The King's Hunt

King Theron’s chambers, usually a sanctuary of polished obsidian and hushed reverence, now thrummed with a disquieting energy. Sunlight, filtered through stained-glass depictions of Aranor’s glorious past, cast fractured rainbows across the king’s face, but offered no warmth to his grim expression. He sat upon his throne, not in regal repose, but hunched forward, his knuckles white where they gripped the armrests. Before him, kneeling on the cold stone floor, was Captain Valerius, his face a mask of grim duty, his own Fate Mark—a stoic shield—gleaming faintly on his brow.

“You are certain of this, Valerius?” The king’s voice was a low rumble, laced with a disbelief that warred with a dawning horror. “A boy… born without a Mark?”

Valerius’s gaze remained fixed on the intricate patterns of the floor. “The reports are unanimous, Your Majesty. From the border villages. From the scouts dispatched to investigate the… incident. They all speak of a youth, barely a man, who fought with unnatural ferocity. And he bore no Mark.” A shiver, almost imperceptible, traced its way up Valerius’s spine. “They say… they say he was called ‘The Last Flame.’”