Part I – The Weight of Shadows
The bells of Deline tolled at dawn, their chimes echoing across the crystalline spires, but the music of morning brought no peace to Princess Isolde.
Her chamber windows opened to the eastern hills, where sunlight often spilled like molten gold across the valley. But this morning, the light seemed dimmer, as if clouds unseen had stolen its brilliance. She sat at her window seat, staring down at the gardens, her hands clenched around a scroll she had not read.
The Eye's visions haunted her.
They returned with every blink: the throne cracked, the crown burning, the faceless man whose hand gripped hers in firelight. Each time she thought she had steadied herself, the images surged again, filling her with unease.
What if Flagg is right? she thought bitterly. What if the Eye has bound me to a destiny I cannot refuse?
A knock broke her thoughts. Her lady-in-waiting, Serene, entered with a curtsy. "Your Highness, the court assembles. The king commands your presence."
Isolde rose slowly, smoothing her gown, hiding the tremor in her hands.
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Part II – A Puppet King
The throne room of Deline gleamed with artistry unmatched in the western kingdoms. The floor was marble veined with silver, and high windows spilled rainbow light from stained-glass murals of past kings—great conquerors, builders, visionaries.
And yet the man upon the throne seemed smaller than the legacy around him.
King Philip III slouched, his crown crooked on his brow, his eyes ringed with fatigue. His fingers tapped the armrest nervously as ministers and lords filed in with their petitions.
Beside him stood Flagg.
The magician's robes were dark as spilled ink, embroidered with faint sigils that shifted in the eye's corner. His staff rested against his shoulder, its crystal tip pulsing faintly with hidden fire. Though he spoke little, all knew the king repeated whatever words Flagg whispered.
"Your Majesty," a merchant lord pleaded, stepping forward. "Eryndor caravans bleed us with their tariffs. Our people starve while their coffers grow fat. If we—"
"Raise ours higher," King Philip interrupted abruptly, glancing toward Flagg for approval. "Make them pay double if they wish to trade on Deline soil."
Gasps rippled through the hall. The merchant fell to his knees. "Sire, forgive me, but the people cannot—"
"The people will endure what they must," Flagg said smoothly, his voice cutting through like silk drawn across steel. He did not look at the merchant but at the nobles behind him, ensuring all heard his warning.
The king nodded, weakly echoing: "Yes. They will endure."
Isolde's stomach churned. From her place beside Lucan, she felt her brother stiffen, his hand curling at his sword belt. Around them, whispers stirred—nobles exchanging wary looks, ministers biting their tongues.
"Cowards," Lucan muttered under his breath, his jaw tight. "Not one dares speak against him."
"Not one dares speak," Isolde corrected softly, her gaze fixed on Flagg. "But they think. They doubt. That seed will grow."
Flagg's eyes flicked toward her then, as though he had heard. His smile was small, knowing, dangerous.
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Part III – The Garden of Thorns
That evening, unable to breathe beneath the weight of the hall's whispers, Isolde slipped into the gardens. The roses glowed faintly under moonlight, their petals brushed with enchantment to gleam like stars fallen to earth.
She bent to touch one, but the bloom shivered and shriveled at her approach. The air chilled.
"Beautiful, are they not?"
She froze.
Flagg's voice. Smooth. Amused. Poison wrapped in velvet.
He stepped from the shadows, tall and terrible, his staff dimly aglow. The roses wilted in his passing, their perfume souring into something metallic, almost like blood.
"I did not ask for company," Isolde said, forcing steel into her voice though her heart hammered.
"And yet," he replied, "you have it. The Eye speaks, and I listen. You felt it, didn't you? The visions. The truth."
"You know nothing of what I saw."
"Oh, but I do." He drew nearer, his eyes reflecting the moon like twin embers. "The Eye has no secrets from me. I have studied it since before your father wore the crown. I saw his weakness before it crippled him. I saw your brother's stubbornness before he drew his first breath. And now, Princess…" He leaned closer. "I see you."
Isolde's skin prickled. "And what does it reveal of me?"
Flagg's smile was cruel. "A queen. Or… a ruin. Which depends entirely on whether you fight me… or stand beside me."
The roses around them fell, their petals scattering like drops of blood across the path.
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Part IV – Lucan's Vigil
Far above, Lucan sharpened his sword in silence.
His chamber overlooked the courtyard, and though he could not hear the words, he saw his sister's silhouette in the garden—and the shadow that loomed over her.
His jaw clenched. He had warned her of the danger, but she had gone anyway.
If Flagg thinks to ensnare her, he thought grimly, he will find that she is not alone.
He tightened his grip on the blade, watching the garden until the shadow slipped away. Only then did he rest, but unease gnawed at him. He had seen the way Isolde's face glowed when she spoke of destiny, of visions. He feared not only Flagg's lies—but her own heart's temptation.
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Part V – The Eye Stirs
Beneath the palace, in its secret chamber, the Eye pulsed with silent life.
Its golden iris widened, silver mist roiling as visions formed: war banners clashing in fire, a man's hand clasping Isolde's in defiance, Lucan bleeding on broken stone, Flagg's laughter rising over a throne of ash.
It did not choose what to show. It only reflected truth.
And truth was a dangerous thing.