The wind blew with the scent of hot sand and dried spices. Lohr'tis, perched atop the yellowish cliffs of Friedhor’s desert, rose like a jewel chiseled into rock—its stone bridges, its cube-shaped houses in orange hues, and the colorful fabrics dancing between narrow alleys lent the city an almost indecent charm, considering the inferno smoldering just beneath the surface.

  Fountains bubbled amid secret courtyards, and the steam from thermal baths rose like veils of ancient gods. It was a city built to survive the sun, to tame it, and—somehow—to remain beautiful even as it roasted alive.

  And then there was the castle.

  Thrust atop the city like a jagged crown, the Palace of the Sand Lions loomed with asymmetrical towers, open watchtowers, and thick walls—designed not just to repel invaders, but also to deter overly enthusiastic subjects from scaling its halls with pitchforks and torches. The view from there was vast, glorious—a mirage without the kindness to fade.

  And on a throne of stone carved into the shape of a lion—naturally, always the lions—sat Balthier Vein Derk, of Friedhor, the King.

  A man who had forgotten humility before he’d even learned to speak.

  Balthier was large. Large in a way that made others feel like they’d been poorly sketched. Shoulders broad as ramparts, arms that seemed built to crush skulls, and a thick white beard cascading over his chest like the mane of an aging predator. His eyes, though, were the most dangerous part: cerulean blues, clear as ice in pristine water—and as empty as campaign promises.

  He almost looked like a just king. Honorable. Learned. A model of stern yet necessary leadership.

  All a lie.

  Every public appearance was a rehearsed spectacle—the starving crowd clapped with little conviction while soldiers circled among them, smiling too much. Balthier promised reforms, swore to end the droughts, and swore—above all—to recover his missing daughter. A touching paternal quest, according to the bards who still had tongues in their mouths.

  No one dared say otherwise.

  Those who dared… well, they didn’t dare twice.

  Yet even within the cold halls adorned with golden tapestries, Balthier was not alone.

  The shadow followed him.

  Always a step behind. Always gliding past the columns. An indistinct figure with eyes that didn’t gleam—but watched. It had no name, at least none the servants dared whisper. Some called it a sorcerer. Others, a desert spirit, bound there by some profane pact. All agreed on one thing: the King listened to it.

  Too much.

  “The movement in the north has ceased,” the shadow said, its voice more thought than spoken. “But there are rumors in the west. A girl with eyes like yours… and the necklace doesn’t lie.”

  Balthier lifted the pendant over his open tunic—a medallion of obsidian studded with black silver. It didn’t glow. Didn’t pulse. Didn’t react. Not yet.

  “The necklace will react when she draws near. Until then…” the king rose like thunder, his steps echoing on the marble, “…every clue is just wind. And I’ve got enough sand in my eyes already.”

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  “Even so,” the shadow whispered, “she’s on the move. And if she finds us before we’re ready…”

  “She’s not my daughter. She’s the key.”

  Balthier’s voice came out calm. Too calm.

  “The princess, Your Majesty,” the shadow corrected with feline softness. “The others still see her as such.”

  “Then let them see. Let them weep for her. Let them pray for her return. Let them write songs. When she comes back, she’ll come back to me. And if she doesn’t…”

  He smiled.

  A smile that made the shadow hesitate—for a moment.

  “…I’ll make another.”

  …

  “The search for a new mage continues,” the shadow murmured, emerging almost like a suppressed thought behind the throne.

  Balthier, savoring a wine as thick and dark as fresh blood, didn’t reply at once. His cerulean eyes fixed on the tapestry ahead—a heroic depiction of his ancient victory over the Thunder Sons, a northern people he’d exterminated with as much grace as one crushes a line of ants.

  “Elves,” he said at last, as if spitting a cursed name. “Always hard to break. Take too long to die… and even longer to obey.”

  “But Lady Lanthis… she obeyed. For a time.”

  The king raised an eyebrow.

  “She deceived me,” he growled, more to himself than to the figure. “Pretended to serve me. Promised an heir. Swore submission. And in the end… betrayed me.”

  The goblet cracked in his hand. It was empty. Worse: it was dry. He hurled it against the wall, as if it were the heart of the ancient mage.

  “If she were still here, I’d make her talk… Damn her.”

  Silence. Only the sound of guards’ footsteps outside.

  “The southern mages sent a candidate,” the shadow ventured. “Young. Talented. Of mixed lineage, according to the records.”

  Balthier walked to the parapet. The desert wind caressed his beard like the fingers of a dead lover.

  “And what does she want?”

  “A place at your side, she says. Knowledge. Power. Recognition. Maybe a dash of madness. Normal.”

  The king smiled. Again, that cold smile of a man who’d pet a snake just to crush its head afterward.

  “Bring her. If her blood can give me a new heir… let her come. If not…”

  He made a dismissive gesture. A king can waste resources. What are a few more bones in the desert?

  “Your Majesty,” the shadow pondered, stepping close enough not to be touched, “elf blood doesn’t respond well to human haste. The lineage is temperamental. Subtle. It’s like forcing a flower to bloom with shouts.”

  “Then I’ll shout until the world blooms,” he replied. “And if it doesn’t bloom, I’ll burn it.”

  The pendant on his chest glowed—for a fraction of a second.

  The king froze.

  The shadow did too.

  “Was it her?” the figure whispered.

  “Perhaps,” Balthier said. “Or perhaps the sword is moving. Damn elf… I should’ve destroyed the child when she was born. Green hair. Eyes that stared at me as if they already knew what I was…”

  “But you didn’t.”

  The silence grew thick.

  The king turned, and for a moment, he wasn’t the ruler of the desert’s greatest realm. He was a man. A man facing the cracked mirror of his past.

  “Because I thought I could control her,” he admitted. “That I’d shape the beast. Make her my weapon. My legacy. Turn her into…”

  “Instead, you gained a legend.”

  “No. Instead, I lost a brilliant mage.”

  The king returned to the throne and sat again. The shadow kept its distance.

  “The sword was all that remained of her,” he murmured, staring into the void. “That artifact… it still echoed her presence. The mages don’t know. The priests daren’t say. But I feel it. That blade… it can’t be a coincidence.”

  “And the princess believes this?”

  “She does. That’s why she took it with her.”

  The wind blew harder. Outside, Lohr'tis simmered under the sun. But within the throne, at the heart of the stone, there was only ice. And a plan. Always a plan.

  “Send my agents,” the king ordered, raising a fist. “Merchants, bards, assassins, cartomancers… all of them. Spread the tale of a legendary sword rising in the west. Luring her won’t be hard. And when she comes…”

  He glanced at the necklace again. This time, it trembled. Slightly.

  “…she’ll see what her blood has made her.”

  The shadow retreated, melding with the walls once more.

  And the king smiled. Like a man who already knew he’d won—just hadn’t told anyone yet.

  …