The kingdom of Mistfill was once a realm of marvels — a jewel of the world's second renaissance, where marble towers rose beside glowing lamps of alchemical light and the rivers hummed with life drawn from forgotten machines.
It was ruled by House Nightfall, an ancient bloodline said to be descended from those who once "spoke" to the elements themselves — an echo of the Thieves of Creation, the first conjurers who dared wield the stolen power of nature.
But even light, when left too long to shine, casts shadows that hunger.
When the age of prosperity began to rot, and famine took the fields while beasts haunted the night, King Henry Nightfall sought to preserve his house and his people the only way left to him — through alliance.
He opened his gates and his pride, offering his family's crown in marriage to any noble powerful enough to protect the kingdom.
And from that choice, ruin bloomed.
For among the noble lines, one family had waited — silent, watching — a family whose roots stretched into the deepest vaults of the old world's memory: House Valcrest. They were known not for their armies or wealth, but for their sorcery, their power drawn from something older than the four elements.
They accepted the marriage, and with it, they planted their hand upon the throne.
King Henry's son, Fin Nightfall, became the bridegroom, bound to Lady Elira Valcrest, a woman of impossible beauty and ambition. Her father — the High Lord of Valcrest — stood behind her like a shadow cast by the gods themselves.
And when King Henry died, the shadow moved.
The alliance turned to conquest, the crown of Mistfill bent beneath Valcrest's dominion, and Fin Nightfall became a puppet in his own hall — a king only in name, chained by blood and law to those who had devoured his birthright.
Now, years later, the same man — the hollow echo of a king — was dragged through the cold corridors of his castle, his crown lost, his dignity bound in iron.
The guards threw him to the stone floor of the dungeon, the chains clattering like the laughter of the dead. He did not resist. He only lifted his head enough to see the faint sliver of dawn creeping through the barred window — a single thread of light fighting the darkness.
It was the first sunrise of the new day.
The day his child was to die.
Fin's breath came ragged, but his mind burned. He whispered to himself — not in words of prayer, but of memory.
"Father… forgive me. I failed your name. I failed her… and him."
A drop of blood slipped from his lip, staining the stone beneath him like ink on old parchment.
Meanwhile, in the city beyond the castle's iron gates, Chris ran through the narrow alleys of Mistfill, the rain having quieted into a ghostly mist that gave the city its name. The torches had dimmed, but the hunt had not ended. Bells rang from the towers, iron against the dawn.
Behind him, the clamor of soldiers still echoed — a symphony of pursuit. But Chris did not run from fear; he ran for the chance to redirect it.
His armor was stained with mud, his cloak torn, but his purpose burned bright. He turned a corner and vanished into a butcher's yard, smearing his tracks with blood and ash. A breath later, he emerged from another alley, hood drawn, a shadow among shadows.
From across the rooftops, the faint cry of a newborn reached his ears. For a heartbeat, it froze him in place — the fragile reminder of what he was fighting for. Then he smiled grimly.
"So you're alive, little one… good."
Behind him, a horn blared. The guard had found his trail again. He cursed under his breath and leapt from one rooftop to another, boots striking tile and timber as the mist swallowed him whole.
Inside the inn, the midwife worked in silence. Her hands trembled as she wrapped the child in new cloth — the soft white fabric she had hidden beneath her cloak. The fire had burned low, painting the room in a dim amber glow.
The baby — the reborn soul once known as Kai — had stopped crying. His eyes fluttered open, faint and dark, watching the world with a stillness far too deep for a newborn.
The midwife shivered. Something about those eyes — not their color, but their weight — made her feel as though she were being seen by something ancient and quiet.
She whispered, almost to herself, "May the world be kinder to you than it was to your father."
She kissed his forehead, then wrapped a shawl over both of them. When she stepped out of the inn, the sun had begun to rise. The light touched the mist, turning it into rivers of gold and silver that flowed through the streets.
It should have been beautiful.
But to those who knew better, dawn was never a promise — it was a reminder. Light always returned to where it had once fallen… but so did the shadows it cast.
In the high spires of the castle, Queen Elira stood by the window, her pale hands clasped as the golden light broke over the city. Behind her, her father — the High Lord — remained silent, his eyes closed as if listening to something distant.
"The sun rises," she murmured.
"Yes," her father replied. "And with it, the world turns closer to what I have foreseen."
He opened his eyes then — eyes cold and colorless, like frozen glass.
"But do not mistake the light for peace, my daughter. Somewhere beyond our sight, something stirs. When the world burns again, I will need you to stand where the gods cannot."
The queen lowered her gaze. "And the child?"
The High Lord smiled faintly, a crack in the calm stone of his face.
"The child is nothing but the echo of a forgotten sin. But even echoes can call storms if left unanswered. Find him… and silence him before the world remembers what he was."
The sunlight fell across his face, and for a brief moment, the golden rays reflected off him like armor — radiant, divine… and utterly false.
Far below, beyond the palace walls, the newborn stirred again. His tiny hand reached toward the sun, his fingers curling as if trying to grasp the light itself.
The midwife did not notice. She only kept walking, her breath heavy in the morning mist.
But for a moment — only a fleeting instant — the air around the child shimmered. The sunlight bent, trembling, as though the world itself recognized him.
Then it was gone.
The day began like any other.
And yet, quietly, the universe had already begun to change.