life ruled by protocol and distance.
He remembered only a handful of times when the great King Lucial had spoken to him directly, voice soft instead of commanding.
Those few memories flickered through his mind now: a hand resting briefly on his shoulder after a festival, a quiet nod of approval during training. They felt suddenly fragile, like thin glass that might shatter if he reached for them.
Dorathan noticed his silence and gently tapped the tabletop. "Hey. Don't drift too far away, little brother," he said with a smile that was meant to lighten the air. "This is our time, remember?"
Dorathan rested his elbows on the table, eyes warm but steady. "No matter what happens," he said softly, "I'll protect you both. That's a promise I'll never break."
Dracian's silver eyes lit up, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I have two brothers to protect me," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "I'm happy."
He turned to Vele. "So…why couldn't you protect me?"
Vele blinked. "What do you mean?"
Dracian's smile didn't fade, but his eyes began to bleed crimson tears that streaked down his pale cheeks. "You couldn't protect me," he repeated, each word slow and wet, the sound almost a hiss.
Vele's breath hitched. His chest tightened, air refusing to come. He whipped his head toward Dorathan
"Why?" Dorathan's voice was no longer gentle.
The table was gone. In its place lay Dorathan's corpse, blood pooling black beneath him.
Vele's own hand trembled around a dagger slick with red. "I—I'm sorry," he gasped. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" The words tumbled out, frantic and useless.
Dorathan's lifeless eyes snapped open, pupils burning with accusation. The body lurched upright, bones cracking, lips peeling back in a grimace. "Belarion," the corpse rasped, voice thick as smoke. "You will never change."
The shadow of his brother spilled outward like a living stain, stretching until it filled every corner of the chamber.
It thickened, pulsing, a cold mist that smelled faintly of iron and ash.
From the black haze stepped a figure.
Tall.
Hair long and as dark as a moonless night.
Eyes burning with a molten ring of gold and crimson that lit the darkness from within.
The Hero.
Each slow footfall made the floor tremble.
The walls seemed to lean inward, the air turning thin, heavy like breathing through wet cloth.
Vele's chest tightened. His legs refused to move. The figure tilted its head, almost curious, then blurred forward. A rush of shadow, a whisper of cold.
Fingers like steel snapped around Vele's throat.
He gasped, nails scraping at the grip, but the harder he struggled the deeper the icy pressure sank. The blazing eyes came closer, filling his vision until there was nothing else no room, no air, only that unblinking, furious light.
Darkness surged.
The king Belarion jerked awake, drenched in sweat, heart pounding as the echo of that gaze seared behind his eyelids.
The king woke to the smell of damp wood and smoke. A low ceiling pressed close above him, patched with uneven boards. The walls were no better scraps of timber nailed together, gaps stuffed with rags to keep the wind out. A single shuttered window leaked a pale morning light.
His head throbbed like a struck bell. When he reached up, his fingers brushed rough linen bandages, tight and dry. The rest of his body ached in dull, heavy waves. Each breath stung his ribs.
He shut his eyes and the memories came like a knife:His wife's scream. His daughter's broken smile. Blood on the marble. The Hero…
A jolt of panic shot through him. He lurched upright and almost collapsed as the room tilted sideways.
"Careful."
The voice was young, cautious. Belarion spun toward the sound.
In the doorway stood a boy, perhaps fourteen. Ash-blond hair caught the weak light, almost silver at the edges. He wore a patched shirt two sizes too big, trousers worn thin at the knees, and he was lean far leaner than any child the king remembered seeing in the palace.
The boy's gray eyes studied him without fear, only wary curiosity.
The king's voice came out rough, almost a growl."Who are you? Where…where am I?"
The boy didn't flinch. "My name's Rivien. This is my house."He stepped a little closer, bare feet whispering against the floorboards, eyes narrowing as he studied the stranger upright for the first time.
Belarion's gaze swept the cramped room again threadbare curtains, a soot-stained hearth, a single crooked table. Hardly a "house," more a shelter stitched together by stubborn hands. Yet the boy stood straight, as if daring him to sneer.
Rivien kept his distance, but his stare lingered, measuring. For days he'd nursed this unconscious stranger, changing bandages, spooning water between clenched teeth, waiting for him to wake.
A stranger dressed in a garment finer than anything the village had ever seen deep blue silk, now ragged and stained, but still carrying the weight of wealth and power.
He remembered the absurd sight of it: a man with a noble's bearing sprawled in the leaf-litter of the forest, bloodied yet somehow regal, like a fallen statue. If not for his sister's trembling insistence, Rivien might have left him there, assuming some runaway lord had met the wrong end of a bandit's blade.
Now, awake, the man's dark eyes held a gravity that made the small room feel smaller still.
Belarion's brow knit as he took in the boy standing there with a calmness far too steady for a kid.
Only then did the king notice the coarse, faded shirt hanging from his own frame. The fine silk he'd worn to the royal court was nowhere in sight.
"That's…my father's," Rivien said before Belarion could ask, voice matter-of-fact. "It might not be your style, but it's the best I've got. Your clothes were…well, I had to wash them."
Belarion studied him more closely. The boy's tone was level, almost adult, and his eyes carried a quiet weight that belied his thin, wiry frame. Was he really just a child?
"Where are your parents?" the king asked at last.
Rivien's gaze didn't waver. "It's just me and my sister," he said simply, as though the words had been rehearsed long ago.
The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the faint creak of the rafters and the king's own uneven breathing.
Rivien tilted his head slightly, the faintest spark of curiosity in his gray eyes."So," he said, "who are you?"
Belarion froze.In a rush came the memories—blood on marble, the echo of screams. His wife's lifeless face.His daughter's last, twisted smile. Bastien's broken body. And Randal…Randal, whose final spell had torn the world apart just to fling his king to safety.
Belarion's hand clenched the rough blanket until his knuckles whitened. He shut his eyes and forced a breath through the ache in his chest.
"I am kin—"The word caught in his throat like a shard of glass.
Silence stretched. The boy waited.
Belarion opened his eyes, their dark depths suddenly older, heavier."No," he said at last, voice low."I am…Vele Mercia."
Rivien studied him for a long heartbeat, unreadable, as if weighing the truth behind the name.
Rivien crossed his arms, studying him with a dry squint."Okay, Mr. Vele Mercia," he said at last. "I don't really want to know what your deal is, given the state we found you in. But honestly? You smell like trouble—trouble my little sister and I don't need."
Vele gave a slow nod, the weight of his memories pressing on his chest."You're right," he said, voice rough. "I'll depart immediately. I…need to leave."
He pushed the blanket aside and tried to stand but a wave of pain buckled his legs.The room tilted. Darkness nipped at the edges of his vision.
"Whoa—hey!" Rivien darted forward and caught him under the shoulders before he hit the floor."Are you out of your mind?" the boy snapped, straining to hold him upright. "You can barely breathe."
Vele tried to protest, but the words dissolved into a harsh cough.
"Yeah, that's what I thought." Rivien guided him back to the thin mattress, setting him down with surprising steadiness for someone so lean."Stay put," he ordered, adjusting the blanket with an irritated tug.
Rivien shook his head with a faint snort.
"Easy there, Mr. Mercia. I said you smelled like trouble, not that you should bolt out the door. You're barely alive. Leave when you can actually stand."
The king once Belarion of Euranis could only stare bitterly at his own trembling hands. A man who once sat on a gilded throne, now a battered stranger under the care of a farm boy.
"Do you… know who I am?" he asked at last, the words heavier than he intended.
Rivien shrugged, expression unreadable.
"Should I?"
Vele let out a slow breath. "No. It's fine. You don't have to. I'll… leave once I recover."
"Good plan." Rivien rose, brushing dust from his worn trousers. "I'll get something to eat. Just rest."
The king inclined his head silently, eyes fixed on the rough floorboards.
As Rivien reached the door, Vele found himself speaking before he could stop.
"…Thank you."
The boy paused, glancing back with a crooked smile.
"Well now," he said, a quiet chuckle escaping him, "you sound like it's the first time you've ever said that."
Vele's lips twitched in a faint, awkward half–smile.
Rivien waved a hand lightly. "Don't mention it," he said, and stepped out, leaving the fallen king alone with his thoughts
Vele closed his eyes, the taste of failure bitter on his tongue, and said nothing.
Before he could even ask himself where did everything go wrong, the memories rose like a tide.
The plan.The summoning.
Vele...no, King Belarion pressed his palms to his temples. He thought of the one who first whispered the idea: the leader of the Shadow Unit. A young man with sharp eyes who had spoken with such certainty. But now… now that Vele's mind was free of the throne's weight, a strange clarity settled in.
Who was that man, truly?When had he even been appointed leader?
His memory blurred, slippery as smoke. The harder he focused, the less it made sense. Faces blurred. Conversations looped and frayed.
The plan itself was madness.
To summon a hero a calamity-class being when their meager forces could never contain such power. He should have known. Every chronicle he'd studied said the same: a true Hero could erase a kingdom alone. And this one… this Rafiel… the calm way he'd killed, the unshakable gaze. He wasn't merely powerful he was accustomed to death.
Belarion shuddered.
Yes, Heroes existed. The histories overflowed with their legends. Some altered nations in small ways; others reshaped continents some even worshipped.
But as he turned those tales over in his mind, a new realization chilled him: he had only stories, not understanding. All his "knowledge" was fragments romanticized accounts, half-truths.
And that young man the Shadow Unit's leader why had Vele followed him so readily? Why had every warning voice grown faint? He remembered Randal's private caution, how his most trusted advisor had urged hiring a fourth-circle mage instead. Randal had even offered to divert funds to ensure it.
Yet Vele had dismissed him.
Uncharacteristically. Abruptly.
Why?
His breath caught. "Randal…" he whispered to the empty room.
Gone. All of them. Randal, his wife, his daughter dead.
The words scraped his throat, a confession to no one. "They're all dead."
And still the question gnawed at him, hollow and endless:
What truly walked into my court that day? And why did I open the door?
Questions kept multiplying until they tangled into a single knot in his skull. Belarion almost laughed he couldn't even mourn his wife or daughter without another riddle clawing in.
Enough. He straightened, forcing the fog aside.
A king does not drown in grief.
First: find out what happened after the teleportation. The Hero if he turned his wrath on the kingdom, nothing would survive.Second: learn the true nature of Heroes.Third: uncover the truth about the Shadow Unit's mysterious leader.
Information, allies, bearings. He would not falter.
His thoughts flicked to his son, the heir hidden in the Empire. Should he even go there? Summoning the Hero had been a quiet rebellion; the Empire might see him as a traitor. Better to reach the capital first, reconnect with those still loyal.
He pushed himself upright, searching for his royal robes. Gone. He needed to ask the boy.
Pain lanced through his ribs as he moved, but he forced his body forward, step by step, until he reached the door. It opened into a cramped kitchen-living space, walls patched and peeling.
At a battered table sat a little girl, sleeves rolled, washing vegetables in a chipped basin.
The girl startled when she saw him and bolted across the room, slipping behind her brother's back as he knelt by the hearth coaxing a small fire to life.
Rivien glanced over his shoulder, unfazed. "It's fine," he told her, then to the king, "Why are you up?"
"I need my robe," Belarion said, voice still rough.
"Outside, drying," Rivien replied. "If you're looking for the things inside it, they're in the room small box in the corner."
Belarion gave a single nod. Before turning, he attempted a reassuring smile toward the girl. It came out stiff, almost a grimace. She shrank further behind her brother. He let out a quiet sigh and left without another word.
Back in the small room he spotted the box, lid slightly askew. Inside lay a pendant he wasn't ready to touch, a fine pen etched with elegant runes, and a small circular disk made from an alloy with intricate design and the kingdom's sygil at the bottom set with a cloudy gem on top.
He picked up the disk. The moment his fingers brushed the stone, a faint glow shimmered within.Instinctively he let a trickle of mana flow into it, and the light pulsed soft, steady like a heartbeat in the dark.
Belarion turned the small disk over in his palm. The faint hum inside it thrummed against his fingertips like a trapped insect."Can anyone hear me?" he asked.
Only the soft ringing of the gem replied.
He drew a steady breath and pushed more mana into it. "This is your king. Answer me."
The glow pulsed once, then steadied. He almost set it aside when a thin, broken whisper slipped through.
"H…hello?"
His chest tightened. "Who is this?"
"Is…that you…my king?" The voice cracked apart and went silent.
Belarion gripped the disk with both hands. "Casian? Casian, can you hear me?"
The gem flared a little brighter. "Y…yes. It's Casian, Your Majesty."
Relief washed over him—brief, fragile. In the faint connection he heard chaos: shouting, running feet, a woman screaming far away.
"What's happening?" he demanded.
Silence.
"Casian, report!" His voice sharpened.
"Where…are you, Your Majesty?" The tone was flat, wrong. No secret code. No formal greeting. It was uncharacteristic of Casian. The king's suspicion stayed so he tread carefully with his answers.
A chill slid down his spine. "I don't know. A forest village, perhaps. Tell me what's going on."
The gem's light brightened to a harsh white.
"The kingdom…" Casian's voice splintered into static. "…has fallen."
A sharp crack. The gem split in his palms, the glow snuffed out, leaving only the hollow thrum of his racing heart.