The wind whispered through the high towers of the Loran Citadel as Doster stood alone in the stone chamber where the truth had first found him. The flickering torchlight danced against the polished obsidian walls, casting fragmented shadows over his pale, drawn face. His mind churned with questions that clawed at the edges of his sanity. A prophecy that spoke of a fate intertwined with his brother's—a fate darker than he could have ever imagined.
He clenched his fists. Why them? Why now? The echoes of a destiny foretold ricocheted through his thoughts, too cryptic to grasp, yet too powerful to ignore. He closed his eyes, trying to calm the storm within, but instead he saw glimpses—visions of fire, blood, and a sundering of kin.
There was only one man who might hold answers—the one who had stood beside the throne for decades, whispering secrets into the ears of kings. Lord Razdan, the head of the Mage Conclave. Doster turned sharply on his heel, a new determination in his step. If the prophecy was real, Razdan would know. And Doster needed to know everything.
---
Meanwhile, miles away across the copper-clad fields of northern Loras, Arnold stood before the colossal gates of the Techzia Regiment encampment. Towering constructs of brass and steel loomed above him, exhaling steam in rhythmic bursts. Technicians in oil-stained robes hustled through the camp, their movements precise and calculated. It was a world unlike the marble temples and enchanted halls he had grown up in.
He had come at the request of Lord Brannick, the Royal Strategist, who had advised that the twins begin understanding the world beyond the palace walls. With tensions rising between the mages and the mechanists, it was deemed wise for at least one of the princes to be familiar with the powers of innovation sweeping across Loras. The king, too distracted by courtly conflict, had approved the visit without much thought.
General Morris awaited him at the heart of the camp, seated atop a throne built of repurposed machine parts. He was a bald man with a neatly trimmed goatee and a strong, broad-shouldered build that gave the impression of a seasoned warrior. His mechanical arm whirred softly with each movement, a testament to the fusion of muscle and machine. Despite his formidable appearance, his eyes held an uncanny softness.
"So, you're one of the twinborne," he said without ceremony. "Come. You should see what the world is becoming."
Arnold followed him past laboratories where engineers crafted mechanical birds and talking orbs. Morris gestured at a large schematic laid across a luminous table.
"Magic bends to belief. But this..." he tapped the blueprint. "This bends to will and knowledge. We're no longer worshipping the unknowable. We are rebuilding the known."
Arnold's eyes widened. He'd always believed magic to be sacred—untouchable. But here, the lines blurred.
As they continued walking through a corridor lined with murals of legendary Techzian inventions, Morris stopped before a large brass door etched with ancient and modern symbols.
"You're nearing your tenth year, aren't you?" Morris asked, almost casually.
"Yes," Arnold replied. "Why?"
Morris smiled faintly. "Then you'll soon be called to the Rite of Will. It is tradition that princes of Loras, upon their tenth birthday, are granted a blessing of their choosing. The Ceremony of Will—it's older than most of the kingdom's archives."
Arnold looked puzzled. "A blessing? Of our choosing? I... I've never heard of this."
"Most don't speak of it until the time nears," Morris said. "Too much power too early makes for poor kings. But it's coming. And when it does, you must choose wisely. The blessing is no mere charm. It reveals who you are and what you will become."
Arnold felt a shiver trail his spine.
---
Back in the ancient halls of the Mage Conclave, Doster stormed through the winding corridors until he found the arcane sanctuary of Lord Razdan. The head mage was seated cross-legged beneath the Tree of Insight—a glowing entity whose leaves shimmered with embedded runes. Lord Razdan was an ancient figure with a long, flowing white beard and a tall, slender frame draped in robes stitched with constellations. His eyes, deep and knowing, seemed to radiate wisdom and timeless intelligence. Glyphs floated around him in a slow, hypnotic dance.
"I demand answers," Doster growled. "You knew what I would discover. What does it mean? What are we to become?"
Razdan opened his eyes slowly, their depths reflecting galaxies.
"Ah, young Doster. The truth has touched you. Then I suppose the preparation for the Trial of the 78th Gordarian Eclipse is upon us."
To be continued...