After waking up, he was frightened from that strange dream. Then he heard—crackling.
He froze.
A faint sound—a rustle, followed by hurried footsteps and low, hushed voices—slipped through the silence beyond his door. He slipped out of bed, his bare feet touching the cold marble floor.
He tiptoed to the ornate door and pressed his ear against it.
"…kill them before dawn… Burn the west exit door to cover the escape."
His eyes widened. Panic surged in his throat.
The voices were wrong. Too sharp. Too deliberate. These weren't the mutters of patrolling guards or late-night servants.
He darted toward the corridor, inching the heavy wooden door open. The torchlight flickered along the stone walls—and with it, shadows. Long and swift. Men in dark cloaks, armed and masked, slipped like wraiths across the hallway.
Assassins.
His heart thudded in his ears, but he didn't pause to cry or think.
He ran.
Barefoot and swift, the boy flew down the palace corridors, the echo of his steps barely audible over the rising wind outside. He took the left turn instinctively—toward his parents' chambers. His breath was short, his nightshirt billowing behind him like a tattered banner.
He threw the doors open.
"Mother! Father! We're under attack!"
His father, Ashvik Malhan, stirred at once, the instincts of a seasoned warrior awakening with a jolt. A former general, known as the Flame of Solmaria, Ashvik had lived through more than a dozen battles.
"Who?" he demanded, already gripping the hilt of the sword resting near his bedside.
"There were at least ten. I heard them… talking about burning the west exit."
Ashvik was already halfway into his armor. Outside, the guards—loyal to House Malhan—were forming defensive positions. But it was too late for caution.
The fire had begun.
A deep rumble shook the palace, followed by an orange glow that seeped in from the far corridor. The western wing was ablaze. The flames danced wildly, licking up the ancient tapestries and curling into the high-arched ceilings. Smoke began to snake through the palace like a serpent.
Ashvik's jaw clenched.
"Isha," he said, turning to his wife. "Take Shaurya. Stay behind me. Do not let him leave your side."
Isha Malhan, regal even in the chaos, placed a protective arm around her son. Her belly, softly rounded with new life, made her breath shallower than usual. Shaurya clung to her, heart pounding.
Then—they came.
Dark figures burst through the side corridors. The clash of magic and sword echoed through the palace. Ashvik met them head-on. The assassins were skilled, but Ashvik was a legend for a reason.
Still… he was outnumbered.
Six magic users came at him simultaneously. He blocked them with his defence magic.
"Stay back!" he roared at Isha and Shaurya, parrying another strike.
Isha's eyes blazed. Despite her weakened state, she raised her hand. A pulse of light flickered at her fingertips. With a whisper of ancient words, she hurled a spell at one of the attackers. The energy struck—but it was weak. Her mana was faltering because pregnancy was draining her reserves.
She gritted her teeth. Another spell—barely formed—fizzled in her palm.
A blade grazed Ashvik's arm. Blood splattered across the marble.
"Father!" Shaurya screamed, eyes wide.
He couldn't watch anymore.
With trembling hands, the five-year-old began to chant the beginner's incantation Naren had taught him—words he wasn't supposed to use without supervision. His small fingers lit up with flickers of flame.
"Ignis Bolt!" he cried.
A small flame darted toward the assassin—but it was slow. Clumsy. It barely singed the cloak.
The assassin turned, amused.
"Run, boy," he sneered.
But Shaurya didn't. He stepped in front of his mother, shielding her.