In the waning days of his reign, King Ethlas Edalious—one of the venerated sovereigns blessed by Serpenslitther, the fire council—lay stricken by illness. The fire that once burned fiercely within him now flickered faintly, and whispers of his impending death stirred unrest across the kingdom.
With his days numbered, the matter of succession weighed heavily on him. Tradition—and many voices at court—urged him to name his brother as heir. But Ethlas, wise and weathered by years of rule, saw through the charming veneer of his half-brother. He knew the darkness that festered behind the man's eyes—a hunger for power, unchecked by loyalty or conscience.
Thus, despite the boy's tender age and underdeveloped speech, King Ethlas named his son, Leon, as the next in line—a choice that enraged his brother. From the shadows, the brother began weaving treacherous plots. He rallied dissenters—chief among them, fearful soldiers haunted by the looming threat of the Bleak Court, a nearby kingdom infamous for wielding forbidden dark arts and commanding an army of the dead.
The Bleak Court held no blessing from any elemental council, and their territory was modest. But their soldiers cast shadows where they stood, and their eerie power whispered of death. Still, they dared not attack deity-blessed lands—for those under the protection of an elemental council like Serpenslitther were beyond ordinary reach.
Serpenslitther, the divine fire council, had once ended the dragon race itself—a species that breathed and mastered fire. Kingdoms under their blessing were known for their fierce, unyielding flame. Ethlas's lineage, too, was a proud line of pure fire users—a legacy cherished and nurtured for generations.
But his brother was a child of scandal, born of a mistress with foreign blood. Should he ascend the throne, the kingdom risked losing Serpenslitther's favor entirely—and worse, aligning with the Bleak Court.
An old comrade from the king's youth—Worhug, a stalwart warrior of the Possugurd race—heard of the growing unrest. Short and broad, with thick facial hair and an agile frame, Worhug was a rarity in the kingdom and a trusted friend. He lived outside the kingdom, on land of his own, and had come to visit the king. Upon hearing of the looming betrayal, he returned swiftly, round spear in hand.
They met in secret beneath the high arches of the dying king's chamber. Ethlas, despite his frailty, beamed with joy upon seeing his friend. But Worhug bore dire news: the brother's conspiracy was gaining ground. Soldiers were beginning to side with him, driven by fear of the Bleak Court's wrath.
The king, resigned to the inevitable, did not seek confrontation. Instead, he gave Worhug a sacred charge—escape the kingdom with the prince. The boy was the last pure fire heir, the only hope for their lineage and the kingdom's future. With a heavy heart, the queen agreed, knowing she might never see her son again.
The escape was swift and silent. They traveled atop HABAN, a mystical feline beast whose belly held a hidden magical chamber—where the young prince was safely concealed. Not long after their departure, the kingdom trembled.
A thick darkness rolled in from the horizon as the Bleak Court launched their assault. The skies blackened, the earth quaked, and shadows swallowed the land. The brother, in an act of treachery, had revealed the king's illness in hopes of striking a deal with the Court. But the Bleak Court betrayed him, seeking to conquer rather than bargain.
Though weakened, King Ethlas rose one final time. Drawing on Serpenslitther's blessing, he summoned every ember of strength to shield his people. The soldiers fought valiantly. Even the traitorous brother, betrayed himself, turned his blade against the invaders.
By war's end, the kingdom lay in smoldering ruin. The castle was ash, and the king was dead—his final breath spent protecting his people. The queen perished alongside him. The prince, whose escape remained a secret, was declared dead.
The brother—now hailed as a war hero by those unaware of his treachery—seized the throne. The Bleak Court had been repelled, but the cost was devastating—and the blessing of Serpenslitther was lost.
Meanwhile, Worhug traveled south to the sprawling, technologically advanced Mirage Kingdom. Among scholars and machines, he hoped the prince could grow in peace and safety. To protect the boy's identity, he dyed his pale orange hair—the telltale sign of pure fireborn—jet black.
News of the war reached him days later. Duty urged him to return and aid his homeland, but he could not risk exposing the prince. Reluctantly, he left the child at a small orphanage, begging them to take him in despite their limited resources.
When Worhug returned to his burned homeland, the devastation greeted him like a nightmare. His friend was gone, and the traitor now wore the crown. Consumed by fury, he attempted to slay the false king—but failed, and was banished forever.
Broken, he returned to reclaim the prince—only to discover the boy had been transferred to another orphanage deep within the Mirage Kingdom. The journey back was long, for HABAN needed frequent rest. A week later, he arrived in the sprawling metropolis—grander than he remembered, alive with electric light and towering machines.
But gaining entry was no easy feat. Mirage Kingdom did not welcome aimless visitors. One had to be a citizen or a registered foreign worker. Worhug disguised himself and took up menial work, all while continuing his search.
Months passed.
Eventually, he learned where the boy was. To reach him, he needed a travel visa that only came with promotion. Through grit and patience, he climbed the ranks.
When he finally arrived at the orphanage, the boy had changed. He could speak now. He was cheerful, healthy—but he did not remember Worhug, nor the fire kingdom. Only his name remained—a fragile thread to a forgotten legacy.
One of the caretakers asked if the boy recognized the Possugurd. The child looked up, blinked, and shook his head.
Worhug smiled, bitter and proud. Perhaps it was for the best. The boy had survived. He was safe—for now. One day, when he was older, he would know the truth.
But until then, Worhug would watch from afar—and wait.